Can one believe, a mere failure to observe a manner or a custom, in a given culture, could ever bring in a disaster that one would hardly dream of? Who would ever want to have the experience of walking into a mortuary unless it has come upon you by compulsion, a duty or an obligation, not within your power to stay away from? It is only with a shudder I can remember how that dreadful experience forced on me for the first time in my life. It came about when it was obligatory that I identified a corpse lying in the mortuary. In my life, as in that of everyone else, I have seen, in the ordinary circumstances, dead bodies lying-in- state for the funeral rites to be performed and last respects paid by the relations and friends, dear and near to the dead. But, here it is an awful occurrence, all alone inside a mortuary, and in my fantasy of apparition, it is certain to trigger off horror in your mind, however much you try to put on an air of gallantry.

The coroner put me at his disposal, directed me to own the body from among the others lying there, and report to him before it could be released for funeral arrangements. For him it was as ordinary as asking me to tell him the time in my watch, while my tension of a flood of emotions was rising up inside me. Yet, it was not within my power to refuse him in any manner though a feeling of guilt and fear, more than sorrow, had gripped me. A minor employee with manifestations, befitting the role, and an air of pride of being in charge of the key of this blessed place led me while I felt as if my legs had lost all their strength to carry me. He reminded me of the character of Jerry Cruncher, the gravedigger in Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities.

Having opened the door, he stopped for relishing a chat with a workmate and bade me to enter. However, I marshalled all my self-assurance, which held me from mentioning him of my timidity to go in without him. I felt my vision blurred under a thin veil across my eyes. Not quite myself, my hazy eyes flitted from face to face of those mute bodies lying horizontally with their last countenance frozen never to be rubbed out. They were draped in their own garb or with sheets of clothing, some soiled. The sentiment, about my own self, that life was both pathetic and disgusting weighed me down at once.

Before long I spotted his face, quite the same, as I saw him in full of life talking to me just the previous evening. Suddenly I noticed, the only difference, one of his polished shoes missing while the black sock still remaining on his fair, thin, long foot. It was a surprise no damage, as I expected, was outwardly visible although his life had come to a halt or it might be through dread, my eyes could not have detected any. The coroner came in and noted a few details of his dress. He disturbed the trouser a little at the waste, which exposed just the red colour of his underwear. Identity being established, the coroner left calling me to see him for finishing his part of the job - death due to internal bleeding.

I shall not keep you in suspense any further, for the departed was my beloved brother-in-law whose name Amaran, meaning immortal, yet proved otherwise.

His visits to me were not unusual, cordial, and I, in my superannuated life confined to the idleness of home, often looked forward to having his company. Likewise, he called on me the previous evening a courtesy call, particularly, to inquire after my old mother’s health and to make the most of an exchange of opinion on family matters or any other conversation of mutual interest.

Since he established his matrimonial relations with our family, I have noted with wonder more than relish that he attended to the needs of my ailing mother with more concern than I did. At times his magnanimity, taken for comparison, made me feel guilty of my pettiness. That evening, without returning home directly after office, his choice of priority seemed visiting her with some prescribed medicinal herbs. More than any other day Amaran evinced a look of excitement, most probably, as his son had obtained distinctions for all the subjects at the O/Level exam and I helped him in his admission to a leading school for further studies. He, like any other father, looked ahead to what his son’s prospects ought to be. Immersed in our conversation, we didn’t feel the time passing. It was close upon 9 o’clock in the night as we realized. This prompted me to entertain him to a hurried dinner, lest it was likely that he would miss his home bound, last bus to Dalupitiya where he lived.

He having taken leave of us, we, retired to bed after some time with no ominous sign or a shadow of a feeling of eerieness, which does occur in such instances. Hardly had one hour passed when the telephone rang waking us from our sleep. " Father has met with an accident at the Wattala Junction," I recognised his son’s voice and it ended with no more briefing. We called his home for details with little response. I tried to seek solace in self-delusion that it would be a minor injury, far from critical and never fatal. Immediately what crossed my mind is that God salvaged me from possible blame that could indiscreetly come upon me in tracing the cause of the mishap.

I felt, beyond my words, happy that I was free. For other days I used to enjoy a small drink with him to whet our appetite whereas this particular evening, it was instinctively overlooked. If not, it would have been cited as the cause of the disaster. Though innocent, my mind, gripped with this fantasy of fear we lost no time but hurried to his home. The news that he had died on admission was a bolt from the blue. An eyewitness, who volunteered in rushing him to hospital, described that on seeing his last bus stopped on the other side Amaran crossed the road when a car at breakneck speed knocked him down.

No sooner had I seen my sister, wailing like a howling creature than I made a clean breast that I did not entertain him with any drinks before dinner, as was done on other days. After my explanation she appeared to accept that it was not an attributive factor to his fatal outcome, which gave me a sense of relief to get over my anxiety, I had been nursing since getting the news. But again I was bowled over by her next conjecture that was partly pertinent. Driven almost insane by her grief, her imagination seemed to wander in seeking out if there was any possibility on my part that could have prevented him from this calamity. Her tone was both despair and blame. "Why didn’t you ask him to stay overnight with you when he was late? Even if he would not have complied, as a formality you should have asked him to." I was at my wit’s end.

In my defence, never did I want to respond for it was a heartbreaking sight, before my eyes, how she was profoundly shaken in her husband’s death. She believed, sometimes firmly, the few words I had failed to address him would have been able to save Amaran’ s life. All that I have to say is, in fairness to what she has observed as her solace, I d
eserve to be accused for over looking a formality associated with our cultural practice, so simple, in that a misfortune could have been probably averted.
R. L. Lalprema