It is two days since Holi – the vibrant festival of colours and happiness. The normally quiet lane in the leafy Lokhandwala neighbourhood has changed and is now filled with a fleet of cars, gleaming in the spring sunshine, lining the road. Parking in this area is usually difficult on a normal day, but today it was a chaotic ordeal. Inside Shanti Bhavan, the two-storey whitewashed bungalow on the corner of the neighbourhood, there is a bustle reminiscent of a flutter of butterflies in spring. On the cool veranda, sandals and shoes lie scattered on the steps. To the left of the front door hangs a large framed photograph of a young man. He has dark curly hair, a thin face with a strong jawline, sparkling eyes and a smile that reaches up to his eyes. The photograph is carefully decorated with strands of yellow marigolds.

Inside, the living room is cleared out. Sofas are pushed into corners and chairs rented from a nearby funeral home are neatly arranged along the walls. A makeshift stage has been set up at one end of the room. It is not high, just a few inches off the floor. There are about 25 people in the room – friends and family – dressed in white and looking solemn. The news of Manan’s death came so suddenly that many close relatives are still on planes, buses and trains to get here. They even missed the actual funeral service that took place the day before.

Mrs. Pooja Chatterjee’s eyes are red and puffy as she talks to a middle-aged relative who is trying to console her. Little do they know that nothing they say will ever ease this pain. If only they knew what she knew. Instead, she asks if everyone has been served tea. Tea always helps, no matter how great the misfortune. Sometimes, another thought crosses her mind. Had this not happened, she would be on the sets of the latest Bengali blockbuster, completing a film that had been three years in the making. She had devoted every second of those years to this film, and the thought stabbed her heart with a pain she did not know how to handle.

Across the room, Pooja’s ex-husband Girish Chatterjee is inconsolable. Unlike his ex-wife, Girish let out a cry; his loud sobs pierced the hearts of some guests while making a few others wince in embarrassment. This is a side of Girish that no one who knows him has seen before. Normally, he is a quiet, reserved person who rarely speaks unless he has to. He is never rattled and never at a loss. But today, he is broken.

Anandita, Girish’s niece, comes up to Pooja. “Mommy,” she begins, “it’s three o’clock, shall we start the speeches?”

Pooja, lost in thought, looks up at Anandita and for a moment does not recognize the young girl who seems to be asking her something.

“Shall we start talking, Mommy?” Anandita asks tenderly again.

“The speeches… yes… yes. We’d better get started. I don’t want to keep people waiting too long,” Pooja replies. “Why don’t you ask Girish Mama if he wants to start?”

“Okay, Mommy,” Anandita murmurs, crossing the room to Girish. She speaks to him quietly. Girish wipes his eyes, although the tears don’t seem to stop, and shakes his head as if to calm himself down.

“Yes, Beta,” says Girish, standing up. “I’ll start.”

He walks on stage. His shoulders are hunched, his hair is disheveled and his white kurta is wrinkled.

“Hello,” he begins croakily. But no one seems to notice, and so the guests continue to talk among themselves.

Anandita walks up to Girish and addresses the crowd. “Hello everyone, may I have your attention?”

Some people turn around and look at her.

“Can everyone please calm down? We’ll start the speeches with Girish Mama,” she pleads, squeezing Girish’s hand before walking away.

The hall is silent as Girish clears his throat. He adjusts his glasses and straightens his kurta. When he opens his mouth to speak, the words are quiet and shaky.

“Hello everyone,” he stammers. “First of all, I want to thank you all for coming here today. It means a lot to me and…” he hesitates for a second, “…Pooja, for taking the time to be with us at such a tragic moment in our lives.” He takes a tissue out of his pocket and blows his nose.

“Let me tell you this right at the start. I have never been good at giving speeches and things like that. I don’t know if what I am about to say will make sense to anybody here because I am not the most eloquent speaker in the family. If my son Manan were here today, he would know exactly what to say because he has a special way with words. He was a writer; did you know that? Well, he had never published anything, but that was his dream. In fact, one of my first memories of Manan is that he wrote a short story. I mean, of course I remember things about him before that memory, but that is the one that came to mind this morning.

“Manan was maybe six years old at the time. He had been working on a short story all weekend. And it was a Sunday evening when he came to us and proudly announced that he had finally finished it and was going to read it to us.” Girish pauses and smiles. “The story was about a family… a happy family… facing great hardship. The father had lost his job and the mother had fallen ill. Their son was deeply saddened by the family’s hardship. So the child sets out to cheer up his parents. He does odd jobs for his neighbour and earns some money. He also makes soup for his mother to make her feel better. In the end, the father gets a job and the mother recovers. The family comes out of this situation unscathed, as if nothing had ever happened; as if they had never suffered.” Girish pauses for a breath. “There is no doubt that the story was about our family. My son was always sensitive to our mistakes and challenges, and he did his best to make us all better.” Girish lowers his gaze, his voice becoming quieter. “Even though things can’t always be fixed.”

“My son was better than me. He was hopeful. He was a sensitive, compassionate man who always put others before himself. He was more of a father to… us…” Girish looks in Pooja’s direction “… than we were to him, and I deeply regret that. I remember him being curious about everything the world had to offer. He loved books, art and music. I would often drop him off at events – debates, speeches and various school functions. He was always so excited about the various competitions in school and would sign up for all of them if he was eligible.” Girish pauses again as he reminisces. “If only… if only we had been better parents to him, then maybe a father wouldn’t have to talk about his son like that.”

It is obvious that Girish cannot go on. His face is twisted and tears are streaming down his cheeks. He hangs his head and his glasses slide down the bridge of his nose. An elderly gentleman holds him by the shoulder and leads him to his chair.

Excerpt courtesy of ‘The Funeral’ In In Search of a New Morning: A Collection of Short StoriesAnirban Bhattacharyya, Rupa Publications.