The death of Barry Brown

By Nameirakpam Bobo Meitei *

He kept his word.

When he arrived it was sharp six. Although the whole place wasn't released to the soon-to arrive dawn the temperature was already unbearable.

I could feel the coarseness of my bag against my drenched back, but I didn't bother to untie the necktie or to unbutton the shirt that I had ironed impeccably. He appeared wearing a light brown shirt which had turned dark because of the sweat, the folded necktie in one hand and in another a cigarette.

In this dusty area of the outskirt of the city his shoes shone and the bottoms of his black trousers rustled over the shoes. He walked up and greeted, but without a smile and asked if I would 'fancy one', a fag. I led him to the bus terminal and there we stood leaning against the iron railing.

Before the cigarette in hand was over he felt in his shirt pocket and took out another. The tip of the new cigarette between his parched lips pressed against the smoldering butt, his cheeks vibrated at the effort of burning the new cigarette, and soon the cheeks and the parched lips were obscured by the thick smoke.

Through that smoke he asked 'you got a family, mate?' I lifted my head and was about to reply but his eyes were looking at something distant as if he already knew the answer.

Sensing the unspoken commonness I asked 'how long have you been stranded?' The laughter sent the smoke into a long trail and he sucked on his teeth and pressed his lips tight as though the words were already there and he was feeling them with his tongue, they slipped out in an undertone ' mine began before that and went beyond that.'

The big man at the school presented himself in a pinkish flowery shirt; he appeared smiling but said very little and left us smiling. We looked at each other and giggled behind our teeth. I heard him explain and rephrase in his high-pitched voice, then it was followed by beating against the whiteboard with a cane.

Few hours later his face was overwhelmed with exhaustion and he said he desperately craved for a smoke. We stood underneath an immense mango tree by a lagoon partly claimed by swaying reeds and he unleashed his 'before- that- and- beyond- that- story.' It was one of the typical expat tales that I had heard before, the kind that I could sympathize but never aroused my interest.

The story came out like a wine from a narrow-mouthed bottle all at once and when the story was over I detected a relief in his pale face.

It must have been bottled up for very long. I got used to the new habit of waiting for Barry in the morning and leaving the workplace every day together and, once a week, stopping by a 'dudgeon bar' after work to 'grab a pint.'

He was waiting for the verdict from the court over his fortune which he out of his tomfoolery had registered in his former native-wife's name and I was waiting for a way out of the place to plant myself in same strange setting as the world around me had already crumbled, and the I was quite convinced that one would surely encounter solace in another bizarre life elsewhere.

But deep down, which I didn't want to touch, I knew I was looking for a chaos to dilute my problems. We never openly discussed our personal matters, problems; instead we told each other stories, our own stories, by using pseudonyms, as though using the real names would distort the facts.

We were simply uneasy, yet we wanted those anecdotes to be heard. I allowed my imagination to cultivate the impression that I was in the company of a confidant and I felt that he felt the same, although we never mentioned it to each other openly. This new comfort of having a 'fag- and 'pint- mate' was soothing.

One Sunday morning there were many missed calls from him. This was rather unusual so I called back and the voice was a woman's saying 'Barry dead, Barry dead.'

I couldn't believe my ears so I asked her to give the phone to someone with better command of the language. A man in his flat accent confirmed he was gone and he gave me the address of the hospital. I wasn't ready for this, nor did my mind have the power to deal with this.

So I stayed put and locked myself up for two days flitting between books as if I weren't interested in something that had already taken up its place in my mind and was spreading. I was being selfish, or a coward, who didn't have the courteous courage to bid farewell to a man who had already become a friend.

The sister in Melbourne said she wanted the body to be repatriated but she didn't utter a word about the expenses. I had been living hand to mouth, the embassy assured us that after the autopsy they would 'arrive at a conclusion' in their best diplomatic language.

They never arrived at the conclusion we expected from them, so, finally a temple agreed to hold the ceremony. Men- in- black's faces were inflamed after a few bottles which they wrapped in plastic bags. The gloom in them betrayed them and in their lubricated state they expressed their noisy grief.

Seeing this state their tiny tattooed-bar-girlfriends clung on them like some apes and ruffled their hair. Three monks came out through the backdoor holding hand-held fans and took their places beside the white coffin. A white yarn was uncoiled and the white thread was passed on till it reached the people at the back.

After the chanting the oldest among the monks called someone, a shirtless man, whose bare chest was virtually covered in amulets, and from the thread around his waist four wooden Shiva-lingams dangled and they clanked when he walked up to the head monk carrying a bronze tray bearing paper flowers banded with small yellow candles.

He stood facing us and his back to the crematorium chamber and signaled to the gathered people that we should line up to see the man's face, Barry's face, for the last time. It wasn't convincing enough no matter how concrete the reality was, and I wanted to be left unconvinced and distant.

It would have been naïve to display that fear, the fear to confront the concrete reality which had imposed itself upon me in its inevitable manner. The paper flower banded with the small yellow candle in my right hand I gathered myself and rose to join the line, the grieving line.

My feet me had brought me next to the open coffin and my glance fell upon that face, the waxen face. How relieved he looked, he must have reconciled with everything, or did he have time for that? How strange human mind could be; at the very instant I envied the tranquility, which looked so far-fetched, in his face.

I didn't know what to say to this man whom I hadn't seen in more than week. But I knew that what was confronting my eyes and my senses was the man, the dead body of Barry. The lid was put on and the one bare-chested man alone pushed it in.

Finally the paper flowers and the candles were thrown in and the chamber door was shut. I stood at the temple gate and looked at the top of the chimney, the smoke, the black smoke rising, declaring the he was consumed by the fire and he wouldn't be seen again. Never again.

*** Author's notes: It is a story written by me about the death of someone. Just a reflection on what one has to go through when one is gripped by the sudden loss of people who are so important to him.