The Prayers for the Departed
The flowers don’t smell
They are Chinese roses and Gaily coloured Gerberas
The devout bring them in hordes, the Minion washes them and solemnly puts them in the copper vases.
The frankincense pervades the ancient halls, the chanting priests reverbate the peeling walls.
The devotees navigate their way through rainy mornings; clad in pastels and white; clutching sticks of sandalwood, little caskets of myrrh, bunches of blooms- they are in a meditative trance
They throng to ‘feel’ the presence of those who have ceased to dance
As I wait my turn, their scents mixed with the China, frankincense, sandal, myrrh and the Maximum City's unmistakable sweat assaults my senses
I wait to go in the same meditative trance as the collective conscience of my brethren
But I can’t.
My eyes don’t scan the tables, those long meandering ones some with precariously shaky legs-
My olfactory is shut and it can only react to an occasional Chanel No. 5, or the Parsee Cologne flitting by
My eyes remain dry, I don’t cry.
There’s no vase for you,
There's no priest in white robes crying out your name and that of your clan
There's no table with your name written on a rickety plaque hanging on
Do you know if I even think of you?
How do you feel, when there’s no ritual for you and all your comrades are going past you to come to our realm?
Do you feel left out? Do you feel anguished and neglected?
Do you think I am your silliest but dearest?
The last question has to be a yes.
The others never mattered when you were alive
How will they haunt you in death.
