My aunt’s wrong show — in life and death

Few people have the ability to fascinate and amuse us in the course of daily life and fewer still once they have departed from this planet.

My aunt was one such glorious lady. Twinkling eyes, a rotund frame and bustling manner, she moved around the house like a whirlwind, completing chores and attending to her husband all morning, so she could, without guilt, spend the entire afternoon in the company of her friends, playing Rummy.

The game was an obsession, her absolute passion and in jest we likened it to an addict’s daily fix. She would dress up, coiffure her hair and toddle off for her Rummy sessions come rain, hail or snow.

That itself is not so uncommon a source of entertainment for women living in sleepy, far flung towns, but she was special because ever so often during the interminable games, she would, with unfailing regularity, declare a wrong hand. It was a veritable joke in the family and her friends would specially check and recheck her declared hand of Rummy and more often than not, it would be a ‘wrong show’. Not one to be deterred, she would grin cheekily, pay the penalty like a sport and then, compulsively make the same mistake again and again.

Her death was as quiet and peaceful as her life had been feisty, and according to her wishes, after cremation the ashes were to be immersed in the Yamuna river flowing serenely along the famous gurdwara at Majnu Ka Tilla in Delhi.

While collecting the remains, my uncle was puzzled because her iron kara could not be found in the pit, but the priest made little of the discrepancy, insisting that it had probably melted in the fire. They returned home in a sombre mood after the immersion, when suddenly there was clamour and commotion at their door. This was in 1984, sometime after the assassination of then prime minister Indira Gandhi and the subsequent riots.

My uncle, a Sikh, and his children were petrified at the sight of a large group of Hindus gathered outside. It turned out that the priest had given uncle the ashes of a staunch Hindu gentleman, who had expressly desired to be immersed in the Ganga at Haridwar! My aunt had done it again! A ‘wrong show’ even in death!

The kara was found by the Hindu family and they confronted the horrified priest, demanding their rightful remains. The latter, realising the error and subsequent switch of the ashes directed them to uncle’s house.

Now, those were innocent, relatively simpler days, when even in the backdrop of anarchy and mayhem, the feeling of love and brotherhood still stood a chance. The situation was very delicate and could have turned ugly because unwittingly the Hindu gentleman’s ashes had already been borne away by the swift waters of the Yamuna at the steps of the gurdwara and were irretrievable, but fortunately both the families, faced with the unprecedented and droll circumstance, took it on the chin and by common consensus, uncle accompanied them to Haridwar to eventually scatter his wife’s ashes in the Ganga.

So as it goes, aunty, in her inimitable and incorrigible style, continues to charm and entertain us long after departing from this world.

MY UNCLE, A SIKH, AND HIS CHILDREN WERE PETRIFIED AT THE SIGHT OF A LARGE GROUP OF HINDUS GATHERED OUTSIDE. IT TURNED OUT THAT THE PRIEST HAD GIVEN UNCLE THE ASHES OF A STAUNCH HINDU GENTLEMAN