Song of the Rain (Chapter 2)

FLASHBACK

30 November

The digital clock showed 3:17. The familiar street was lit by the dull yellow glow of street lamps. The neighbourhood was asleep. Beside me, my cousin stirred. The usually locked gate of my family home was open. I eased the car through. Jinni got out and headed to Aunt Julie’s lit up house.

I waited a little before killing the engine. In the distance, an orange lamp was glowing. A tent—now empty—was put up. The little gate near the footbridge connecting my family home to Aunt Julie’s was open. I sighed. Everything was unusual.

Gramps was seated at the foot of Gran’s casket. Aunt Julie was across him. I took Gramps’s hand and touched it on my forehead. Jinni was standing before Gran.

My grandfather’s brown eyes bored into mine like x-rays. “You’re home quite earlier than usual.” The trip normally takes nine hours; we travelled in seven.

“We took the shortcut. I drove carefully, I swear, Gramps.”

Gramps motioned toward Gran. “Go look…. She cared for you, she had bathed you.”

She looked so at peace; she could have been in Pink Elephant Land. My stomach grumbled.

“Feed your cousins,” Gramps turned to Colin, who was strumming a tune in his guitar.

In the kitchen, Colin dug up sandwiches and tea. I smiled at the sight. Gran was an avid tea drinker.

“What’s with the homemade casket?” I asked Colin.

“No purple coffin,” he said simply.

Oh. Of course. Gran’s favourite colour was purple. The casket was painted purple with grey trim, with glass on top. The interior was inlaid with white silk; Gran rested her head on a little fluffy white pillow. It was pretty much like any casket you’d see in a funeral home. The customary list of children and grandchildren were on the cover.

***

10 December

Gran has long been interred. Now, as I sit on my desk, I reflect on what transpired in the four days that I was home. It was a time of mourning. It was a time of gathering. It was a time of learning.

I had been in wakes before, but I never thought about beliefs attached to it.  I know that it should be solemn, not a party. But that was all. Gran’s wake introduced me to different beliefs. The cardinal rule was: comply and never complain. My curiosity, though, is very difficult to repress. I want to know why things are done, but I never got an answer. It was always “because the old folks say so.”

True, it never hurt to just obey to avoid arguments with the elders. But why? Why do we do this-and-that? Is it to repel bad luck? I will never know.

On my arrival, I wore my letter jacket from school: red with black trim and a huge libra in the back. One relative pulled me aside. Change your jacket later, she said. I wondered if I soiled it, but I didn’t. She explained red is an inappropriate colour at wakes. It is a happy colour and we’re supposed to mourn. I ended up borrowing Dad’s purple-and-black jacket embroidered with the IBP seal. It didn’t feel right, but I had to make do.

Uncle Charles and Aunt Leslie brought a white silk cloth. It was folded and put in the casket, at Gran’s feet. It’s supposed to be a blanket. I asked him what’s the point, but he grunted irritably. He nodded at some old folks—relatives—gathered in the tent. Because the old folks said so.

During meals, Gramps would always eat in our house. The custom was that the widower should not partake of the food served to the guests; he is in mourning. A meal is prepared for him at home, a different menu. I’d sit with him and think. The man across me has lost the woman he loved and lived with for decades. Yet when I speak to him, it is all the same. His eyes transform into lasers. His rich baritone is calm, his demeanour composed.

The wake, too, brought together the whole clan. Gran’s sister Aunt Elinore—and her family—live in Baluarte, up north. They travelled a long way, not just to condole, but to lend a hand in the kitchen. It went on smoothly. They and Gran and Gramps’s seven children worked hand-in-hand. A well-oiled machine cranking beautifully. It was teamwork at its best.

On the day of the funeral, Gran’s casket was taken out of the house with the rear end first. My uncles and cousins had to do some manoeuvring to get it right. I never got the chance to ask why. I suppose it’s to mimic the position a person assumes when he walks out—he does not go out of the door backwards. Gran’s favourite knapsack was buried with her. It was filled with the clothes she loved best.

It made me think of King Tutankhamen. 

***

Before I could say my first words, Gran taught me something. Then, as she said good-bye, she taught me something as well.

Not a bad way to go, do you think?