Fickle and Funereal

The air was funereal. It was howling without noise. Strong, gusty. Making the cloth covers that served as the doors and the walls to the canopy above, as one whole, they formed a tent, it made the cloth covers billow and bend, as sails to a creaky old boat. The scent of roses parlayed through the air. The wind muffled all sound but the occasional buzz of the lights that they were testing. Two men sat enrobed in the traditional cloth. The tables were draped in yellow, covered with a huge square red cloth marred by designs. Another man came in, and greeted his two brothers. His sons followed squarely behind. Hands folded behind them. The wind howled in silence and clothes rustled as they followed behind the siren of the jinn. Slowly, people started to trickle in. Followed by questions, always in whispers, always solemn. The whole affair was a sombre one. Where are you now? What are you doing these days? Quiet whispers, as if those questions had no place in this place. The carpet spread over the grass was thick, and softer than the grass, it seemed. You could curl up in it, let it grow over you, and be comfortable for the rest of your life. Someone opened the black rucksack on one of the tables, and unwrapped the thirty one red booklets inside. He grabbed one, and slowly, others followed suit. As they finished each one, about sixty pages a count, they began to place them beside the rucksack, and slowly, the pile of unread booklets shrunk and that of the finished ones began to grow. Slowly, the place filled up, the wind raged onwards. A small drizzle, began, confused, and then stopped. The atmosphere was electric, yet it was soothing and calm. They finished and began the prayer asked for the deceased’s salvation. It had been a year since he had passed. It had been a year since he left earth for his heavenly abode. And every year thence, they would remember him on this day, on his barsi. Then food was served, and people began to eat. Gone were the silent words, whispered as if anything but talking about the man were forbidden. Everyone was animated, if not exactly joyful. Gone were the sombre downcast eyes, genuine as they had been. Now, they were remembering him by living fully. The ritual, whether or not it was historically accurate, had come full circle. People piled up plates of food, of rice, of breaded naan, of spinach and meat, and of curry. Occasionally, someone would grab a banana, but otherwise, the gleaming platter of fruits stood forlorn and untouched. Gleaming, uneaten. The wind subsided, its rage soothed, the jinn stood watching. Arms folded over their burly broad chests. They were fickle creatures made of fire, that fickle element of nature. They were ever present, ever watching. They controlled the elements, as fire was the master of all, of the collected wind, of the drowsy water, of the stoic earth. Fire ruled them all with an iron hand.