Twenty thousand. The death comes demanding a lofty price.
Those words ricocheting in his head, Mr. Nagappa returned home from the funeral of his childhood friend. The sight of the burial had reminded him of his own old age. Until now, he had never thought of it. For a while, he had stood aloof; like death was staring right through him. He imagined about the crowd around his house. Will there be enough crowd? What about my wife and children? Will they contain that burden?
But more than anything, he was boggled with the words of a peer.
At the funeral, while he got involved in a random talk with his peer group. Someone said, five years back when his father was dead, he had to spend nearly sixteen thousand rupees. The amount elevates because no one wants to come around to help if there’s no alcohol, said another in the group.
Looking at the son of the dead, another said, look at that poor fellow; he doesn’t even have the freedom to express his grief. Given his economic challenges, I wonder how he’ll manage the expense. These days, man is not free even after death. The death comes demanding a lofty price.
After the funeral, all Mr. Nagappa had in mind was the Twenty thousand. Not that he didn’t know about the rough estimates previously. It’s just; he had never really paid any attention to that. Now that he is relating himself to the situation, he’s too concerned. How will my son manage after my demise? The question had turned him weary.
By the time he reached home, it was dinner time. He took a quick bath before entering his home; ate some food mechanically. Without bothering to talk to his wife, he spread a mat in the kitchen and laid down his aching body. The death comes demanding a lofty price. Twenty thousand said the glow of incandescent bulb.
After his wife went to the backyard to wash the utensils, he surreptitiously, sneaked in the hall; opened his old sanduk (metal box). Found his way down to some notes he had stashed. He started counted them. Some new, some old, some crumpled and some worn out. Then he reached for his banyan pocket for few more notes, shuffled them all to count. In the dim light, diving through the quietude…the rustle of currency paper preceded a meek voice,.. one.. two.. three.. four.. five…
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