The Matrix

 

Sometime in July 2020, the Kolkata Municipal Corporation (KMC) had identified the old crematorium at north Kolkata’s Nimtolla area for COVID-related deaths. In April and May 2021 however, the influx of dead bodies had forced the KMC to open up Nimtolla’s new crematorium complex.

 

I urged Hari to drive faster lest we missed the trajectory of KMC’s hearse car, which for that moment was housing Ma. I had the hearse car driver’s phone number though. Even then, I was unsure if that would help in case we missed them.

 

Since April 2020, Ma had a fear lurking in her mind that if she died due to the coronavirus, her cremation would not take place properly.

 

“Do see to it that I am not thrown in the fields of Dhapa…”, she would tell me after I returned from office. This was consistently frequent on her part. I on the other hand, would refrain from commenting on what she said.

 

That however did not curb her anxiety.

 

“I do not want to be thrown in those open fields. I have heard that they are doing this to COVID dead bodies…..”

 

“Ma, these are rumours. And moreover, why are you bothered about such issues?”

 

“No. Not at all. I read in newspapers. There is not enough space in the existing crematoriums. So, these landfill sites at Dhapa are being used.”

 

“All right. Let us forget these things now…Will you give me something to eat?”

 

                             **********

 

My right hand palm was still resting on the right shoulder of Dr Vishal as I kept on muttering to myself:

 

“Ma, be with me. Ma, be with me.”

 

“You have to sign on a few documents. Only after that, we will issue the death certificate. Thereafter, the KMC will take away the body for cremation”, the administrative-in-charge blabbered in his irritating tone.  

 

The apparent jabberwocky by that numskull was perhaps necessary for me to wake up from my quiescence of grief.

 

“Where will the KMC take her? Which crematorium?”

 

“We don’t know. They can take her anywhere. Most probably Dhapa”, the idiot blurted.

 

“We have no control over it. The KMC can arrive anytime. If you are here, you can see the body taken and can accompany them. Else, they take it away and cremate it as per their convenience”.

 

I felt like breaking his jaws when he repeatedly uttered the word ‘body’.

 

Things had crossed the limits. I had to act. I immediately called up Prodipto. Being the District Magistrate, he should have some contacts in the KMC, I hoped. Moreover, he was so helpful in supplying the oxygen cylinders for mother when we tried our level best to keep her at residence with a steady oxygen input. Later on, Prodipto had been instrumental in getting hold of the Remdesivir injections too. I was confident that he would rescue me now.

 

“No sir, at this juncture I might not be of help. The KMC is out of my purview. Nevertheless, I will try and let you know.”

 

I knew how honest and serious Prodipto was. He said what he meant. I messaged a few more contacts. Debarshi of the West Bengal Civil Service responded.

 

“Uddipan-da, let me try my contacts in the KMC and get back to you.”

 

Meanwhile, I called my cousin brother. He was unable to believe that mother was no more.

 

“How could it be? You must be lying. Her SpO₂ was on the rising curve last evening. So how could she pass away this morning?”

 

“What about the lung specialist? What did he say?”

 

I had no answer to his logical queries. The moment I disconnected, I received a call from Dr Vivek Bose.

 

“Sir, did you meet Dr Pahari? He’s there in the hospital.”

 

“Oh, he is in the hospital!”, I pushed myself to speak.

 

“Yes, please meet him if you can. He and other doctors tried but couldn’t….I hope you know…”

 

“Yes, I know. Should I pay Dr Pahari his fees?”

 

“Well, let me ask him Sir”, Dr Bose replied.

 

“Listen Mr Mukherjee, I received a call from the KMC just now”, suddenly I found the dimwit in-charge standing beside me in front of the ICU. I too did not remember when I moved outside the ICU to call my cousin brother.

 

“They will take the body within half an hour”.

 

“But you are lucky”, the bastard smiled.

 

“They will take the body to Nimtolla and you can accompany them.”

 

Either Prodipto or Debarshi did the trick, I thought. Whoever did it, I didn’t mind at all.

 

“Sir, I have had a word with the officials of the KMC. They will allow five persons from your family to accompany the cremation at Nimtolla”, Prodipto was kind enough to inform.

 

 

“However, they will follow all COVID-related protocols. You can watch the rituals but I am afraid you will not be able to do the mukhagni (the Hindu ritual of a son placing fire on his deceased mother’s face).”

 

“Thank you so much, Prodipto.”

 

“I will be ever grateful”.

 

I ran towards my residence. Hari was ready with the car. I pulled out Ma’s favourite saree from the almirah and somehow moved out of the flat in desperate speed so that we did not miss the KMC men.

 

“Please put her gently on the stretcher”, I pleaded to the KMC lads.

 

“Don’t worry dada (brother), we are doing this everyday”, they scoffed at me. 

 

Prodipto’s intervention had worked wonders. My mother was a VIP laash (dead body). She was kept in an air-conditioned hearse car. No other dead person was placed alongside her. I was rather fortunate.

 

The driver of the hearse car sped away.

 

“Hari, follow that car. Do not miss it. We have to reach Nimtolla.”

 

I could feel my heart beat going up.

 

In the middle of the 15-minute journey, we lost sight of the hearse car completely. Yet I did not lose hope.

 

To our great fortune, we discovered the vehicle in front of the old crematorium building of the Nimtolla burning ghat.

 

“So, will she be cremated here?”, I asked Piklu, the KMC lad who carried my mother from the hospital. He was quite agile and was the only person who seemed to speak a bit. The driver and the other staff appeared to be mummified individuals – as cold as ghosts were.

 

Suddenly, there was a commotion and few burly characters started shouting at Piklu.

 

“You rascal, you want to place this body here? There’s no space. Get out, you son of a swine.”

 

“What will happen now?”, I asked Piklu.

 

“Aare dada, don’t worry. I will manage. After all, your laash is a VIP.”

 

“You sister-fucker”, Piklu retorted at that hulk.

 

“Didn’t I tell you that this is a VIP dead body?”

 

I was amazed to see how a rather skinny Piklu tamed that brawny fellow.

 

I waited for about half an hour over there, with my mother lying peacefully in the hearse car, oblivious of the perturbations outside.

 

“Dada, let us go to the new crematorium”, uttered Piklu.

 

“Where is it, brother?”, I asked naively.

 

“Aare dada, you seem to know nothing”.

 

“The new crematorium is just at the other end of the road.”

 

Piklu jumped into the car and sat beside the driver. And as the driver of the hearse car pressed the gear, I started running towards it. I meticulously followed the vehicle until Piklu came out of it and with him and two of his companions my mother too came out.

 

I watched Piklu and his friends put down my mother on the floor, beside numerous other individuals, all dead due to the coronavirus. There were about 100 to 150 such individuals lying on the floor. 

The KMC management had placed them in an orderly fashion – in the form of rows and columns – forming a well-defined matrix. It was not a mathematical notion by the way. It was ‘the matrix of death’ – the determinant of which was incalculable. My mother lay on the floor of the crematory, carefully wrapped in a white bag with her name written on a paper, properly pasted on the bag – as one of those faceless expressions composing a rectangular matrix.