The Silent Room

“Okay, I’m going to need two strong men down here,” called a voice from below.

Without hesitating, a young man rolled up his sleeves and took off his sandals. He gave the man below a light nod and knelt before descending six feet into the amber and rust-coloured earth. The was a small crowd gathered around, mostly family and close friends.

He stood between a large burly man, who called just now, and another, much slimmer young man clad in weathered jeans and a thin plain white t-shirt. On level ground, most of the men were seated with their legs folded, others chose to stand. Some women were quietly reading prayers, or citing Quranic verses in between muffled sobs and restrained tears. The undertaker, the large man, called out. Some of the men above took the body and placed it just at the edge of the grave.

“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do. We’ll bring this body down, lay him in that cavity and prop him up good. Reach your hand out and hold it from the other side. We lift it on my count,” said the undertaker, briefing his helpers. The young man who stood in the middle reached out and held his father by the waist. At that moment, he thought back of the times he has spent together with the old man. His thoughts flew back to his pre-teen years.

He recalled the days when Dad would drag him out to lunch with his colleagues. A 16-year old boy, sharing a table with three, or four, sometimes up to six middle-aged men. He would eat his lunch with slight vigor, pretending not to listen to the chatter, pretending not to understand the sarcasm, cynical remarks amd political humor being flung across the table. Every once in a while, one of the man would ask his age, or his favored field of study or if he always clung to Dad like that.

“Okay, steady… steady,… okay, go low..,” the undertaker’s voice brought his mind back to the present. He realised how light Dad had become. He thought back of how Dad used to be.

Dad was a strong man. He fixed plumbings, made cars run properly again, and every once in a while, flex his biceps and flash his million-dollar smile which either made his children laugh, or earn a sarcastic smirk from Mom. Dad used to carry him to bed, or give piggyback rides after his misadventures against physics and gravity.

He always knew that Dad loved him. He loved Dad, too. He wondered if Dad knew. He snorted at the thought.

“Hunh. Probably not,” he muttered.

“What’s that, kid?” asked the undertaker.

“Huh? Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself,…” he replied.

Dad was his father, and he was Dad’s son. Looking at it that way, it’s no surprise that between the two of them, they share many similar qualities. Both were fun-loving, both can be easily pleased with good food. Mom also remarked other similarities. Both were proud, idealistic, and ridiculously stubborn.

He grew up rather well, although he developed quite a distant attitude. Gone were the days when he used to tell Dad how he kicked the neighbour’s cat or the times when he would proudly tell about how he fixed his own bicycle – always hoping for a praise and pats on the head from Dad.

He spoke less, did more. Kept his issues to himself, solved his problems on his own, gathered and utilised his own resources. In that way, he was every bit as idealistic as Dad was in his younger days. Although along the way he spoke less to Dad about things. He would talk only when necessary, and when he did, it would be laced with wit, cynicism, even sarcasm.

Dad was always the in-your-face type. He noticed Dad was quite slow when it comes to sarcastic remarks – or rather, maybe Dad pretended to be slow, just to render the sarcasm completely ineffective.

“Easy does it,” said the undertaker.

As his knees bent lower, his toes dug deeper into the softened earth. Beneath three layers of white cotton fabric, Dad’s body had been washed and scented before being shrouded for the burial. At the undertaker’s signal, the young man lowered Dad into the side cavity and propped the body up with soft earthen pillows.

He thought of the arguments he’d had with Dad. Over allowances, over university courses, over pride and ideals, even over the woman he fell in love with. He began to think of those arguments, how each of them went, and how each of them ended. Guess we never reached a final word on anything, he thought to himself.

“You okay?” asked the undertaker.

“Nah. Just a little…,” he replied with a thin smile.

“You don’t have to say it, man.” said the other young fellow.

If anything, he had been cynical, sarcastic, and even quite brusque to Dad during the past couple of years. Dad had taught him to plan ahead, to think of his future, and there have been occasions where he had thought about what he’d do if Dad passed away. Selfish, heartless, unpleasant things. He thought about it, and realised how cruel it was for him to even think in such a manner.

A thick wooden plank was lowered, and it covered the grave’s side cavity before the undertaker signalled for earth to be shovelled down. The young man laid his hands upon the plank, as though trying to reach Dad one last time. Workers from above shovelled and pushed chunks of dirt down the hole, and the three men inside were pressing with their feet to firm down and pack the earth.

“Are you, perhaps, feeling some regret?” asked the undertaker.

“Regret?” said the young man.

“I’ve seen that kind of face hundreds of times…”

“I’m sure you have.”

“It’s a common sight in this line of work.”

“Regret, huh? Maybe,…”

He never told Dad about how much he was drunk with love and romance.

He never told Dad about how many women had broken his heart.

He never asked Dad about his experience with romance.

He never once told Dad that he loved him.

There were just too many things he never did. He started to think if Dad was alive, he would probably do those things. In less than a split second, he realised the truth. He realised that he was indeed Dad’s son.

Even if Dad was alive, even if he knew Dad was going to die, even if he realised all the things he didn’t do, could have done, or should have done, he would not have done it anyway. He grew up to be that kind of man. He grew up and chose to distance himself. He was the one who moved away and was the one who reduced the talk.

He was Dad’s son, and in that sense, he had done exactly as Dad would have. Just as Dad was proud, stubborn and direct, he had grown to somehow fit in that mould. His toes gripped the earth, sometimes chunks of rock, or clumps of dirt. He pressed down with his feet, and he slowly grew a thin smile and looked down – to where Dad lay.

Around him, he saw his brothers unable to hold back tears, and his sister sobbing away, each of them probably stereotypically drowning themselves in guilt or regret. As the last handful of dirt was shovelled into place, he knelt down and pressed into the earth firmly with his hands.

26 years ago, Dad greeted him with an Azan to his ear. Dad fed him, raised him, played with him. Taught him things, praised him for virtues, punished him for errors. Dad had made him laugh, made him cry, made him think. He shared with Dad, among other things, joy, cuts, thrills, bruises, laughter, pain, and quiet moments of happiness. Somewhere down the road, both have brushed each other the wrong way, both have tickled each other to the bones, both have injured each other’s deepest ego, and each have swelled with pride for the other.

That was Dad, and he was Dad’s youngest son. He still wore a thin smile, only this time it looked more sincere and somewhat relieved. He sucked in a deep breath, and moved his face heavenwards. There was a slight pause as he closed his eyes, and relaxed his shoulders, as though he was immersing himself in something.

“Nope,” he said, turning to the undertaker. “No regrets.”

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Small Talk:
This is a fictional story – my Dad is very much alive and well.
You can find my other works of fiction here :)

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