Obituary
The obituaries in Indian newspapers are for the most part practical in nature, unsentimental and carefully worded. The cost of announcing the death of a person is calculated per word, so most tend to be short and to the point. Name, DOB, DOD, details of ceremony, short list of mourners. More obits carry photographs these days but these are mostly passport sized and discreet. The occasional florid obituary, quarter page or the splash out half page, complete with religious texts and colour photographs is somehow distasteful to me. Why should I care, would be your valid question. Well, I am an obituary page stalker. I’ve been reading this page for years now, and some of the dear departed in the Remembrances column seem like old friends. I trawl the columns every morning for the originally worded declaration of grief, the carefully rhymed paean of sorrow and especially, for old familiar names and faces.
Now I have it on good authority that this is a habit born out of trauma and a writer’s need to make amends for the obituaries I never wrote for my own dead. Yes, well. Or I’m just weird.
There is the young boy with a dimpled smile. He is remembered every year by his mom, sister and doggies. Over the years, the names of the dogs have changed – I guess because the pets have crossed the rainbow bridge themselves. It’s nice to think of the boy reunited with his animals.
The young couple who died on their engagement day in a terrible car accident. It was meant to be a union between two business families and their obituary photographs are of them in their engagement finery. They look very happy.
The serious young girl who is missed by her parents and brother. She died in a local train accident. I remember her name in the newspaper articles. It was the first time the papers took up the cause of people dying on our overcrowded local trains.
The handsome young boy, whose name rhymes with those of his two brothers. The brothers have gotten married, I think. For the past couple of years, he is remembered by their wives as well.
The beautiful tribute to a middle aged, not particularly beautiful woman from her husband. He writes, every year, how much he loves her and how he waits to be with her again.
The young girl with MS who is remembered by her family on her birthday every year. They wish her a happy birthday in heaven. They call her their baby doll.
I used to be a little obsessed with the age of the subject of the obituary. The very young, though heartbreaking to think about, didn’t register. Nor did the plus seventy, for obvious reasons. My eye would be drawn to the young ones, the teenagers, the young adults. I found myself wondering how they had died. It never occurred to me that they might have died natural deaths. In one so young, death isn’t natural anyway. Somewhat illogically, I was convinced that the cause of death was always suicide or a drowning or an overdose. It’s taken many years to acknowledge these three reasons – these are the three who got away. My unwritten obituaries.
I’m growing older. I’ve stopped counting the years and I look out for the familiar names and faces but without imagining a dramatic backstory. Getting older also means that funerals and obituaries of people I know and love are a more frequent occurence than I would like. There’s no getting away from the truth – we live, we grow old, or we don’t, and we die. There is the occasional day when I skip the page altogether. These are interesting times we live in. The news in the paper is far more horrifying and depressing than the smiling faces who are dead.
Still, that old habit of reading the obituaries most mornings reminds me to think of these strangers on their birthdays and death days and send them good thoughts, wherever they are. And to their loved ones too. The mothers and sisters, the dogs and dads. We are all together in this mourning grieving loving remembering thing for the long haul.