Post by sasha on Mar 9, 2022 16:12:34 GMT -5
It was impossible to dislike Hardik Shah, newest addition to the Quality Engineering team at the medical device manufacturer I worked for at the time. Oh, he got under my skin occasionally, particularly when he (in his thick Indian accent) would critique my product evaluation reports for grammar and punctuation, in which I take some pride; but I could never really get angry at him. Exasperated, to be sure - but he was just too sweet a man to become angry with. And, fittingly, he was quite fond of his sweets. Whenever informed that the gals in Documents had filled their communal candy bowl, his face would light up, and he'd say "Rrreallly?", and he'd leave to check out this windfall for himself. When he laughed, it was from the belly, and he never had an unkind word for anyone.
Then one day, while showing off his newly adopted country to friends from India, he slipped and fell into the storm-swollen Kankamagus River, hit his head on a rock, and was swept away downstream. They didn't find him until the next day.
The nearest chapel familiar with Hindu funeral practices was located in Manchester, a solid hour and a half away. The company gave time off to anyone who wished to attend, and even chartered a bus to provide transport. (I chose to drive myself, because my most direct route home from Manchester did not take me anywhere near the plant.)
I arrived shortly after the bus, which was still discharging passengers, so I walked inside with several of my coworkers. The first hint that I was no longer in Kansas was the vast sea of shoes lining the corridor outside the entrance to the chapel. Apparently it's traditional to remove one's shoes at a Hindu memorial service, so I slipped out of mine and added them to the pile. I was a little irked by a few of my younger colleagues who chose not to follow suit, and rather surprised by one cantankerous old-timer who did.
The hall was every bit as crowded as the volume of footwear left outside would suggest. All the seats were taken, and still the mourners filed in. I found myself standing near the back, wedged elbow-to-elbow between one of our engineers and a lovely young Indian lass. Once settled, I began taking in the surroundings.
Most of the mourners were dressed in white: white dresses for the women, mostly jacketless white shirts & dark ties for the men. I seemed to recall that it's common in Asian cultures to associate pale colors with mourning, maybe alluding to the pallor of death, or the ghostly color of spirits. I, along with (as far as I could tell) most of my Western comrades, were clad appropriately for a Western funeral. I was glad we were in the minority - maybe we didn't stand out too starkly in contrast with their norm.
Music played softly over the PA. I've had some exposure to Indian music, primarily through the recordings of the 1970s world-fusion band Shakti, in which John McLaughlin played Vindaloo-influenced acoustic guitar alongside a roster of Indian musicians. So while the curlicued violin lines issuing from the PA weren't entirely foreign to me, the melodies were unfamiliar. It took a moment to register that the crowd before me was quietly singing along...
Then came the eulogies. It became clear that Hardik had been well-loved, and his tragic and untimely death had scarred many. One fellow who'd been with him when the accident occurred couldn't even finish, and his cries of grief went straight into my own tear ducts. I tried discretely raising my arm to wipe my eyes on the sleeve of my jacket, but we were jammed so tightly together that I must have brushed against the young woman to my right. As I was dabbing at my eyes, she nudged me, and handed me a tissue. Her own eyes were wet. I mouthed "Thank You", and accepted the offering.
Finally, the mourners were invited to come forward and pay our final respects. I got in line, and before long reached the casket, where another young woman was handing out flower petals from a large bowl, to be placed inside the casket. I dropped mine on his breast, then paused for one last look at him. The morticians had done their best, but hadn't been given much to work with. I sighed, patted his shoulder, and whispered, "So long, man. Travel well."
I followed the procession out to the corridor, found my shoes, & trudged outside to my car.
Then one day, while showing off his newly adopted country to friends from India, he slipped and fell into the storm-swollen Kankamagus River, hit his head on a rock, and was swept away downstream. They didn't find him until the next day.
The nearest chapel familiar with Hindu funeral practices was located in Manchester, a solid hour and a half away. The company gave time off to anyone who wished to attend, and even chartered a bus to provide transport. (I chose to drive myself, because my most direct route home from Manchester did not take me anywhere near the plant.)
I arrived shortly after the bus, which was still discharging passengers, so I walked inside with several of my coworkers. The first hint that I was no longer in Kansas was the vast sea of shoes lining the corridor outside the entrance to the chapel. Apparently it's traditional to remove one's shoes at a Hindu memorial service, so I slipped out of mine and added them to the pile. I was a little irked by a few of my younger colleagues who chose not to follow suit, and rather surprised by one cantankerous old-timer who did.
The hall was every bit as crowded as the volume of footwear left outside would suggest. All the seats were taken, and still the mourners filed in. I found myself standing near the back, wedged elbow-to-elbow between one of our engineers and a lovely young Indian lass. Once settled, I began taking in the surroundings.
Most of the mourners were dressed in white: white dresses for the women, mostly jacketless white shirts & dark ties for the men. I seemed to recall that it's common in Asian cultures to associate pale colors with mourning, maybe alluding to the pallor of death, or the ghostly color of spirits. I, along with (as far as I could tell) most of my Western comrades, were clad appropriately for a Western funeral. I was glad we were in the minority - maybe we didn't stand out too starkly in contrast with their norm.
Music played softly over the PA. I've had some exposure to Indian music, primarily through the recordings of the 1970s world-fusion band Shakti, in which John McLaughlin played Vindaloo-influenced acoustic guitar alongside a roster of Indian musicians. So while the curlicued violin lines issuing from the PA weren't entirely foreign to me, the melodies were unfamiliar. It took a moment to register that the crowd before me was quietly singing along...
Then came the eulogies. It became clear that Hardik had been well-loved, and his tragic and untimely death had scarred many. One fellow who'd been with him when the accident occurred couldn't even finish, and his cries of grief went straight into my own tear ducts. I tried discretely raising my arm to wipe my eyes on the sleeve of my jacket, but we were jammed so tightly together that I must have brushed against the young woman to my right. As I was dabbing at my eyes, she nudged me, and handed me a tissue. Her own eyes were wet. I mouthed "Thank You", and accepted the offering.
Finally, the mourners were invited to come forward and pay our final respects. I got in line, and before long reached the casket, where another young woman was handing out flower petals from a large bowl, to be placed inside the casket. I dropped mine on his breast, then paused for one last look at him. The morticians had done their best, but hadn't been given much to work with. I sighed, patted his shoulder, and whispered, "So long, man. Travel well."
I followed the procession out to the corridor, found my shoes, & trudged outside to my car.