She replied, ‘You’ll drive me into an early grave, so you should give those instructions to our son, not me.’

The funeral was worse.

Rajan had insisted that his funeral should be in Tamil. Lately in Sydney, Tamils were using Indian priests—Hindi speaking and Sanskrit chanting—for their funerals. He called this new approach a ‘fad’.

‘People died in our homeland for the protection of our mother tongue. It seems nothing less than ungrateful that, since escaping the war, Tamils here think it’s fashionable to be sanctified and cremated in Sanskrit, a language that is also dead. At my funeral the priest must speak in a living, breathing language. And he must wear a shirt—none of this “sarong only” business.’

So an elderly gentleman, Mr Vaithalingam, had presided fully-clothed over the funeral, explaining the ritual in Tamil and in English for the enormous gathering of family and friends. Nala found herself wishing she didn’t understand what was happening as the old man poured rice into a mortar.

Paddy rice was used at weddings. Husked rice was used at funerals. Paddy rice was living. Husked rice was dead.

Nandan tearfully performed the last rites for Rajan. She remembered at her father’s funeral, her twin brothers had been inconsolable. Mohan had stepped forward to perform the duties of a son. Her mind often strayed back to Mohan and Gal Oya these days.

Mr Vaithalingam asked Nandan to pound the husked rice with the heavy stone pestle. The body was dead and the soul needed to be released. Nala wondered if Dhara had been pounded by stone.

She wiped the tears that were falling fast and inhaled deeply. She hadn’t brought any tissues. She couldn’t believe she had come to a funeral without tissues. She couldn’t believe she was at Rajan’s funeral.

The old man began to read from the Bhagavad Gita, the Song of God. She knew the verse in Tamil. Birth, death and every emotion, expectation, and disappointment in between are only temporary. They are illusory; they are not real, yet we live the length and breadth of human experience as though they are.

Death is natural to all who are born. Death can liberate the soul from the cycle of life, from pain and from suffering. Death is inevitable and should be embraced—it should be accepted.

The body is a vessel, a clay pot to be broken with a scythe, freeing the soul. Mr Vaithalingam handed Nandan the clay pot and she wondered if Dhara’s body had been touched by a scythe.

Some souls are freed too early, too young, she thought. Rajan was lucky. His soul was ready even though she was not. The funeral director pulled the curtain across, shielding the coffin from the mourners. He pressed a button and she wept as Rajan was taken away towards the fire.

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