Of Death and Dying: A Sri Lankan Farewell
Sindhu Ratnarajan
My grandmother woke up on a Sunday afternoon and said, “Goodbye everyone, I’m going.”
“Where are you going?” We asked.
“I am going to God,” she said with an ethereal assurance.
At 3.45 AM on the 24th of October 2022, a week later, my grandmother stopped breathing. Having watched “How to Get Away with Murder”, I felt sufficiently equipped to dispose of a body. Little did I know that doing so legally would be much harder – it took a good six hours for the process. We waited three hours for the doctor to confirm her death and provide us with a ‘Death Declaration.’ This document was essential in enabling us to proceed to obtain a second document from the Registrar of Deaths. The undertakers refused to collect the body without this Death Notice.
I remembered the short story “Professional Mourners” by Alagu Subramanian, in which a child recounts the death of his grandmother. While discussing underlying aspects of caste, the story also details a vociferous “Master of Ceremonies” who attends to the funeral processes. My family was short of one in organising my grandmother's funeral. While I was barely a vociferous “mistress”, I hereby attempt to relate my role.
If you are planning to die, I would suggest that you pick out a regular working day between 9 to 5 for this purpose, ensuring that you avoid the lunch hour for best results. I would also strongly caution you against dying on a public, bank or mercantile holiday. After multiple debates and discussion as to whether the relevant Registrar for our area was in Kirulapane or Kollupitiya, we set off in hope to Muhandiram Lane – Kollupitiya. The gate was padlocked with no sign of activity. Being the unassertive person I am on such occasions, I was more than happy to stand outside until 9 AM, or whatever time was deemed decent enough for the Registrar to attend to my needs. Our trishaw driver, for whom my grandmother had been a faithful Church hire on Sundays, was far more alert. He inquired with the men seated outside smoking in the alley as to what time her office opens. Furthermore, we were informed that the Registrar lived in the adjoining house. By this time another group of people from the area had also arrived seeking a death notice. They banged on the door to make their presence known, eliciting a slightly hastier response.
All images of Colombo courtesy of the author.
The Registrar emerged from her lazy Saturday, indifferent to the people who stood eager to get a body out of their homes. Then came the hard task of unlocking the door. Apparently, the person with the keys had gone to his hometown. The goal was to find ways and means of unlocking this door – a rolling pin was offered, a safety pin was attempted, a bunch of keys to different doors were jiggled. Finally, with a hammer, the registrar boldly broke into her own office.
Sinhala and Tamil are official languages of Sri Lanka, with state administrative activities being expected to function in both. It is no secret, however, that Sri Lanka often functions as a “Sinhala only” country. As a lawyer, my need to be fluent with Sinhala has heightened, since most primary courts in Sri Lanka function only in Sinhala. My family runs on the presumption that I have the best Sinhala skills in the group, and I have become the designated errand girl to navigate all things Sinhala. I started filling up a form, detailing my grandmother's death. Halfway through, having no clue about how to translate “cardiac respiratory arrest due to hypertension” and “senile debility”, I stared blankly into the face of the Registrar – until she resolved to fill it up herself.
Collecting the official Death Certificate from the Registrar a month later, in order to proceed to close bank accounts and prove last wills, was another arduous process. After repeated failed visits and calls, I watched the half-naked children of the Registrar ruling the roost, playing Spider Solitaire on the official computer and boldly informing me that the mother was “having lunch” or had gone on a frolic for “personal work”. More than a month later, I was offered the Death Certificate, the back of which contained red, green and yellow chalk marks. When I pointed it out, another official had the audacity to tell me that it was the nature of the paper that they receive from the government. Sri Lanka is facing a shortage of paper. I rest assured that these death certificates are likely the family colouring book. Attributing the audacity of the official to mansplaining, I sought to correct the “race” of my grandmother, which was printed as Sinhalese despite my failed attempts at Sinhala fluency. Watching the official scraping off the ink with a blade and reprinting that word, with unexplainable ease, I learned then that forgery is an art mastered. On paper, ethnicity is but words. In life, it is worth bloodshed.
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My family hails from Jaffna – the Northern Province of Sri Lanka. A quick visit to Colombo decades ago resulted in a permanent stay. Riots and clashes arising from the 30 year civil war made their hometown a point of no return. My family thus involuntarily settled down in Colombo, where I was born and bred. In the backdrop of the ethnic conflict, my defence mechanism was to identify as cosmopolitan, turning a blind eye to my roots.
To all those thinking of career prospects, I would suggest the glorious profession of an undertaker. Of all things in life – death is certain. Furthermore, how many would bargain with the cost of hiring a hearse? Be it Covid-19 or natural disaster or a global financial crisis – there will always be dead bodies to deal with. Funeral parlours offer great deals for your destination funeral - giving you options for the type of casket you put yourself to rest in and the refreshments that are served to guests who view your body. Interestingly, at every juncture you are expected to provide a tip for the undertakers to ‘have a cup of tea’. Whether it be for carrying your body outside the house, to embalming it with makeup or grave digging – their time is truly money.
I was astounded to know that my grandmother had indicated to my aunt that one specific bank account was to be used for her funeral expenses. While I have been told to save up for a possible wedding, telling one to save up for their funeral is better unsolicited advice. After all, it is inevitable and similarly expensive. My grandmother’s funeral was the first funeral for my three-year-old godson, my cousin’s child. He has strongly expressed his displeasure towards the concept of heaven – a place of no return holds no appeal for him. As always with precocious kids, I could hear his curious whispering in the background as to “what is in the box?” while the coffin was being sent into the incinerator. Months later, we test his memory of his Poota (great-grandmother) with photographs, remind him of the little game he played with her, and shed tears of joy, when we were chastised by him for sitting on my grandmother’s designated chair.
Switched at Birth is a TV Series that talks about a family that took the wrong baby home after birth. When collecting my grandmother’s ashes the next day, I thought about whether she might be switched at death. After all, there were just three loosely numbered trays carelessly laid outside of the crematorium. My concerns were put to ease, however, thanks to the knee operation which she had undergone. While her original knees may have wasted away, her new ones remained - conspicuously scattered amongst the ashes.
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I was born into a family of six – comprising of my parents, aunt, grandmother and elder sister. My father passed many years ago, and the remaining members being unmarried, my family boasts five women with varied temperaments. Under the circumstances, I am thankful to all the men amongst our extended family and friends who stepped up unasked to become our pallbearers – a practice I did not attempt to push against in a claim for equality. We were also suddenly informed that the incinerator button had to be pushed by a male family member. We stood bewildered – in between the closing prayers of the preacher. I am further thankful to the unsuspecting relative who was willing to step in to do so for us.
All images of Colombo courtesy of the author.
Walking back through the Borella cemetery from the crematorium with a friend was an unusual walk in the park. We concluded that the cemetery was in need of a facelift - the somewhat outrageous signs had to go.
As I watched my grandmother struggling as her faculties reduced little by little, and as I wondered how long this would go on for – as much as I am wrecked with guilt to admit, I did wonder about euthanasia. In moments of sheer exhaustion, I wondered if we romanticize succour. I recently came across the incident of a paralympian in Canada who was offered Medical Assistance in Dying when requesting a chair lift to be installed in her house. The recklessness with which we humans offer solutions makes me doubt if we are indeed progressing as a species.
Many years ago, when a relative was put on a ventilator, my grandmother made her demands clear to us. “No ventilator”, “No CPR” and “No hospitalisation.” Over the course of her final year, my house transformed into a mini hospital, as cannulas and oxygen tanks lined her bed. Caring for someone amidst an economic crisis in Sri Lanka is an extreme sport. We watched as adult diapers doubled and tripled in price and furthermore become limited in availability. Nebulizing and doctor’s visits were painstakingly fixed around the Demand Management Schedule [power cuts] of the Ceylon Electricity Board. We had a young doctor visiting my grandmother regularly, who, still in the honeymoon phase of his job, was keen not to give up on anyone – fierce competition for the Grim Reaper. As he suggested nasal feeding, my grandmother, who was barely talking at that point, made her opposition clear to us with a vigorous shake of the head. Her request was clear – he did not press the point further. Our goal was to keep her comfortable, keep her loved and keep her company – after all, as a 30-year-old friend when narrating a near death experience said - “dying alone – what a terrible way to go.”
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Sri Lanka dived into a severe economic crisis in 2022 for reasons including excessive government spending, looting of state funds and weak tax policies. Fuel queues, LP gas shortages, tripled inflation and power cuts led to large scale protests by the public. The state imposed illegal police curfews, fired tear gas and led arbitrary arrests. The former President was ousted. A new peril arose.
While the country was in crisis, my family had its own - it was bittersweet, poignant yet serene. The last week with my grandmother was spent with family and friends saying their goodbyes, and with us singing hymns and praying around her. My aunt’s work table was beside my grandmother’s bed. I was often seated cross legged on the bed with my grandmother, drafting written submissions on interim injunctions. My sister did presentations on ‘past and present tense’ for her Grade 3 students beside me. Life had to go on, so we worked around her and took turns beside her. We were keen to not leave her alone at any moment – even if it was just to move to the next room.
In “Professional Mourners,” the grandson Thanpoo wonders, “what fate was it that kept me away?” when he was unable to speak to his grandmother as she lay unconscious even as he came back at last. Our regrets were fortunately limited to smaller things. My aunt who lived abroad made a quick decision to visit Sri Lanka in September. While December would have been an ideal time for her to visit, having seen my grandmother’s recent pictures, she strongly felt that she may not last that long. It was a welcome surprise for my grandmother as she enjoyed the presence of her second daughter. My family’s only regret was that on one of the last few days before her death, we refrained from giving her ice cream when she eagerly asked us for it with her jelly. Fearing her heavy cough and wheezing, we felt a strong need to protect her. Little did we realise that death was around the corner.
As a doctor, she had nurtured all of us throughout our lifetime. It was our turn to do the same. As I watched my aunt and mother dote upon her with love, never giving up, constantly trying to provide solace over and over, I was in awe. We measure success by education, wealth, professional and personal achievements – but those might be easier than being able to love fervently till the very end.
After my grandmother bid her adieus, her gradual decline was spread over a week. There was no prolonged or terminal illness. What started off as a cold, became a persistent cough and evolved into a wheeze. She was 93. She lived a full life. What more could we ask of her? My grandmother’s brother-in-law, on the other hand, 75 years of age, the last of the first generation that is still alive, possibly suffering from COPD, has been saying goodbye daily since my grandmother’s death. My aunt had prayed for many years of long life for him, and fortunately he is still holding on.
Returning home from the funeral, I wondered how to use our standard measuring cup to make tea for four people and not five. We rearranged the furniture in the living room to fill up the awkward space by her designated chair. I transferred black, white, grey and mauve sarees from her almirah to my wardrobe of court attire.
We move on, we adapt. Such is life.
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About the Author:
Sindhu Ratnarajan is a Colombo-based lawyer who is presently figuring out her way in court as a Junior Counsel through trial and error. She is driven by a curiosity for fun facts and constantly seeks out interesting tidbits through reading, podcasts and conversation to weave into her writing.