Fundi and I lay on the grass
outside, excluded and forgotten while the grownups go through the rites of
grief. So many people had come, that someone had to erect a tent in the lawn,
with helpful fans blowing cooling mist for the comfort of the people paying
their respects. Almost everyone brought food, a mountain of mismatched crockery
lying abandoned on the dining table inside. Not a single meal had been served
in the last three days. We just snuck in and opened the containers, finding
food in various stages of decay, happily munching on cold congealed curry and
dry naan under the table. I didn’t mind flicking away the ants and eating the
food, but Fundi was more particular.
When people would notice they
would snatch us, to press food or money or cluck over our hair or clothes. Fundi
would grab my hand and we would escape to the little area behind the rock
fountain. He didn’t have the fortitude to withstand the pity laden on us, the
patronizing platitudes smeared with clumsy, blunt, buttery strokes, tearing through
the fabric of our grief.
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