‘You must be sticking it into the middle,’ his uncle said. At that moment a gust of wind blew the stench of his father’s corpse into Sanjay’s face. He grimaced and retched, dropping the taper.

Quickly his uncle recovered it. ‘Take it boy!’ he urged. ‘Take it!’ Holding his hand to his mouth, he thrust it deep into the logs. The flames began to lick. He thrust it in again, further down the pyre. All he wanted was to get away, for the ghastly business to be over and done with as quickly as possible. Within a minute it was blazing from head to foot, the scented smoke of sandalwood stinging his eyes as he stood at its head, his hands together in obeisance. Through the logs he saw the shroud flare up and burn away. Soon the flames were
blackening his father’s corpse, which was glistening and frying in its own fat. The other mourners sniffed appreciatively as was custom and listened out for the skull to crack in the heat. This was the moment when Dutt’s troubled spirit would leave his earthly body. Sanjay too heard his father’s skull split and as soon as he could, retired with his uncle to where the others stood looking on.

‘Good chap, brave boy,’ said Raul. ‘You can be proud of yourself.’

Sanjay nodded. He was. It seemed only fitting that the father who had so often beaten him, should be the cause of his own death by trying to strike him. He deserved it. At the same time he wanted to rid his nostrils of the corpse’s foul stink and his mind of the sight of it charring. It brought back all the memories of those four gruesome days when his mother had killed herself and his baby brother; his mother,
his beautiful mother, his kind, soft and tender mother. He tried to remember how he used to lie on her lap, while she rocked his head, running her fingers through his hair, humming sad folk songs. He tried to remember her odour, the rich, heavy perfume that she wore. He remembered his father hitting her and her screams and pleadings. Large tears began to roll down his cheeks.

‘There, there.’ His uncle tousled his hair. ‘I understand. I lost my father at your age too.’

‘Y-y-yes,’ he sobbed, but it was for his mother, not his father that his tears were for. Reining in his emotions as he so often had to do, he instead busied himself by observing those around him. First there was Mr. Chattergee. Chattergee, he suspected, with his digital watch and spectacles fixed by tape, was trying to conceal a look of smug satisfaction behind his mourner’s mask. He was correct. His father’s director was quite gratified to witness his awkward rival roasting in the timbers. That meant he would continue in his position until his retirement in five years. Chattergee momentarily caught the boy’s burning stare and had to look away. And what about the other mourners, Sanjay wondered? Noticing how they fawned around Chattergee, he guessed they would all be conniving about how they could ingratiate themselves, vying for his father’s position. Correct again. The boy instinctively understood the ambitions and weaknesses of people; a talent he would ruthlessly exploit in later life. He would also be forever scarred by the hideous memories of that day, becoming both obsessed and horrified by death.