If you are one of those shallow people who have given in to the trappings of material wealth and started doubting your own mortality, I have only one thing to tell you. Don't worry, there's still hope. Try living beside a government cemetery. I did. For two long years, I lived in an apartment that faced a public crematorium.'Public' here should be read exclusively as the poor and downtrodden of our society. I have no idea what others do with their dead bodies.

My apartment complex overlooked one of the most shabbiest and murkiest crematoriums in Chennai. Everyday, when people around the world were waking up fresh to the smell of Nescafe, I would wake up to the fresh smell of burning human flesh. You would think it terrible. Not at all, my friend! It did a whole world of good to my moral and spiritual development.

You see, people like me, when we start to have a little money in our pockets, drive a fancy car, hobnob with the classes, and find ourselves schmoozing up wanna-be's of all kinds, we start to get a heady rush that wipes out all traces of common sense from our head. We start to believe in our own importance. We start having delusions of omnipotence. Such anomalies of the brain can take ugly forms but can be effectively arrested by simply inhaling the putrid stench of burnt flesh. Scientists say that ego trips have no better or known antidote. A daily does make sure that no evil head rush stays permanent. So every morning, I would breath in that scent of death and offer a silent prayer to whoever was that friendly soul who saved me from grievously sinning that day! May his soul find peace in Heaven.

I like to believe that most of us get sad when our family members die. At least we put on a long face for a while. But not where I live. In Chennai, people celebrate their loved one's passing away as if it were a wedding. A grand occasion that calls for immense amount of intoxication, flower showers, music and dance. They send the 'lucky one' off to his/her heaven royally and in ishtyle! I must say, I like this better than crying.

So while I was enjoying my blessed existence as an enlightened human being on a day to day basis, thanks to the open-air crematorium next door, I also made the acquaintance of 'Aunt X.' I call her 'Grandma' but she claims to be only as old as my mother, but I find that rather difficult to believe. She has a college going granddaughter, and grandson who just picked up his first job. I cannot work the math out here. But my gut says, she could be closer to my grandmother in age. She is 'X' because till date I don't know what her name is. Nor do I know which part of India she comes from. Or anything else. It's all a mystery.

She has an ordinary face, the kind of face that you forget without knowing you forgot about it. Her dishevelled grey hair always remains tied at her nape. Her eyes, her skin, the creases on her brow, the gentle stoop, the inflamed joints, everything is ordinary about her – as if nature worked with much interest, just like she worked with millions of middle-class women around the world in getting them ready for the final journey, without discrimination. Without fanfare, without anything extraordinary to show.

Aunt X had a deadly hobby. Both morning and evening, she would sit under the Banyan tree (Yes, the same banyan tree that Duraisamy sleeps under at night guarding us from the perils of a haunted neighborhood! Read more about it here.) in the building compound and catch hold of anyone or anything that crosses her way, for a quick tete-a-tete. The fact that such a gesture could be misconstrued by a stranger as intrusion into one's private life, not to mention, also quite inappropriate in civilised social circles did not seem to deter her at all. She would get the watch man to strategically position her chair so that nothing misses her sight. Then she would slide into it, make herself comfortable and wait, as a predator waits for its prey. Silently, patiently, without doubting for a second who will win in the end.

One fine morning, in a rush to get to my office as usual, I came running down the stairs, two at a time, and lept for my car door when BAM! I heard a rather urgent 'hello' being thrown my way. More a beckoning than greeting, I figured. I turned around and saw AuntX waving at me to come over. For a split second I was not sure if I wanted to do that. I needed to get to work. And I hate a last minute distractions. Especially in the form over-inquisitive, over-friendly old women. I make a quick assessment of the situation. Mmm... Atleast half a dozen people were now looking in my direction, as if waiting to see what my reaction will be. Don't these people have anything to do in the morning? Ignoring the old lady and driving away would now mean being branded the 'Moron Of Our Building,' There were enough witnesses to my moron-ish behaviour. So I did gave in. No escaping the cluthces of the banyan tree witch today!

I walked over, hesitantly, not sure what this strange lady wanted from me, and that too early in the morning. We haD never spoken before!

“Which side are you going?” She asked. No pleasantries, I noticed. Pretty uncouth, yeah? I said to myself.

“Towards Grand.” I smiled, politely. It's part of being civilised, isn't it?

“I see. Do you go via Marina or take the Bridge road?”

“Oh. I prefer the shortcut. I go straight through the city.” I was not sure what she was driving at.

“But that has got so many traffic signals, isn't it?”

“Yeah. But it's the shorter route.”

“Can you actually save time driving with so many red lights on the way?” She asked, more to herself than me, I felt. As if doing some mental calculations of her own..

“Yes!” I didn't know how to end this conversation. And I desperately wanted to. I am not going to stand here like an idiot and argue about the benefits of taking a shortcut when I should be in office and working on presentations or setting up meetings. I am busy man. I have busy life. Good woman, please understand, I do not have time to waste.

“What do you do, son?” She was beaming at me once again.

WHAT???????!!!!! My jaws fell open! This woman had the gall to stop me from going to work and ask me what I do for a living? I stood there for a while not able to comprehend the absolute irrationality of the situation.

Where the hell does she come from? Is this a time to get to know your neighbours? Just when they are running late and heading for their office? The lady was bonkers, no doubt! I had to drop this act of civility and cut off the conversation or turn into a stone right there.

“I am in advertising.” I said curtly, adding, “Excuse me, but I am getting late. I was heading for work.” I looked at her hoping that she would finally tell me the reason for my presence there.

“Oh..oh... You should have told me, dear. Now, run along. Never, ever be late for work!” Damn you, lady! First you call me here, waste my time and now you tell me that I should not be late for office! I fumed inside. Yet there was something familiar about the way she admonished me.

Something I knew for a long time ago but could hardly remember now. Something tender. An emotion I wanted to recognize but could not.

Just to put my side of the story right, I said, “I thought you wanted to ask something?”

She looked at me for a moment and said, “Yes..yes... I may want to go to my doctor next Wednesday. I wanted to check if you drive by that way. My son is not in station.”

I thought she looked straight into my eyes, for a little too long. Were they saying something she didn't give words to? I could hardly tell. My mind was ready to lose control and scream. She was not sure if she would go to her doctor! And if she did decide to go, it was 6 days away from now! Not something you hold up a man on his way to office for. If I screamed, I am sure she deserved it. But I did not. I didn't scream or yell. I didn't even pause for a second before I said 'Yes, I can take you for your check-up.' It wasn't in my route. But somehow I wanted to take that old woman for a drive. To have her speak to me. To see her smile. I wanted to see her happy. I rushed off to my car wondering what was wrong with me. As I drove off, I caught AuntX one more time in my rear view mirror. She was too busy to notice me. She had caught hold of her next victim.

She decided not to go for her check-up. But couple for days later, one evening she got hold me again. From her chair, she bobbed her head up and down twice, signalling for me to go over. I went. She made me sit next to her. The ground wasn't a comfortable seat especially for my bottom that has gotten used to the comfort of executive swivel chairs. But I tried not to notice the pebbles that poked my behind and concentrate on what AuntX is saying.

“You have no children?” I am not sure if it was a question or a statement. The way she said it it could have been either.

“No.” I said.

“Thought so. I haven't seen any.” She shakes her head, in thought again. “When do you plan to have?”
The straightforwardness of the question makes me realise that I have not faced that one before. Not even my parents have asked me that.

“I am not sure. Maybe in a year or two.” I fumble, trying to find a correct answer.

“No.No. You should plan for your children. Or else, your prime will be lost. By the way, your wife doesn't speak your language, is it?”

I am surprised at this woman. How the hell did she figure that out?

“No. She comes from another part of India.” I explain.

“Love marriage, is it?” She probes.

“Not really.” I am evasive.

“Your parents arranged it?” She is like a bloodhound that is on the scent of its prey.

“No. We arranged it first. Then our parents arranged it.”

“Oh... So love marriage only.” She doesn't seem too happy with it.

“Yes, with family consent...” My words trail off. Somehow I don't want to upset her. It seems important. I wonder why.

“Is she Hindu?” I would have been very angry to hear that from anyone else, I confess. But here I simply take it in as another question, matter of fact, and say, “Yes.”
“Umm...Good.” She seems to have finally found a reason to forgive me my transgression. I felt stupidly pleased. Damn!

AuntX became a part of my life in the apartment complex that overlooked the public cemetery. Many a evenings we sat together and talked about things I spoke to no one about. Little things about life that did not fit into the fabric of an over intellectualized and urbanized society. She told me about her childhood, her marriage, the struggles of a young couple in a chaotic post-independent India. She took me on a journey – to a world that was materially poor, emotionally devastated yet hauntingly beautiful in spirit. I saw the the vestiges of an era that was captured most brilliantly by the pathos in Mukesh's songs and Raj Kapoor's films.

Once, in one of her more exuberant moods, she wanted to sing to me.
I was too embarrassed to sit there and let her do that. No less than twenty four windows were open and forty-eight pairs of eyes looking straight at us. I said, no. She never understood why, I am sure. I do and today, I am ashamed of it.

Finally after I found a swank little place for myself in another part of town, I went to tell her about it. As usual she was sitting under the banyan tree.

It was getting dark. I broke the news as gently as I could. It seemed important. I didn't know what to expect. I tried to argue with myself. After all, she is just a neighbour. She doesn't have to feel bad. I am not her son or anything, isn't it? But nothing happened. She didn't say anything. She just sat there. Saying nothing. After a little the silence was unnerving. So I got up and left. Without turning around to see if she was still there.

The next evening, as I parked my car I found her waving at me from the chair. I walked over. Slowly. She got up and took a small packed wrapped in her pallu. It was Sindoor and some Tulsi leaves. She took a little sindoor between her thumb and forefinger, looked into my eyes for a moment and said, “This is Sai Baba's prasadh. He will make sure you are happy where ever you go. I have prayed for you.” I bow as she draws a tilak on my forehead. “I wanted to see your son playing around in this compound. I thought I will blessed enough to hear him call me, 'grandma!'”
I stood there, unable to find the right thing to say.

“Bring your son to me when he arrives.” She turned around and walked away slowly. I watched her climb the stairs, one at a time, leaning heavily on to the railing. I wondered what made her inflict such pain on herself? What magic did that place under banyan tree hold for her? Why did she fight the gruelling ordeal of climbing those 32 steps every morning and evening? For a moment, I see a high-priestess descending onto earth to visit her apostles. Then I leave.

These days I stay in my swanky new house, walk around in my swanky new neighbourhood, and hobnob with the crème de la crème once again. But there is no stench of the dead to remind me of my mortality - my humanness. Instead I hear voices. They talk about things like Dr.Atkins latest diet program, Kareena reduced butt size, office affairs, the benefits of emotional infidelity, golf games, imported cars, Caribbean holidays and the new fashion designer in town.

I don't know why but when I wake up a strange question comes to my mind these days. As soon as I look out of my bedroom window, a small voice inside of me asks, “What did we leave behind? The dead or the living?”