Part II: The Receipt to Collect the Flowers

The traffic and the world around me stuck in it looks the same. Honking, crawling, lights turning red and green. Scooters and bikes trying to get ahead by forcing through a two feet space between cars, banging their side rear view mirrors. Or riding onto the footpath bullying the pedestrians. It’s the same traffic I wade through every evening. But something is different now. It was still light when I had entered the hospital a little more than an hour ago. It is dark now. The crawling vehicles don’t know that something in this universe has now changed. They are within their own worlds. Just like I must have been within my world when the universe changed for someone else around me. They don’t know I need to go home and come back quickly. They are all moving at the will of the others. There is nothing in my control. I have to move at their will. Just like there was nothing in my control over the past seven days.

‘Please get a dress for him.’ The nurse asks me. Bed number 16 has to be vacated given that Father’s utility is now over. They pull the curtains to depict the tragic scene. I tell Maa that I have to go home to get a dress and ask her to wait in the lobby downstairs. I wait in the traffic to reach home to get a dress for Father. It takes me an hour and half to return with a T-shirt and pyjama for him. Maa is feeling unwell. I send her home. I want her to do this with me together. Not for strength. Just to do this together. But it is better for her to go home. I give the clothes to the nurse. They ask me to wait and draw the curtain. Why can’t they let me see what they are doing. It’s not like I haven’t seen Father naked.

Why is it that the medical staff always ask the patients’ attendants to wait outside? What is it that they don’t want us to see them doing… or not doing? How they pull the ventilation tube out of Father’s mouth? How they undress and dress him? How they sedate him? How and where they cut him and insert three German made stents in his LAD and left circumflex arteries? Why do they always drawdown the blinds, draw the curtain, close the door? Do they have something to hide? Can they not concentrate with someone watching? Or they think it is something we should not see as we will never get over the trauma? Why don’t they understand that I need to see everything? Because I always need to see everything… hear everything… know everything. I cannot not see… not know.

I barge in through the curtain. I could not see them doing it. They have already put on the T-shirt and pyjama, tied his both hands to each other, stuffed cotton into his nose and mouth. I have seen it in the movies. Bodies with their nose and mouth stuffed with cotton. Father has that look now.

‘Sir. Please wait outside.’ WHY?

An inadequate looking doctor at the reception of the CCU tells me that they are preparing the provisional death certificate. I can collect it in a while after financial clearance. Of course, you will give me anything only after I have paid for your incompetency over the past 7 days.

The attendants bring a long stainless-steel trolley with a cover and take it inside the room. I know they are now going to transfer Father in it. They bring it out a few minutes later. I join them in the elevator which goes to -2 level. There they take him to the mortuary. I see them open the door and move the trolley inside. Like everything else I want to see what is inside but I know they won’t let me.

The mortuary attendant gives a key to another attendant at the reception of the mortuary and blabbers. ‘8.03 PM… Rack No.3.’ Father is in rack no. 3.

‘Sir… at the time of discharge, bring these four documents – Financial clearance, provisional certificate, mortuary payment receipt and identity proof.’

So I have to bring an ID for you to let me take Father? Of course it’s the process. I have to prove that the son took his father. So you have in record whom you gave him to. Not to some criminal who will take out his dysfunctional kidneys and eyes and sell them.

Of course, I have to pay you to keep him in the cold darkness of the mortuary so that he does not decompose and fluids don’t start oozing out of the pores of his skin.

‘How much are the charges?’

‘Sir… for up to three hours, there are no charges. From 3 to 6 hours, it will be Rs. 2911, 6 – 12 hours, 4372, 12 -24 hours, 7283, including taxes.

No rates after 24 hours? Nobody keeps their loved ones in the mortuary beyond 24 hours, you ignorant fool.

**********************

‘They killed him.’ Maa tells me over the phone as I wait for clearance to come from the insurance. They have corrected Father’s date of birth in their file and are expediting the clearance, they have assured me.

‘They didn’t do enough.’ ‘Fele rekhe diyechilo. Kichhu dekheni… kichhu koreni… mere felechhe…’

I don’t know. Maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t.

Didn’t the other day, one of the doctors was telling another that why haven’t they administered beta blockers. The other doctor blabbered excuses which I couldn’t hear. Could beta blockers have saved him? Internet tells me that,

Beta-blockers block the effects of adrenaline stimulation and other stress hormones in the body leading to lowering of the heart rate, reducing the oxygen demand, reducing the risk of dangerous arrhythmias like tachycardia. For patients of heart attack, they can prevent abnormal heart rhythms, reduce the risk of another heart attack. They prevent the heart from beating too fast.

Could beta blockers have prevented the abnormal VT rhythm… the irregular electrical signals in his ventricles?

Could I have taken him to another hospital after the first day? The last time he spoke, or rather wrote, he wanted to move into another smaller hospital (to save money obviously). Should I have taken him out at that very time? There was infection. Did me caressing his cheeks on each visit give him germs? Why did his heart not recover? How do I know if they gave the right medicines or the right dosage? Or whether they gave any medicines at all. Maybe it was all an elaborate show with the syringe pumps running on empty syringes or syringes filled with water. Maybe they have just put all items in the bill without actually using any of them. The arteries had opened up so why didn’t the heart improve. It was supposed to gradually get better. Why did the kidney go into shock? How could it happen when he went to bed without any discomfort or sense of foreboding seven nights ago?

If his existence was a mere ensemble of complex devices working together then what was the point of going through all that he went through for 73 years? Is this how it was always meant to end? Astrologers had given him 76-78 years. Maa believed there was still time so she went on cooking for him.

10.15 PM. I check again. The clearance has come from the insurance. They prepare the final bill. I have to make a part payment. The money was of no use, just like my blood or prayers.

‘Sir, cash, card or UPI? My card is maxed out. I keep very little money in my UPI account which I have only recently started using. The amount required to be paid is beyond the daily cash withdrawal limit of an ATM.

‘Bank transfer?’ I ask. ‘Sir, bank transfer confirmation takes time, card or UPI would be better.’

Of course, you want to see the money as quickly as possible so that you can let me take Father. You are very considerate.

But I am efficient. Decades of performing the farce of adult life have taught me how to deal with stuff. I open my laptop which of course I am carrying to counter a situation like this. I transfer money from my main account to my UPI account. Then I make the transfer to the hospital. The UPI voice alert confirms the transfer. Received… You may now take your father away.

I have the financial clearance paper in my hand.

Admission Date: 27 Nov 2025 | 06.36 AM

Discharge Date: 3 Dec 2025 | 10.23 PM

Discharge Status: Expired

A few minutes later, I get a call. ‘Sir, would you be needing an ambulance?’ News of Father’s departure has reached other departments it seems. They already know I would need a ride for his transit journey.

‘Sir, you may call us an hour before you need to take him.’ ‘How much?’ ‘Sir, 2000 rupees.’ ‘Thanks, will let you know.’

I return to the CCU to collect the provisional certificate. As I wait, I see Bed number 16 has a new occupant. Male. Someone’s father, someone’s husband. It has only been a couple of hours. A space held by Father for seven days. Where his heart rhythms went out of sync. Where he peed into catheters and vomited. Where his hands were tied to the bed and tubes were inserted into his nose and mouth. Where he was leaving his malfunctioning body in the final moments as I ran through traffic and hospital corridors. Someone else is paying the rent for that space now. A new set of test reports, heart and kidney complications, injection pumps, BP monitor, NIV readings. This would be the last time I am here.

They hand me over the provisional death certificate. ‘You have to collect the actual one from the municipal corporation after 15 days.’  

Alright, I have learnt the process for collecting death certificate as well. I had always wondered how people do all this. I am so ignorant in these matters. I won’t know what to do. I always underestimate myself.

They also give me the case reports. Death Summary… reads the title on the first page. Can they really summarise the journey of his death?

Recurrent Ventricular Tachycardia – Urosepsis with Septic/Cardiogenic Shock – Bilateral Pneumonia – HFrEF (25-30%), Moderate MR – Acute on Chronic Kidney Disease – Anaemia – ACS-NSTEMI-TVD

At around 4.20 pm…… patient went into bradycardia f/b hypotension. Immediately, high quality CPR started as per ASLS protocol. Despite of all best efforts, patient could not be revived and declared clinically dead at 04:57 pm on 03.12.2025.

Reads the last two lines on the last page.

Bradycardia f/b hypotension – heart rate falling less than 60 beats per minute followed by falling blood pressure….

Despite of all best efforts…. How do I know they gave their best efforts? Maybe they just stood there and watched him leave.

It’s time to go home. There is nothing left to do here. I will have to come back for Father later.

*****************

But what are the next steps? Cremation. I have never done it before. How to go about that? Should I do a quick online research? Whom to contact? Should I Google for cremation centres near me?

Maa tells me to reach out for help to one of our neighbours who knew Father. I always avoid talking to neighbours as I despise small talk. But I have to this time. For once, I need to ask for help. This is a situation my hyper-independence cannot address. It’s 11 PM. He is not at home. Gone to some function. He returns at midnight with his wife. I inform him about Father. He expresses immense shock and sadness.

‘He was such a gentleman!! Very nice man!! Can’t believe this!!’  Condolence remarks normal people usually give in such situations. He gives me the contact of a cremation centre.

There is no point in bringing Father now. We live in a modern high-rise society. Father can’t be carried like a baggage in the small elevator to our fifth floor apartment. I will have to keep him in the parking lot in the cold December night. My neighbour says it would be wise to bring him in the morning only. Maa agrees too. It would be better for him to stay in the freezing cold of the mortuary. He will never see his apartment again.

I lay my broken body on the floor in our living room… waiting for morning. Maa lies in bed awake.

********************

‘24,000 rupees for normal rituals. 35,000 rupees for Vedic rituals.’ The person at the cremation centre informs me when I call him around 6.30 AM. ‘Which one do you want to do?’

‘What is the difference?’

‘In normal ritual we provide 5 kg sandalwood, 5 kg ghee, 20 kg hawan samagri, 2 shawls and other stuff. In Vedic ritual we provide 10 kg sandalwood, 10 kg ghee, 30 kg hawan samagri, 4 shawls and other stuff.’

I check with Maa. ‘We will do a normal one.’ Father wouldn’t care about an extra 5 kg sandalwood or 5 kg ghee.

Maa instructs me that it should be done by 12 PM. I communicate the same to the cremation guy. They will come by 11 AM. ‘Why not 10 AM?’ I ask them.

‘We don’t have so much time. There are other cremations lined up. We will only come an hour before the time you want to do it.’

I am excellent at planning things by the minute. I go through the schedule and time required for the whole process in my head. It is going to be tight.

I reach the hospital at 8.30 AM. Call for the ambulance. Pay the mortuary bill. Give the required four documents at the mortuary. They bring Father out. They remove the sheet from his face and check with me to confirm. Indeed, it is the correct delivery.

Father arrives at our society in a small ambulance. Last Thursday morning, he had left in a bigger one – short of breath, weak, alive. This Thursday morning, he returns with no breath left in him.

******************

He lies in our parking space, tightly wrapped in white sheet, cotton stuffed in his nose and mouth. I place a pillow under his head and sit beside him. Caressing his hair, murmuring, telling him things. He is cold. Very cold. I place a diya given by Maa next to him. A few people have gathered for the antim darshan. Neighbours whom I don’t know, the society sweeper, supervisor, gardener. They are all watching me and Father with a grim face. I don’t like being a spectacle. I don’t have any privacy with Father. I need them to go away and leave me alone with him. There is no need for them to stand here. I can’t tell them to go away as it would come across as impolite and uncivilised as they believe they are providing support by standing there and offering their respects.

‘How did it happen?’ ‘When did it happen?’ ‘Really sorry.’ Condolence remarks of normal people. I fold my hands and carry out the performance of thanking them all for coming.

The cremation guy arrives in a van. On time. He has brought everything with him. Kafan, arthi, garlands, flowers, Ganga jal, priest. It’s all part of the package.

I ask Maa to come down. She is pale. She caresses her husband’s hair one last time.

The first set of rituals begin and I perform them as guided by the priest one after the other. The few neighbours join in. Maa and I pour Ganga jal into Father’s mouth. The priest puts marigold garlands on Father’s body. He then hands us rose petals and loose flowers and chants lot of mantras. He then asks everyone to offer those flowers on to Father’s body.

Barely a few days ago, Father brought flowers for my birthday. Red roses. It was me who began the ritual of bringing flowers for birthdays when I brought a bouquet for Maa on the way back from school when I was in seventh grade. Father learnt bringing flowers from me. And then he made it a ritual even though I lost interest in it over time. On my birthday this time, I muttered how there is no need for bringing flowers anymore. How can there be birthdays without flowers? He said.

Barely a few days later, I offer rose petals on his body. The roses brought by him are still there on my table.

They put the kafan on him and cover his face. ‘Will I get to see his face again?’ I ask exasperated.

‘Yes. You will see him again. Don’t worry.’

We move him onto the arthi. The priest ties him with threads. Father is ready. For his final journey. We load him into the van. I watch Maa standing… pale… crying, as she watches me leave with the man she married more than four decades ago. She is not coming to see him off for the final trip. Women don’t go to the funeral amongst us.

*******************

We arrive at the cremation centre. We bring down the arthi from the van and carry it chanting prayers. Ram Naam Satya Hai! Seen it so many times in the movies. Nearly two years ago I saw many doing the same at a cremation ghat in Varanasi. It’s my turn now. I also chant mechanically. The stage of the final performance has been set. A funeral pyre is already setup. We lay Father’s arthi on it. His head falls aside which I then adjust for him to be comfortable. The priest begins the final rituals. It’s all a haze. I don’t know what is happening. I follow the steps as told by the priest. Put these five grains in his mouth.. you can remove the cotton… What are these coloured grains? He pours a big bottle of honey all over Father’s face… How could he just do that? Father didn’t flinch with all that honey over his face… The priest then places sandalwood sticks on Father’s chest… belly… feet… We scatter the hawan samagari all over his body.

They then start placing big chunks of wood on him. The priest wants to cover Father’s face now. With my eyes welled up, I hold Father’s face in my palms and give him a lot of kisses. One of the elderly neighbours who have come tries to comfort me, ‘Bas bas… aur nahi… It is enough.‘ He doesn’t understand that I don’t need his support. I need to hold Father’s face for much longer. I need privacy. But these people don’t understand that some people need to sit with their grief for a very long time and asking them to let go is not the right advice. Why do these buffoons think they are helping by asking someone to not cry or not hold on to the dead? I will hold on to Father as long as I want.

Or maybe till these guys can’t wait any longer. There is a schedule to keep. I join the others in placing the wood chunks on Father. Didn’t want to be left behind.

‘You may touch his feet and beg forgiveness for all your mistakes.’ I follow the instruction and beg forgiveness… I don’t know for what…

An old fellow hands me a thin wooden stick, places a large cube of camphor on it and lights it up. ‘Go around the pyre three times, chanting Jai Shree Ram.’ This is not at all going according to how they show in the movies. But I follow the instruction, do the three rounds and chant. They then ask me to place the burning stick in the hay placed between the wood chunks near his head. So I did.

The fire is lit. I didn’t realise what I did in the last 20 minutes or so. I followed the steps and have finally lighted Father’s flesh.

‘Okay now follow me.’ The priest takes me to a room where another man is sitting with some account books. The priest tells him a list of things that have been used. He starts preparing a bill.

Isn’t Father burning?

‘Please show the provisional death certificate… also a copy of the dead man’s ID as well as your ID…’

Indeed. You need it for documentation that this man with ID no. XXXXX who was born in a poor suburb of West Bengal was finally burnt here legally as per ceremony. Indeed you need my ID for your records that this fellow with ID no. XXXXX came to light the path of the dead man’s final journey legally, and is not some criminal who came to dispose of him.

Father is burning. I need to see. I need to see everything. What if it gets over while this fellow makes the bill? I am very very anxious.

‘Here is the receipt. Bring it tomorrow to collect the flowers.’

Which flowers? I wonder. Then I understood myself what he meant by flowers. Father’s remains. Another evidence of my ignorance. I don’t know what the process of collecting the remains is called. Phool Chunna… Collect the flowers…

‘Without the receipt you won’t be allowed to collect the flowers.’

Of course! I will need this piece of paper to collect a dead man’s remains as proof that the payment was made and the rightful owner took it.

Father is burning.

‘Cash or UPI?’

A few minutes later I stand in front of the burning pyre. I notice Father’s pyre or kund number is 13. There are 12 or 15 other pyres burning. Father has a lot of co-travelers on this trip. I tell things to Father. I still don’t know what did I actually do today. Did I actually burn Father’s body? How could I even do that? But there was a schedule to keep. It was to be done by 12 PM as Maa had instructed. I didn’t miss the deadline.

Death Summary / Final Trip Itinerary:

Living Room – Emergency Ward – MICU Bed No. 11 – CCU Bed No. 16 – Mortuary Rack No. 3 – Parking Lot – Kund No. 13. I don’t know the places he visited in his mind while he lay helplessly aware in CCU Bed no. 16 for six days.

*********************

Next morning I reach the cremation centre. I have brought 250 grams of curd, half a litre of milk, two marigold garlands and some loose flowers as instructed by the priest previous afternoon. I give the receipt to the guy. That old fellow now joins me at kund number 13. A huge pile of ash lies in front of me. I imagine that this old fellow is now going to fill an earthen pot with this ash and hand it over to me. He brings a bucket of water and throws the water onto the ash. I guess to cool it down. He again fills the bucket with water. Then he opens small bottles of Ganga jal and cow urine and pours them into the water. Everything is available in the market these days. All part of the package. He then adds the curd and milk I had brought.

He then gives me a pair of tongs and asks me to go ahead. This is really not going according to the movies. What am I supposed to do with this?

Of course I understand myself what I need to do. I start picking small solid pieces from the ash and add them to the water.

‘No… no… you don’t pick the wood pieces.’ The old fellow, appalled on seeing what I was doing, tells me. ‘See, the wood will float on the surface and the bones will sink in the water.’

Yes, old man! I know the wood will float. But how do I know what am I supposed to pick from this pile of ash. It’s all grey. I have never done this before. Haven’t studied the process in school or college. They never show this part in the movies. I didn’t do an online research before coming.

I again try. I pick some solid looking pieces this time… some ash… some wood…

Finally, losing his patience at my incompetency, the old fellow asks me to handover the tongs and then shows me how it is done. He efficiently collects what needs to be collected and adds them to the water. He then asks me to pick the pieces out from the bucket and put them into an empty earthen pot.

I put my hand inside the water and pick out the pieces. I look at what am I holding. I realise that these are little pieces of Father’s bones. For a moment I am horrified to realise this. Is this even possible? How did this even happen? But steps have to be followed. There is not much time. I bring out the remaining pieces and put them into the earthen pot. They have all been cleansed with water, Ganga jal, cow urine, ghee, milk, curd. The old fellow puts a marigold flower in the pot along with the bones. That’s a nice touch. He then wraps a cloth on the mouth of the pot and ties a thread.

We then sit for a little ritual. He lights two incense sticks at the pyre. He asks me to scatter the loose rose petals on the ash. Chants some prayers. I follow the steps. ‘Ask him for forgiveness and pray for his peace.’ I follow. I need time to think about the things I need to ask forgiveness for.

The steps are all over. He hands me the earthen pot with Father inside in it with a marigold flower.

‘Give some token money to these workers. Whatever you feel like, it’s your wish.’

I see two people cleaning up the area. They will be cleaning up Kund number 13 now. Sweep away Father’s remains that are still left behind in that pile. Like Bed no. 16, there must be a new booking for Kund no. 13 for today’s show.

I pick out a 100 rupee note to give to the old man.

‘See… the matka is 300 rupees, then there are like 2-3 people…’, the old man tells me.

I hand over a 500 rupee note to him. It satisfies him.

I can go now. This show is over.

I will soon travel with Father to release him into the Ganga for him to achieve moksha. There will be steps to follow there. Nine days from now, another of my biggest fears will come true. I will have to look at myself in the mirror as a bald man. 10 days from now, I will be doing some more rituals to let Father finally rest in peace. There will be a lot of overpriced useless things to buy which Father won’t be using at all wherever he has gone, and which will return to the retailer through back channels. I will be buying lots of fruits, vegetables and sweets for Father which he won’t be eating. I will be buying lots of flowers for him which he won’t be smelling, and a lot of which will not be used and will be thrown away.

I have never done those things before. But I will learn them along the way just like I learnt all the new things in the past nine days. Despite my absolute ignorance and inadequacy in these matters, I believe I have delivered a very capable performance these past few days which Father would be proud of. Onek boro hoye gechis… Shob eka eka kore nili…

His heart is functioning at 25%.

We call that artery as the widow maker.

These are German made stents. They are the best.

I know you are scared, but people do come back from this.

Bring these four documents to collect the body.

He was such a nice gentleman.

Without this receipt, you won’t be allowed to collect the flowers.

Baba aar nei.

I want to leave by day after tomorrow.

And so Father left. Day after tomorrow.