Ever since reading about Seth Diwanchand's death in the paper, I had been apprehensive that someone or other would show up and suggest joining the funeral despite the cold. All the people in this building were acquainted with him.They are all genteel and sophisticated people.

Then the sadarji's servant comes down the stairs muttering, opens the door and goes out. To reassure myself, I call out, "Dharma! Where are you going?"

When he answers,"To buy butter for the Sardarji, "I quickly hold out the money for him to get me some cigarettes at the same time.

The Sardarji is sending out for butter for his breakfast, which means that he too is not planning to take part in the funeral procession. I am still further relieved. Since Atul Mavani and the Sardarji are not planning to go, it's out of the question for me. Those two and the Vaswani family were more frequent visitors at Seth Diwanchand's place. I only met the man four or five times. If they aren't planning to attend, then the question of my going doesn't even arise.

Mrs. Vaswani has appeared on the front balcony. There is a strange sort of  whiteness on her attractive face,and a light touch of redness from the lipstick she wore last evening. She has come out wearing just a robe, and is fastening up her hair. Her voice rings out: "Darling,bring me some paste,please."

I'm further reassured. This means that Mr Vaswani is not attending the rites either.

Far down on  Arya Samaj Road, the funeral procession is slowly approaching…..

Atul Mavani comes to return the iron. Having taken it, I want to close the door, but he comes in and says, "Did you hear that Seth Diwanchand died yesterday?"

"I just read about it in the paper, I answer him immediately, to keep discussion of the matter from going any further. Atul's face is shining. He must have just shaved.

"He was really a fine man, that Diwanchand."

I'm afraid that if the comments proceed any further there's going to be a moral responsibility for me to join the funeral procession. So I ask, "What happened about that business of yours?"

"Just that the machine is late in arriving. As soon as it comes, my commission can start. This commission work is really senseless. But what’s to be done? If I arrange to place eight or ten machines, I'll start my own business."Atul continues by saying, "Brother, Diwanchand gave me a lot of help when I first came here. It's because of him that I got some sort of work. People really respected him."

My ears pick up at the name of Diwanchand. Then the Sardarji puts his head out of the window and asks, "Mr. Mavani, what time does it start?"

"Well, the time was nine o' clock, but it will probably be late because of the cold and the fog." This must be a reference to the funeral.

The Sardarji's servant Dharma has given me the cigarettes and is setting out tea on the table upstairs. Then Mrs. Vaswani's voice is heard, "I think Premila will definitely be there. Don't you agree, darling?"

"Well, she ought to be," Mr. Vaswani says, crossing the balcony. "Hurry up and get ready."

"Will you be coming to the coffee - house this evening?" Atul asks me.

"Probably." I wrap the blanket around me and he goes back to his room.

A moment later his voice comes again, "Is the electricity on, brother?"

"Yes, it's on," I answer, knowing that he must be using an electric immersion rod to heat the water.

"Polish!" The shoeshine boy announces politely in his daily fashion, and the Sardarji calls him upstairs. The boy sits outside and starts polishing, while the Sardarji instructs his servant to bring lunch promptly at one o' clock. "Fry some papads , and make a salad as well."

I know the man's servant is a scoundrel. He never delivers a meal on time, nor does he cook what the Sardarji wants.

Thick fog still covers the street outside, with no signs of sunshine. The No. 7 bus is leaving, with its crucified Christs hanging outside; and a conductor is distributing advance tickets to other people standing in a queue. The jingle of coins can be heard each time he returns the change. In the midst of the cotton balls wrapped in haze, the dark-uniformed conductor looks like Satan himself.

And the funeral procession has now come somewhat closer.

"Shall I wear a blue sari?" Mrs. Vaswani asks.

The muffled sound of Vaswani's answer suggests that he is fixing the knot on his tie.

The servant has brushed the Sardarji's suit and draped it on a hanger. The Sardarji is standing in front of the mirror tying his turban.

Atul Mavani shows up again, portfolio in hand. He has put on the suit he had made last month. His face looks fresh and his shoes are shining. "Aren't you going?" he asks. Before I can ask "Going where?" he calls out, " Come on Sardarji! It's getting late - it's past ten o' clock."

Two minutes later, the Sardarji is coming downstairs. Meanwhile Vaswani spots Mavani's suit from upstairs and enquires : " Where did you get that suit tailored?"

"Over in Khan Market."

"It’s very well made. I'd like to get the tailor's address from you." Then he calls to his wife, "Come on, dear! All right, I'll be waiting for you downstairs." Joining Mavani and the Sardarji, he feels the suit material. "The lining is Indian?"

"English!"

"It's an excellent fit," he says, jotting down the tailor's address in his diary. Mrs. Vaswani appears on the balcony, looking even more immaculate in the damp, cold morning. The Sardarji winks at Mavani and starts whistling.

The bier is now directly below my room. A few people are walking with it, and one or two cars are creeping along. The people are engrossed in conversation.

Mrs. Vaswani comes downstairs, a flower in her hair and the Sardarji begins adjusting the handkerchief in his coat pocket. Before they got out of the door. Vaswani asks me: "Aren't you coming along?"

"You go ahead. I'll be right there," I say. But the next moment I wonder where he has asked me to go. I stand thinking about this as the four of them leave the house.

The funeral has moved on down the road. One car comes up from behind and slows near the persons on foot in the procession, and then the car surges ahead. The two cars at the back of the procession also slip ahead, following that car.

Mrs. Vaswani and the three others are heading for the taxi stand. I keep watching them. Mrs. Vaswani has put on her fur wrap and the Sardarji is either offering his fur gloves to her or is just displaying them. The taxi driver steps up and opens the door, and the four of them get in. Now the taxi is heading this way, and I can hear laughter coming from inside it. Vaswani is pointing towards the procession and is telling the driver something.

I stand quietly, observing everything; and now for some reason I feel as though the least I could have done was to join Diwanchand's funeral procession. I am specially well acquainted with his son, and, at times like these, one even offers sympathy to enemies. The cold is making me lose my resolve but the question of joining the funeral keeps pricking me somewhere deep inside.

The taxi slows down near the bier. Mavani sticks his head out and says something. Then the taxi goes around to the right and moves ahead.

Feeling beaten, I put on my overcoat, slip on some sandals and go down the stairs. My feet propel me automatically towards the procession, and I quietly fall in behind the bier. Four men are carrying it on their shoulders, and seven others are walking alongside - the seventh being myself. I think about the difference that takes place as soon as a man dies. Just last year, when Diwanchand's daughter was married, there was a crowd of thousands, and cars were lined up in front of his house…

We have reached Link Road. Around the next turn is the Panchkuin cremation ground.

As soon as the procession turns the corner, I begin to see a crowd of people and a row of cars. There are some scooters also. The chatter of voices comes from a crowd of women standing at one side. Each of them has a different hair style, and they stand around with the same exuberance that one sees in Connaught Place. Cigarette smoke is rising from the crowd of men and blending into the fog. The red lips and white teeth of the women shine as they talk and there is pride in their eyes…

The bier has been set down outside on a platform. Now there is silence. The scattered crowd has gathered around the body, and chauffeurs with bouquets and garlands of flowers in their hands are awaiting a look from their mistresses.

My eyes falls on Vaswani. He's trying to signal his wife to go by the corpse, but she is standing there talking to another woman…

The face of the corpse has been uncovered, and now the women are placing flowers and garlands around it. The chauffeurs, their duty done, stand near their cars, smoking.

One lady, after depositing a garland, takes a handkerchief from her pocket, puts it to her eyes, sniffles a little, and then steps back.

Now all the women have taken out handkerchiefs, and there is a sound of noses blowing.

Some of the men have lit incense and set it near the head of the corpse. They stand there unmoving.

It appears from the sound that the sadness in the hearts of the women has increased.

Atul Mavani has taken a paper from his portfolio and is showing it to Vaswani. I think it’s a passport application.

Now the bier is being taken inside the cremation ground. The crowd stands outside the gate, watching. The chauffeurs have either finished their cigarettes or put them out, and are standing guard by their cars.

The bier has now gone inside.

The men and women who came to offer condolences are beginning to leave.

One can hear car doors opening and closing. The scooters are starting up and some people are heading towards the bus stop.

The fog is still thick. Buses are passing by on the road and Mrs. Vaswani is saying, "Premila has invited us over this evening. You'll come along, won't you, dear?" There'll be a car for us. That's all right, isn't it?"

Vaswani is nodding his head in agreement.

The women departing by car are smiling and saying goodbye to each other. Several bye-byes can be heard. The cars start off…

Atul Mavani and the Sardarji are walking towards the bus stop and I realize that if I had been prepared, I could have gone straight to work from here. But now it's eleven thirty.

The pyre has been lit, and four or five men are sitting on a bench underneath a tree. Like me, they just happened to come inside.

Surely they must be taking the day off. Otherwise they'd have come ready to go on to work.

I can't decide whether to go home, clean up, and go to the office, or whether to use the excuse of a death to take the day off. After all, there was a death and I did take part in the funeral procession.