of dying: by the living, for the living

Sunaina swirled the spoon elegantly in her latte as she talked. The modestly sized diamond ring shone on the middle finger of her right hand as she did the motion and one of the bright cafeteria lights of the convention hit it. Immediately, the din of the chattering, laughing people muted around me. Sunaina’s diamond ring, her lustrous peacock-colored saree, perfectly arranged hair with the rich red lipstick, and beautifully manicured clean nails became the center of my attention.

‘This is the secret to my peace, Amoli.’ Sunaina was saying as her voice gained more of my attention than the visuals. ‘I come here once a year, re-learn how to play dead, and I’m filled with this absolute awe for life. Amazing right?’ she grinned at me and sipped her latte.

I smiled and nodded at her, taking another bite of the rich and tasty Moroccan chocolate pastry. It cost 700 rupees. 700 fucking rupees that I could’ve used to travel to-and-from office in a bus for 2 weeks straight- including Sundays.

‘Are you excited for the first session?!’ Sunaina asked after five minutes. She finished her latte in one big (still elegant) gulp and I followed suit, wolfing down what was left of my pastry.

‘Can’t wait.’ I said through the crumbs in my mouth. 

‘Then let’s go!’ She picked up her Louis Vuitton from the ground, stood up with a flourish, and proceeded towards the cafeteria exit. I tried blending in as best as I could in my modest jeans, shirt, and the black handbag I had gotten lucky with at Lajpat Nagar.

Outside in the main hall, I surveyed my surroundings. We were at The Playing Dead Convention. That’s right. My daughter had a hobby of painting watercolors, my son had one of playing trucks. My husband smoked cigarettes and stared unseeingly at the TV while I… it had been a long time since I had had a hobby. But, Sunaina and all the people present here (bless their unoccupied souls) had somehow found and adopted the strangest hobby I had ever heard of- playing dead.

The convention was the only meeting place for people passionate about this hobby. Hence, they were called Death Devotees. The convention was held after every six months, first in January and then in August, and attracted people from all countries. 

I had insisted on paying for my flight to Mumbai myself where the convention was held every time. But, she wouldn’t hear of it, saying that she was fulfilling her selfish pleasure of introducing someone to playing dead. She was the one to introduce me to it. So, for both these reasons, I consented to her paying.

Now, I walked down the hall of The Playing Dead Convention. A huge crystal chandelier hung in the center, sparkling like a deep white sun. Even though it was 11 AM, the interiors were lit up like it was night. No outside light touched any corner inside the building.

We crossed the center of the hall, went up a flight of stairs, and made a beeline for the third room on our left in the corridor. 

‘Does the entire convention take place in these…’ I counted the doors in the corridor ‘six rooms?’ I asked Sunaina.

She nodded. ‘It’s a convention about playing dead. We strip away all that is not essential, including sessions and talks.’

‘Impressive,’ I was still unaffected as we entered the room.

It was set up like a classroom. There were five rows of benches and tables, each ascending a step up and starting a couple of inches behind the entrance door. The front of the room had a podium for the speaker and a whiteboard behind him on the wall. I wondered if we’d be doing sketches of breathing movements for people playing dead. The thought amused me.

‘Here, Amoli,’ Sunaina said, already ascending to sit smack dab in the center of the third row. She had to be in the easiest line of sight, even in college. I followed her up the two steps and sat to the right of her. People quickly started filling up the rest of the seats in the room.

‘Do you know anyone here?’ I whispered to Sunaina.

‘Nope. They don’t ask our names here. You’re just issued a star like the one you received at the entrance. Its color and number denote your year at the convention. That’s all the identity you have here.’

‘So you don’t talk to others?’ I wondered how she’d sat in these rooms for six hours and lunched for one hour without talking to any person. 

‘When it’s normal to not talk, no one feels awkward. You aren’t supposed to make small talk or cozy up with anyone. So, no one does it and no one is awkward about it. You only talk to the organizers and staff. Even that is for formal stuff. No exchanging private details.’

‘What if there’s a serial killer here?’ 

Sunaina suppressed a smile. ‘You always were the one to imagine the worst-case scenario.’

‘It’s a valid question! How can you trust someone here?’

‘The people who approve your application take care of background checking. Nobody can just walk in.’ 

I looked around uncertainly as a man in an expensive-looking black suit began adjusting the podium to suit his 5’8” frame. 

‘Relax Amoli. Nothing’s going to happen except awesomeness. Get ready!’ She squeezed my arm, giving me a wide smile, and turned to look expectantly towards the front of the room. I resigned myself to whatever I had walked into. The man at the front switched on the mic at his lapel and began speaking.

‘Welcome Death Devotees,’ he beamed, ‘to the Playing Dead Convention. For the last nineteen years, we have been consciously practicing the art of playing dead. Not only has it brought peace to our lives but it has made us more appreciative of life, of the time that we are alive.’ I saw several heads nodding in the rows below us.

‘Most people reach where we have reached when they have a near-death experience or… they never reach here. Hence, they miss out on life. They keep on struggling, caught in the daily grind, not realizing that life could end any moment.’ He emerged from behind the podium and stepped forward, looking intently at all of us.

‘So let us begin!’ He raised his arms in passion and people burst out clapping like it was a cue. Some even stood. The rest of them followed suit and soon, the room was full of enthusiastic clapping. Sunaina’s face was shining with happiness as she stood up and clapped along. I mimicked her but with no vigor. 

‘Let’s go, come on!’ The expensive-suit-man walked towards the door, flung it open, and exited towards the right side of the corridor. People quickly got up and followed, almost jostling each other as they reached the door. I noted the crowd. It was a mixture of old women, old men, women my age but with Sunaina’s life, men my age with the expensive-suit-man’s clothes. I tried to find a kindred soul, someone who was as confused and wary of this as I was. But, there seemed to be none. Only complete strangers with fervor and ecstasy on their faces.

‘Let’s goooo, Amoli!’ Sunaina tugged my elbow. I hurried to follow her. Outside, the crowd was moving up the second flight of stairs. Sunaina gathered the hem of her saree so she could climb the stairs without tripping. 

‘Do you want me to hold your bag?’

‘No no, I’m fine. Just excited to go up,’ she grinned. It only added to my uneasiness.

When we emerged on the roof, a strong wind was blowing. The Mumbai sky had clouds that seemed without rain. Trees waved beside tall, concrete buildings which we could see abundantly on our left. On our right, the sky stretched to meet the sea at the horizon. 

‘How nice it would feel to be on the beach right now,’ I thought. 

‘Gather around people, gather around. We are finally beginning.’ A few people had followed our little party, carrying yoga mats of various colors. They began unrolling and arranging them around us.

The expensive-suit-man had us lie down, close our eyes, and feel our surroundings. After fifteen minutes of this, he instructed us to start holding our breaths for as long as possible. We were to begin small and then gradually increase the length. ‘I hope there are no asthmatic patients here.’ I thought. And then, I felt stupid for not even checking what protocols they followed for their attendees’ well being. I might as well have been blind and non-functional ever since Sunaina mentioned the convention.

Meanwhile, expensive-suit-man was talking. He spoke about how death was the great equalizer. How everyone would die and that meant everyone was created equal. No matter the income level, skin color, or reputation, they would all die. We would all die. ‘I before we,’ he emphasized. ‘We need to remember our mortality, our fragility before we contemplate another’s.’

He spoke of not worrying. Not worrying about money, about the injustices of the world, about our sadness, fights, and not getting the holiday. ‘Remember  Death in those moments. Remember how everything will vanish one day. Remember it’s not a big deal. And remember to keep holding that breath,’ he said the last sentence in a sing-song voice, sounding like an irritating algebra professor we had in college. I turned to Sunaina to have a giggle about it, but one of the mat-unrollers was standing right next to her and looked at me sternly. I quickly closed my eyes shut and took a deep breath that wouldn’t re-center me.

After that, I tuned out expensive-suit-man entirely. Instead, I focused on the strong wind blowing and tried to make out the scents in the air. Perfumes kept hitting me but they weren’t what I was looking for. So, I shifted to recalling every Mumbai scene I had seen in all the films I had watched. I wondered if we’d have time to see a bit of the city. Probably not. I’d have to come some other time when nothing like this convention was even remotely on my plate. Aksh and Tara would have so much fun. Maybe even Nikhil would feel enlivened- just like he did during our initial marriage years.

I estimated costs, planned how I could earn the money without taking another loan on top of already ongoing ones. If only there was one more pair of earning hands. Or one more job. Or just more time in the day… I felt I’d be able to get and give everything I’d ever wanted.

The voice of the expensive-suit-man shook my brain out of the daydreaming and planning. He was standing right next to my head and speaking about the power of holding our breaths to take us into nothingness where we would be without identity. Simply existing and being- just like another person would no matter our differences.

When the session was over, expensive-suit-man bid us goodbye, said he believed in the good we were doing, and reminded us to buy the tape recording of all that he had just said to aid our practice at home. The tape was available at the stalls that were now being set up in the hall.

‘Do you have a tape recorder?’ I asked Sunaina as we filed down the stairs for the next session.

She nodded. ‘I bought one from here.’

Hmm.

The other two sessions before lunch break got into the physical-emotional and business aspects of playing dead. They were held in the remaining two rooms on the left side of the corridor.

Playing dead was like entering a sacred cove, the teacher at the second session said. In contrast to the expensive-suit-man, this teacher wore nothing but a lungi and had a long red tilak on his forehead. He was bald except for a few strands of hair tied into a very thin ponytail, just like a pandit. It ought to be the last place where a man like him would be.

No-business-here-teacher recited verses from the Gita and assured us we were undertaking a very humanitarian duty. That we were students now, but one day, we, too, could teach this discipline that brought so much peace to life. He taught us some chants, some breathing patterns, all of which I would’ve found useful and pleasant on their own but didn’t because of the setting.

In the third session, we had an older, elegant woman with her white hair tied on the top of her head in an elaborate style. She wore a formal black dress that went to her knees and gave way to modestly-heightened stilettos. She was, by far, the most smartly dressed woman I had seen at the convention.

‘Settle down, people.’ She could’ve just as easily and brusquely said ‘children’. I couldn’t imagine her waxing poetic and spiritual about playing dead like the others.

‘Your teachers in the previous sessions outlined how to play dead as a hobby. For those still in doubt about its effectiveness,’ her eyes briefly passed over me, or did I imagine it? ‘Let me tell you- we do not do this for selfish, vain pleasures. We do this so that we might one day, if we choose, bring peace to others and serve our fellow humans.’ Sunaina leaned forward in her seat, intent and focused.

‘As you become more adept at playing dead in your free time, you can do it as a way to earn money, too.’ She looked around the room, gauging everyone’s reactions.

‘Countless crimes are committed in our country, in our world. Sometimes, the deceased is found, and sometimes… they are not.’ 

It was starting to dawn on me...

‘We help the world by helping the families of those who could not be found.’

But, how could this be?

‘We have contacts and the most suitable Death Devotee amongst you is called to play the real dead person.’

But... but how could this even be legal?

‘Not only do the families get the satisfaction of seeing their beloved one last time, but you, as a true Death Devotee, also come face-to-face with death and what it actually feels like.’

But how could that even be ethical?

‘You render a great service to someone. And you progress your personal practice and the meaning you feel in your life.’ She stood in the center of the room, looking at us as if she had just told us the cure to cancer. Or AIDS. Or the answers we ask God all our lives.

I waited. I waited for her to explain how the family would consent to not burning the body in the pyre when it was one of the most crucial traditions of our religion. I waited for her to maybe take it all back and instead say that death was not that light a matter to be turned into a business. 

Instead, she continued looking at us. 

I imagined- God forbid- my husband or my children dying. The thought alone choked me and threatened to make me cry. But then I imagined one of these Death Fkn Devotees pretending to be dead- playing dead- as I cried, wailed, and my heart broke into a million irreparable pieces. They would lay there accumulating more meaning in their lives than they should while I would be losing all reasons to live.

I closed my eyes and focused on calming down. 

‘I know you have lots of questions. I will address them in the Question Hour at 5 PM. But, I will tell you this: to become a professional Death Devotee from a hobbyist one, you have to take and pass an exam whose fees is 7,000/-. A liiiitle steep I know but we have to know that you are really committed to seeing it through. Syllabus includes everything that’s been taught at all the conventions ever. All the books, CDs, video files, lectures, meditations for them are available for purchase and study on our website. You can arrange private one-on-one sessions with the respective teachers, too, which will, again, cost an additional variable fee. So, be sure to check out the teacher products at the stalls during lunch.’

We proceeded down the main hall for lunch. There were stalls now for movies, books, food, vinyl albums, teacher products. My brain was fried but Sunaina was talking non-stop about how this was the profession for her, how she had never felt more ready for anything, and the incredible number of people she’d be helping. I only nodded or gave monosyllabic answers.

In the cafeteria, we sat at a table by the wall and ate slowly. A plan was formulating in my mind. Sunaina wanted to check out the stuff at the stalls. With only 15 minutes left for the next session, I window-shopped with her for a bit and then bolted towards the bathroom.

I emerged after 20 minutes to a silent hall. Doing my best to be invisible, I made my way across the hall towards the entrance door.

‘Are you leaving Mam?’ a guy from the teachers’ products table called out. I hoped there was no organizational staff or teacher who could thwart me.

‘Er, yes.’ I said, turning to him and quickly making up my story. ‘I got an important call from my husband. I have to step out to take it.’

He just looked at me, pamphlets in hand.

‘I’ll just go,’ I said, backing off towards the door.

I was pulling the handle on the door, about to start congratulating myself, when he called out again.

‘Since you’re leaving Mam, would you be interested in buying a monthly subscription to our exclusive invite-only app? We offer attractive discounts at stores so you can look your best as you play dead.’ 

I vanished out the door in the Mumbai humidity.