Sent off in style

At Mum’s place this morning, it was as if nothing had changed.

Her mother died early last week, and she has spent most of her days since organising her funeral at a temple in Onnut.

I visited the temple on Saturday, and again yesterday for the cremation.

Today, however, life in the slum is back to normal.

I found a collection of cheap sandals and flip flops outside her open door.

Inside, Mum, clad in black in honour of her deceased mother, was gambling with a group of her of slum friends.

What’s new?

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Saturday

At the temple, the family hired sala (which translates as 'pavilion', but really is like a function room).

Ball's grandmother lay in a coffin in the main room, a large open space decorated with flowers, joss sticks, and other paraphernalia of the dead. Attached to that room (which is also where the monks gather to chant every evening) is a kitchen, where most of the activity takes place.

Mum and her relatives prepared food for guests, and of course for the monks, who like to be fed after they have done their chanting.

Ball's grandmother had 12 children, 10 of whom are still living; Mum is the youngest.

I met a couple of her elder sisters, nieces and nephews. Plenty of children were there, playing and running about.

The service was in Onnut, one of the oldest and decrepit parts of Bangkok. I had visited the temple previously, almost two years before, to farewell a farang colleague from work.

Alcohol is not allowed on the temple grounds, but we weren’t having any of that. Ball and I went on half a dozen beer runs, with me perched on the back of his motorbike, to a shop nearby where the owner wraps each bottle in newspaper so we can smuggle the booze back into the temple without anyone taking offence.

Mum's relatives don't have much money...they didn't contribute much to the beer, but instead left me to buy most of it.

The service lasted for seven days. Relatives can turn up every day and get a free feed if they want.

After evening prayers, Ball’s two brothers entered the monkhood temporarily in honour of their grandmother.

They nipped down the side of the sala, took off their tops and had their heads shaven.

A few children joined them and the group spent the night at the temple.

Mum's daughter, partner and their toddler son spent the night at a relative’s place; Mum and the other toddler came home with us.

Sunday

I went back again for the cremation. I wasn't intending to go, but Ball and his mother's friends persuaded me to join them at the last minute.

Mum left for the temple early in the morning, to put on breakfast for the monks. She left Ball at home alone, though I joined him there, along with a few residents of the slum who wanted to attend the cremation.

It was not as welcoming as the day before...relatives had prepared no food, and as soon as the body was cremated, everyone took off.

Our group turned up late, about an hour before the cremation.

Ball's sister, who spent the night at a relative’s place nearby, gave him stick for his late arrival.

‘You are carrying on more like a guest than a relative,’ she sniffed.

Ball stayed back in the morning to await the return of his girlfriend Jay, who failed to come home the night before; she finally turned up about midday.

As we waited, three or four of Mum's friends turned up at Ball's place, intending to join us for the journey to the temple, which is about an hour away.

At one point, however, we were uncertain how we would get there. The person who had offered to take us in his pick-up had turned off his phone, and we couldn’t reach him.

Ball took the clever step of talking to the head of the community centre which oversees life in the slum, just a few doors down from where he lives.

The woman there put out a message on the slum PA inviting anyone who wanted to go to the cremation service to come forward.

The slum community owns a truck, which residents pay for and help maintain.

It arranged a trip out there for residents who wanted to farewell's Mum's mother.

Through the centre, residents also contribute to a fund to help defray funeral expenses when one of their number dies.

Mum was able to draw down some money from that fund to help her defray the impressive costs of the week-long service.

She had also filled the petrol tank of the community vehicle for anyone who wanted to join the cremation, though she had done nothing about alerting residents, who learned about the cremation only by word of mouth.

I was proud of Ball for arranging that truck.

He did not know the woman at the community centre, but summoned up the courage to talk to her nonetheless.

Half a dozen residents took the journey there in the truck, which would not have happened at all were it not for Ball's initiative.

We did not go in that vehicle, but went in a pick-up truck belonging to a fishmonger who lives nearby.

At the temple, we mounted the pavilion where the casket was about to make its entry into the funeral pyre. Mourners dropped paper flowers on the coffin ahead of its journey through the pyre.

I stood next to Toob, one of Ball's uncles on his father's side.

He asked me to stand to one side of the coffin.

‘We want to show the deceased’s spirit that the body is about to leave this world. Otherwise, he might be trapped forever,’ he said.

Moments later, we gathered on the rear side of the pyre, to watch the casket burn. We waited for signs of the smoke to emerge from the chimney atop the pyre.

‘There it is...it’s risen!’ said Mum, whose eyes were red. She looked tired and worn, after days of organising the funeral.

She and I walked alone back to the sala to farewell family members. I rubbed her shoulder to give her comfort, one of the first times I have touched Ball's mother, who does not give or receive affection easily.

On our way back, we stopped at a relative's home in a slum-like setting for a few beers.

During a break, I escorted Mum to a place down a darkened alleyway to another home about 100m away, where we reunited with other members of the family who had joined us at the service.

Mum and other women at the gathering pulled out large bundles of money, which they intended to pay the monks for the hire of the temple. On one day alone, Mum spent B10,000 in funeral-related expenses. The cost of the oil for the funeral pyre alone was B2000.

That business finished, we returned briefly to the post-cremation gathering nearby.

Here, I watched Ball as he talked earnestly to two uncles on his father's side about his father, who died three years ago.

Ball wants to know what makes himself tick, as we all do at his age. He knows he is closer to his father’s side of the family, so tends to gravitate towards them on family gatherings.

I tell him the spirit of his father is above him, watching.

His uncles, thoughtful types clad in black, talked to him patiently. One gave him a hug before he left.

Ball was close to his grandmother, though I seldom saw them talk, still less exchange affection.

His granny was polite and friendly, though could be a fierce disciplinarian with her young nephews and nieces.

She now joins the spirits gathered above him.