“Good morning, Sir!”

Her voice was oozing energy and enthusiasm much like that of a child heading to her favorite swing. To me it wasn’t anything more than the harsh sound of reality waking me up from the glory of illusions.

“Yes, good morning, Mrs. Gomez”

She could sense the indifference in my tone and disappeared within no time.

Mrs. Gomez has been the caretaker of this house even before I moved in about a year back. She tells me stories about the lovely family with two kids that lived here before me, subtly suggesting how there used to be so much life and activity all around the house. I understand the underlying message but never bother. I have always been a loner by choice and stupid stories from a forty-year-old lady, who happens to be divorced herself, is not going to change my mind.

I glanced at the wall clock. There was an hour to go before I started my daily grind. Now that the cleaning operation was in full swing, there was no way that I could think of an extended nap, so I decided to make myself some tea.

My balcony has a nice view of Community Park with flourishing fauna that makes it a perfect setting for sipping my favorite lemon tea. Today, however, it was different. As I leaned over the railing, I took a quick glance across the road. I noticed that the front of the corner house was getting covered with a white tent. My heart sank.

For us North Indians, a white tent can symbolize two things – a prayer session in the house or a mourning message to the world around. Just like any other human mind, mine considered the negative first. The house belongs to Mr. Singh who lives with his wife and three daughters. God, let it not be what I fear!

My prayer was cut short by the sight of an ambulance parked near the front gate. The worst had happened. It was not a question of ‘what’ anymore; now, the question was ‘who’. Even the thought of speculating ‘who it rather be’ was inhuman. I shut my mind and stood there to watch.

As expected, cars, bikes, scooters, and pedestrians began to turn the peaceful morning into a tragedy ground. The cold silence was punctuated by heart piercing burst of loud cries. Everyone had a stoned look. And everyone was wearing white.

I saw Mrs. Gomez. She was a total contrast of her signature chirpy self. As I could imagine she went into her small house on the other end of the road and emerged dressed in white.

It was a tense scene, to say the least, but I couldn’t help notice the underlying stupidity. I tried to imagine the scenario from a third person perspective. You get a call that one of your close relatives has passed away. You are shattered. All you want to do is go and be with his family at the earliest. But then you wait, go back to your room, and search for white clothes, put them on, and then leave. Absolutely senseless! Yet true!

This is what happens. This is what has been happening for years and years. And this is what was happening in front of my eyes. Our forefathers taught us that white is the color of purity and peace so wearing white is like praying for peace of the departed soul. I understand and respect the feelings, but isn’t their expression more important than showcasing them through clothes? If you wear black to a sacred occasion it’s deemed bad. Why? Grooms wear black in Catholic marriages! It’s nothing but superstitions that have grown into blind faiths.

I am not a philosopher or a revolutionary. I am an engineer. I live by making logic out of things and this practice did not make any sense to me. These ‘whites’ are not the only blindfolds we wear, there is superstition in everything we do – from a ‘God bless you’ when somebody sneezes to the involuntary ‘touch wood’ we matter to ward off ill-chance.

However, what makes this particular white blindfold the most difficult to see past is the sensitivity of the situation where challenging anything is like challenging the word of God. This thought might have crossed a million minds before mine but they too would have …

“Sir” … Mrs. Gomez woke me up for the second time in the day.

I gathered myself and asked the question that I didn’t want answered, “Who?”

“Mr. Singh. In a car accident last night.”

“Dear Lord!”

“Sir, you are getting late. Should I make your breakfast?”

“No, Mrs. Gomez, I don’t feel like eating.”

“Ok. Then I’ll iron your shirt for office.”

“Sure.”

“Which one Sir?”

“The white one.”