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That Sunday morning, when the maid rang the bell for 10 minutes and no one answered, she got worried. The newspaper that was religiously picked up every day at 7:00 am, half an hour before the maid’s arrival, still lay there and so did the packet of milk. She called the neighbours and they collectively broke into the house to find Mr. Das lying on the floor, beside the dining table. His half-eaten food was still on the table. His hands were full of dried curry and his mouth open, like a spoken word stopped in between.

The ambulance was called, the neighbours gathered and the maid, probably shocked more than sad, shed a few tears. In this room, she was the one who had known him the longest and although she was not particularly fond of him, she did sympathise with the man on some of the days, especially today. He was always cranky and followed her around when she would sweep the house to make sure she covered every corner. To remember the days she took leave, he would write it down in a notebook to remind her later when she asked for another. She thought he was a little crazy but even the crazies get sympathy when they die - die alone, with no one’s name to call for.
The neighbours gathered. Not out of love. But out of moral obligation. Deep down some of them were disappointed at the Sunday getting wasted. Mr Das never mingled with anybody, never contributed to the building’s maintenance fund, and often scolded the children for running down the stairs. He had covered 40% of the terrace into a garden for his plants. When asked, he had put up a sturdy fight on how it is his right. Every morning, he would wake up at six and spend an hour with the plants, carefully trimming the drying ends, watering them and making holes in the soil with the stick.

A neighbourhood doctor was called. It was a clear case of a heart attack. Mr Das also had two birds. Perhaps it was to add some cacophony to the silence of his life. What would happen to them now?

One of the kids suggested they take them in but his mother snided him quickly. Others suggested the maid take them and she said she herself was scrambling for food and couldn’t afford the burden of more mouths to feed. A young man suggested they set the birds free. Only cruel people cage birds. Another kid in the building tried speaking up. These birds have always been bred indoors; would they be able to survive outside? But her voice got diffused over the heavy voice of the adults who agreed with the young man. But that, later.

Their immediate concern was to take Mr Das to the crematorium. So, some men from the building gathered, called for an ambulance, paid regulatory prayers to the soul of the dead, and took Mr Das away. Everybody else wondered how vague life was and got back to their respective homes.

And then, everybody started decoding the life of Mr Das.

He had been living in a rented apartment in the neighbourhood for the longest time, the maid, the gossiper of the neighbourhood, told every house she went to. That’s how she came to know him. He had changed ten maids before and the person who had recommended him to her had warned her about his nitpicking. But she needed the job and Mr Das too was extremely tired by now from changing maids so often. So, both of them came to a mutual agreement to tolerate each other and keep the professional relationship going. It had been twenty years since.

When he bought this new apartment, there was no one else at the housewarming prayer except the pandit, him and her. Then too she had felt bad for him. After the prayer, he told her to take most of the food that was offered to the Gods. He certainly hadn’t cooked for a couple of people only. Was he expecting others who did not show up?

The young man from the building said that every morning when he would go to the terrace to stretch, Mr Das would already be there. After watering his plants, he would stand by the edge of the terrace, looking at the road. It felt like he was waiting for someone.

The women while taking their children to school talked about the one woman who had come to his house several years ago. He had chided her and sent her away. Many people had seen a crying woman get into a car and ride off. Who was she? Was she his daughter? Or perhaps a younger love interest? Someone had heard from somewhere that his wife had left him years back. Their daughter too had chosen to go with her mother.

The neighbourhood poet wondered what Mr Das’s dreams were and if they were fulfilled. Had he ever been in love or had he spent most of his life with a broken heart that he could never recover from?

The men brought their children and wives gifts. They suddenly felt grateful for having a family. Otherwise, they too would be found one day on the ground with dried curry in their hands and an unfinished dinner. Optimists thought it was good and that’s how one should die. Without pain and suffering. Had he suffered, who would’ve looked after him?

The news travelled and being an old Bengali neighbourhood where everybody knew each other, they all introspected his death. Some people, having watched a lot of detective movies, wondered if his heart attack was a cover. Had he poisoned himself?

Overall, Mr Das was the topic of a lot of conversation after his death. Before his death, he was mostly an annoyance to people. Nobody gave him a thought otherwise. Even when he was extremely sick once and had admitted himself to the hospital, nobody had come. He had called for an ambulance that he always kept on speed dial. He had not called for anyone else’s help and nobody else had offered.

Eventually, the neighbours decided that the neighbourhood club would be rented on the 11th day of his death to pray for his soul as is the practice. The young man who had called him cruel a few days back was made in charge and everybody from the apartment would help in organising it. A small and humble meal would be arranged after that. But the 11th day was on a weekday. Surely people couldn’t take a day off for Mr Das. So, the date was pushed back and on the 15th day, the prayers were held. After the prayers, having felt good about themselves, they were about to head back home when one of the kids from the apartment wondered what happened to the birds.

The adults looked at each other. They had forgotten about the birds. Everybody started blaming each other. The older people started scolding the young man who they said had claimed the responsibility of setting them free. The young man revolted. Arguing, they headed back to the apartment and the president of the apartment who had the keys to Mr Das’s apartment, opened the door. And there the birds lay dead. Without food and water.

This is what happens when you cage birds, the young man remarked. And thus, they set out for another cremation. This time in a nearby garden. For them, deep down, it was yet another Sunday wasted.