LOOP - Life Goes On

It was a quiet evening at the wake. The air was thick with the scent of agarbattis, the occasional murmur of relatives consoling each other, and the rhythmic clinking of tea cups at the roadside stall just outside. A group of early mourners had already gathered, waiting for the body to arrive from the hospital.

At first, the conversation was appropriately somber.

"Such a tragedy," sighed Mr. Sharma, shaking his head. "Cardiac arrest. Just collapsed, they say."

"Yes, yes," added Mr. Gupta, adjusting his shawl. "These days, no one can trust their own heart. You never know when it will betray you."

The group nodded solemnly. A few minutes passed in reflective silence. Then, another group entered, reviving the original mourning session from scratch.

"So sudden, wasn't it?" remarked Mr. Joshi, as if the earlier group hadn’t already covered this.

"Yes, yes. Cardiac arrest," repeated Mr. Sharma, with the same measured grief, as if the news was just breaking.

The circle expanded, and the somber mood held steady. Until, of course, the inevitable distraction arrived.

"How long until the body gets here?" asked a restless bystander, breaking the ceremonial cadence of grief.

"It should have been here by now," muttered Mr. Gupta, glancing at his watch. "Traffic these days—worse than a Monday morning commute."

"You know," piped up a well-meaning but highly misplaced voice, "he had the same symptoms I sometimes feel—chest pain, a little breathlessness. Do you think I should get checked?"

The shift was immediate.

"Oh, absolutely!" said a man with far too much enthusiasm for a funeral. "I read somewhere that if you can’t climb two flights of stairs without panting, you should immediately see a cardiologist."

"Yes, yes," added Mr. Verma, who had no medical degree but plenty of unsolicited advice. "And warm water with turmeric in the morning—works wonders for the heart!"

Within minutes, the conversation had transitioned into a full-fledged health seminar. From turmeric to yoga to garlic-infused water, a collective remedy for all ailments was being formed, just in time for another arrival of fresh mourners.

"So sudden, wasn't it?"

And the loop restarted.

This time, however, it only took a few moments before a lighter note crept in.

"You know, the other day I read that politicians have a special VIP lane at hospitals. Maybe we should all just stand for elections. Then we'll get free check-ups!"

Chuckles rippled cautiously through the group. Someone threw in an anecdote about office politics, someone else a comment about inflation, and before they knew it, there was laughter. Not boisterous, but the controlled, guilty kind—accompanied by quick glances around to ensure the bereaved family wasn’t within earshot.

"Honestly, funerals are the best networking events," muttered someone. "Where else do you see your third cousins and that one uncle who owes you money?"

"True," smirked another. "You come for condolences and get all the gossip.”

Just as the conversation was in full swing, the body finally arrived. The shift was instant and rehearsed.

A heavy silence fell. Everyone took their positions, adjusted their expressions, and braced for the final round of mourning.

Tears were shed. Condolences were offered. Heads bowed in respect.

And then, as the rituals concluded and people trickled back to their cars, the cycle quietly resumed. A joke here, a lighter tone there. It was, after all, just how these things went.

The cycle continues. Always.

As they say, life goes on.