Katyayini had been summoned an hour ago to the room of M. Jogi to record her last words. The nurses suspected the woman would die any minute and it was a tradition to call a Keeper of Last Words. Their job was to faithfully recreate what was spoken by a person on their death bed. It was believed that those words could give a glimpse into the future of the collective.
The nurses did not know this but Katyayini had learned during her training as a Keeper that it was a myth about the last words reflecting the future. A myth that had been perpetuated by the order. In truth, the words were more indicative of where the person was in their journey and provided some comfort to the family when they were ready to hear them.
Katyayini was an orphan, a state necessary for being a part of the order. When you didn’t have anyone, only then could you belong to everyone. And as a Keeper, you had to ensure the person died with dignity and in someone’s loving presence.
She had been four when she had lost her parents to old age, her father slipping away in his sleep and her mother dying one night while making chapatis for the two of them. Since both the deaths had been sudden, she hadn’t had a chance to call on a Keeper. She often wondered what her parents would have revealed had their words been recorded.
The thought took root and once she had turned fifteen, she left the community that had sheltered and raised her to seek a Keeper she could apprentice with. Though revered as a profession, people were also wary of Keepers, afraid that seeing one or being one would hasten death’s arrival. The Keepers, thus, were happy to welcome Katyayini. She was among the few who had walked in of their free will.
Usually, the orphans were forced to take refuge with the order since volunteers were few and far between. Many ran away searching for greener pastures and many took up other posts – of cooking or cleaning – anything that would keep them away from witnessing death. A handful answered the call.
You see, a Keeper needed one attitude above all else: a selflessness that couldn’t be taught. A Keeper was, after all, for the other. They were present for someone’s most vulnerable moment and they provided a guiding light to the family. You couldn’t be a Keeper if you didn’t inherently love life and all of life’s creatures.
So started Katyayini’s training and three years later, she started accompanying Keeper Waris on his rounds. She learned from him how to take notes, how to file them in their system so they could be tracked, and everything that the post required them to do, as soon as a summons came.
Their archive of last words was deeply sought after and people paid a small fortune to read through the words and derive their own meaning from them. It was one way for the Keepers to pay salaries. Another was a portion of the city tax that was allotted for them. Katyayini lived well and worked hard.
She was seated near M. Jogi for an hour before the death rattles began. Katyayini had been trained to sense them. It started as a change in the breathing followed by a sudden lucidity where the words were uttered.
She kept away her pen and paper and took M. Jogi’s hand. This was something she had learned from Keeper Tumba. She had told Katyayini that a simple touch like this could ease much of the dying person’s pain and fear.
“I am Keeper Katyayini, life be to you.”
M. Jogi smiled. Though they were wary, almost everyone knew how the ritual of the Keepers went.
“I am content,” she rasped, looking deep into Katyayini’s eyes like she needed the Keeper to capture the emotion as well as the words. “I am old. I lived for me and I die with no regrets.”
Katyayini smiled back. She waited for a moment to see if the older woman would add something. When she closed her eyes, Katyayini bent forward and kissed her forehead. Then she whispered in her ear, “Be at peace M. Jogi for your time here comes to an end. You were loved. You are love. A new adventure awaits as you transition from this realm to the other. Blessings be to you.”
Once the prayer ended, Katyayini shifted back in her seat and waited until M. Jogi had stopped breathing. She then picked up her pen and paper and started writing.
For Letter K, written as part of #BlogchatterA2Z
tales of Suchita 
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