A Speech, a Slip, and a Cemetery Surprise

A Speech, a Slip, and a Cemetery Surprise

My dear friends,
Let me share with you a story from my younger days—
A story that still makes me smile and sigh at the same time.
A story full of tears, confusion, and a little comedy.
A story that taught me how easily words can go wrong.

Kurien Babu worked for many years in the Revenue Department at the Thrissur Collectorate.
He was known for his loud laugh, his terrible handwriting, and his hopeless promise:
“I will stop drinking from tomorrow”— a promise he broke every single evening.

He had two grown children living in Kochi—
a son studying engineering and a daughter doing B.Com.
Both used to come home only during Onam and Christmas.

He argued daily with his wife, but he also loved her deeply, in his own messy way.

Still, beneath all his faults, he had a soft heart— like a jackfruit: rough outside, sweet inside.

And when he finally passed away, people in the neighbourhood actually felt the silence.

On the morning of the funeral, my friend Josekutty grew nervous.

“Kurien was a senior man, a government servant for thirty years. Someone must speak at the grave,” he said.

So he rushed in an auto to the house of Thomas Varghese, the ward member of the Thrissur Corporation.

Everyone in Thrissur knew Thomas— he was a local politician, an orator, and a specialist in giving long speeches, even when no one asked for one.

And yes…
that morning, he had already taken “a few small pegs” “for confidence,” he said— but we all knew better.

When Josekutty reached, Thomas  was adjusting his shirt, his face already shining like polished brass.

“Thomas, come quickly! Kurien Babu’s funeral is about to start,” Josekutty shouted.

Thomas blinked slowly and said, “Kurien? The one who shouts at everyone?
Aiyyo, gone already?”

But when Josekutty mentioned there would be a lot of people, Thomas stood up at once.
It was election time. His enthusiasm returned faster than lightning.

The funeral procession moved from the house near East Fort towards the cemetery.

The parish priest and a few convent sisters were saying prayers, and women were wailing loudly. Children were running around freely, and a few neighbours looked tired as they accompanied Kurien on his final journey.

The coffin was carried by Kurien’s cousins, who were sweating more than crying.

The sun was hot, the road was crowded, and the procession stopped twice
so people could drink water— and so Thomas could “refresh himself” again.

At the cemetery, Kurien’s wife cried loudly, the mother-in-law tried to look sad, but kept giving directions to everyone, and the sister-in-law repeated,
“Aiyyo, ayyo… he was such a good man!” even though everyone knew she had fought with him last week over a borrowed pressure cooker.

When the coffin was lowered, Kurien’s wife cried again,
“Take me with him!”
but she carefully stayed outside the grave— pension thoughts again, I think.

Then, when silence finally settled,
Thomas stepped forward.

He wiped his eyes, lifted his face to the sky, and began his grand speech.

“Friends,” he said,
“we have lost a pure, honest soul…
a man who never took bribes…
a man who shared his salary with poor colleagues…
a man who lived alone like a bachelor saint!”

Kurien’s wife suddenly stopped crying.
Bachelor?
She looked around in shock.

People began whispering. Was Thomas talking about the wrong person?
Kurien was known for taking money even for giving an application form.

But Thomas continued, his voice growing more dramatic:

“He was soft, gentle, always smiling…
a man of peace!”

Everyone stared. Kurien had shouted in the office almost every day for twenty years.

But Thomas, in his excitement (and slight drunkenness), was unstoppable.

Suddenly, Thomas froze. His eyes widened.
He stared at a man standing at the side of the coffin, near the tombstone,near the priest.

He paused for a minute or two. Then he leaned towards Josekutty and whispered:

“Ayyo… look there. He is alive.”

“Who?” Josekutty asked.

“Kurien! Standing by the tombstone!”

Josekutty almost collapsed.

“That’s not Kurien! That is Ousephachan, our retired clerk!
Kurien is the one inside the coffin!”

Thomas wiped his eyes again, looked carefully, and realised his horrible mistake.

He had been praising the completely wrong man for the last ten minutes.

To make it worse, Ousephachan stepped forward angrily and said:

“Why are you talking about me?
You said I don’t take bribes?
Are you insulting me?
People will think I am dead!”

The crowd exploded into laughter, though it was not the right occasion to laugh.

Kurien’s family looked confused, angry, and embarrassed at the same time.

And Thomas,  the great councillor  of Thrissur, stood frozen like a wax statue.

My dear friends, that day I understood something very clearly.

A speech without truth is like payasam without sugar—
looks beautiful, but tastes empty.

Words are powerful, but careless words can create comedy, even in the middle of sadness.

I learned that people who speak too much sometimes forget to think.

And that morning, in the quiet cemetery of Thrissur,
the dead man did not complain…
but the living one surely did.