Mr Peacock flies solo

Roger Philip Peacock was burning with gusto when I arrived at St Inez crematorium.

There was nobody else. The two who had arrived before me, my hotelier friend Marius, and Darshan, a businessman turned somewhat-yogi from Nepal and one of Roger’s acquaintances, were the only two others mourners. They were leaving as I parked my car.

‘I’ll go and say hello to Roger,’ I told Marius.

‘Good idea,’ he agreed. Marius is a gentleman that way. He shows up for the funeral of his regulars. Roger was one.

I barely knew Roger. He was part of the global flotsam that swirls around in Goa, in some part makes Goa what it is. I would see him sometimes at the bar of Marius’ hotel, the Cavala, hanging around with some of his ageing Brit friends. He was the joker in the pack, dressing and behaving outrageously. He used to have a band of his own, I was told. He even knew Mick Jagger and Keith Richards of Rolling Stones. I could believe that: Mick and Keith have known a lot of people; besides, Roger looked as haggard.

Roger’s musical days, however, were over. He was harmless spectacle--mostly. If you hugged him, he would try to kiss you back. As that is not my kind of business, I shook his hand. Once. Maybe I bought him a beer—my memory is fuzzy on that episode. That’s it.

He died riding pillion on a motorcycle in mid-May, a “taxi” typical in Goa. The driver, called a “pilot”, died instantly. Roger died two days later. He was then put on ice at Goa Medical College. Nobody he knew, knew.

Marius found out when Roger’s bank called several days later; Marius had helped him open a bank account in Goa and was a guarantor. Mr Peacock had the equivalent of 300 pounds sterling in his account.

That’s all he had left in the world. Rock and roll.

Marius arranged for his cremation. He called me: would I show up? Sure, I said, nobody should travel alone if they can help it.

Roger was hauled out of the morgue on May 31, and taken by a mortician Marius had arranged to the crematorium. You know the rest.

So I stood there, watching Roger burn brightly along with bits of log and bamboo, his casket of tinder. There was a pyre two pyres to his left, burning lonely and low. I stood for a few minutes, so Roger wouldn’t feel alone. There was nobody else around except a knot of crematorium workers in a corner near the entrance. A quiet day.

I said a polite farewell and left after ten minutes or so. On my way out, I noticed a large pile of neatly stacked used tyres. An attendant came up to me, drawn by my curious voyeurism.

‘That man,’ I pointed at Roger. ‘All alone.’

‘All alone,’ he agreed, then smiled. ‘But you came, no? And two people before you. Many go alone.’

‘What are the tyres for?’ I asked. I had never noticed them before, here or at any other crematorium.

‘We place three or four at the bottom of each pyre,’ he explained. ‘Burns better.’

Nothing but the best for Mr Peacock.