The visit to family graveyard was long due. Probably in a state of hesitancy and guilt gradually building over time. The revelation of new death of faces I’ve known since “yaad-dasth”.
Finally mustering enough courage I did managed to bring Shariq along. The Dr. Banerjee crossing with its huge traffic and narrower road, more bikes than “rickshaws”, vendors of fresh orange juice, chilled water, fruits, chaat, subzi, chappals. Very different from the quieter “HimmatGung” I knew. Taking the exit on left following the thin ally and another 50 meters on left stood the solid iron door, buried deep into history as if unable to bear the sight of more “jannat naseeb” souls. The door probably is one of few remaining remnants of the past generation, in slumber sleep. Looking at the peeling green color oil paint, I took the smaller gate at left and the touch of earth within delivering minor goose bump.
Ishaq the care taker welcomed me warmly with a hug, chastising the overdue visit. People visit the dead even less now days, the heartbeats have its own dilemmas. “The slogan of roti, kapra, makan have long instilled our psyche, leaving the dead alone to rest.
Observing the area with huge mausoleum of “Lal Mohammed Dada”, the visionary ancestor who bought the land almost a century back, probably with a thought that. A. Resting place of family members, B. A place for reflection for living only if few chose to come here and think of the inevitable death.
The land area is big, few thousand sq yards, with garden sprouting on either side of lanes, till the mausoleum. Various trees, many of which I couldn’t identify.
Passing the mausoleum and reaching the other side as if on transition lay a hive of grave, in lines. All related by blood, finally reached the gulmohar tree, which I’ve seen growing taller over years, there lies my father.
Shariq, Ishaq and his son followed me with lantern, as it was a new moon and minus the electricity among the sleeping.
Ishaq identified the new graves, Asif bhai,Maqsood abba, Daddy abba, badi amma, anwar chacha, shahida bhabi, till tears found the passage from eyes. It was both embarrassing and awkward for me to cry, as I kept telling myself that there is no need for emotions. Then the faces came to eyes, the happy memories of a child, kisses, acknowledgments, and I transformed into a boy I once was. A thinker and reflector. With lump on throat and heavy voice I asked my living companions to leave me alone to be with my own, not even the lantern, for the darkness of place didn’t instilled fear but a craving for peace “salam”. Asif bhai’s grave broke the thin line of courage with which I fought the tears. I do remember borrowing Asif bhai’s classic sports shoe as a 16 years old to hang out with friends as i couldn’t afford new ones then. There were 2 contenders for shoes then, me and shuja bhai, at times I would beat Shuja by being a better candidate at convincing Asif bhai.
Walking back to my fathers grave, reciting Fatiha for all resting. May Allah have mercy on their souls. At times I can’t help but visualize a grown up conversation with father. I missed him after earning the first salary, the trip overseas, discussing the collection of books and my very own observation on people and society at large, on human behavior and on man’s nature to divulge in worldly sins. Its hard to imagine if I would have made an impression. Long morning strolls maybe,with debate on editorial page. How I would have bought all the books he wanted to read and have watched over him aging gracefully. Luckily I have bhai who took over the family reigns early. But for arguments sake these thoughts do stimulate me.
It wasn’t dark anymore as I took the spiritual journey, the place was filled with souls, some known many unknown. But none stopped me and I spotted my own’s and conversed.
I emerged from darkness, as ever Ishaq invited us for tea. Tea, in grave yard, we call “Kala Danda”, amongst the dead.
Posted by saif 
