Death
I entered the family graveyard. The old graveyard has stood in the corner of the crowded old city for generations.
It isn’t a regular graveyard, for it houses the shrine of the family saint who is a 9th generation ancestor. Extended family members pray to him for favors and forgiveness.
The place is laid out like an old Goan house with an open quadrangle in the middle, which is the actual burial space, and a sitting area, lines the perimeter. The shrine of the Saint and a mosque stand on opposite sides. Of late, my richer cousins have invested a fair bit in renovation. They’ve added carpets and woodwork to the sitting areas, and new bathrooms near the entrance.
I paid my obeisance to the Saint and then stood silently facing the graveyard. I was visiting my hometown after many years.
These are the graves of my ancestors — my grandfather, my grandmother, my father, my aunts, uncles and even an older sister who died in infancy. They are all here — all those who shared my blood and genes.
My mother finds the graveyard a scary, spooky space. She never visits alone. Typically I don’t either.
But today, I stood there alone. I greeted each one of my ancestors, wondering if their spirit was hovering around, how their flesh must have mixed with the soil and if their skeletons were part of the plants that were blooming. I wondered whether there was a point at all in having marked graves. I was trying to fathom what it meant to have all my previous generations right there before me. One big family gathering!
And then I felt my own emotions — the anger, despair, joys, pleasures, grief, resentments … all pent up over the years, flooding out in that moment.
I called out to my ancestors by their names.
“Dear Ancestors. Thank you. I have worked hard. To pay off the inter-generational debt. To work through what you suffered from. I can feel your individual sufferings, your powerlessness. I hear it in my blood — in my angst, fears and anxieties. I have not run from any of them.
Dad, I broke out of the alcoholism that beat you down.
Grandpa, I do not need to control everyone around me.
Granny, I am an independent woman.
Aunty I do not accept abuse from any man.
Uncle, I can speak my mind. I do not have to keep quiet.
I continued crying as I felt the import of my words, the burden, and the relief of my struggles.
I sat there in the graveyard, allowing thoughts and visions to float.
Visuals, they came. I saw my grandmother’s father, looking handsome in his Western gear riding a beautiful horse across farms in the middle of Srinagar city. I saw my grandfather, the patriarch holding council meetings in his house. I saw my father walking for miles each day to reach his office. I was in their midst living their hopes and fears, catching the lights and shadows through their eyes. I saw their skeletons and trophies. I witnessed the calcified pain behind their smiles and achievements. I heard the echoes of their desperation in my blood … their own blood.
The love and the fears, both too great, made me feel hollow. I was lost within the cocoon of their simple, innocent, and faithful existence. I saw through the idiosyncratic suffering of the characters. I retained a tight grip on the present moment so as not to be swayed by the shadowy gusts of the past. For years, I had carried the weight of this ominous history of emotions.
As my tears dried up, I stood up and stretched out my arms and addressed the graves,
“I am doing our work. I stand here representing your great griefs and dreams. I need you to guide me in finding your empowerment. In the inheritance that you left me: your strength, resilience, compassion, and artistic and literary gifts. Thank you, my elders. Thank you.”
I walked out feeling content in my emptiness.
Death, what is it?
I hear my grandpa’s words in my tongue.
I feel my father’s art in my blood
I see my grandma’s kindness in my hands
I sense my friend’s spirit in my chest
I stretch out my hands in the air
And hear, see, feel, sense
All the joys and laments
Of all those before me and after me
Death, then, what is it?
