Graveyard

By Akash Sagar Chouhan

What made Tara gravitate towards the graveyard every night? 

It was a new moon December night, another ornate sky blushed like a newlywed bride. Stray dogs were restlessly barking and aimlessly whining. The gentle cold breeze caressed her face, although wrapped in a torn blanket. She was heading through the muddy lanes of Girblaung, a small village, briskly, as if she was going to meet someone with no looking back.

“Oh! These dark endless nights…” She murmured to herself. In her head she was reciting an old poem of hers that she wrote, probably on a foggy moonlit night.

Her uncle and the nearby localities wondered how she acquired this habit of walking to the Christian cemetery every other evening. The small village of Girbalung still meritoriously talked about exorcism, black magic, witches and all kinds of evil practices. Nonetheless, all these concerns mattered not a whit to a nineteen-year old girl.

​

Tara was always a beautiful girl, who had inherited features from her mom. She was fair, had a sharp nose, brave shoulders, bold neckline and a courageous tone. She believed in herself, as an independent free-will girl who was liberal in her thoughts. Yet she was unable to regain her equanimity after her Nani and mother’s demise. She had lost both of them, exactly within a year.

Now she visited the graveyard, idling away hours just sitting beside their graves. She would not even shed a tear. Only a black ink pen, her diary and the chambers app installed on her phone, were her companions. In dark and somber nights, under the flashlight of her cellphone, she used to overwrite and scribble in her diary. She would end up playing the flute sonorously, which resonated with the mellifluous cries of airy nights.

“Tara, are the rotis ready?” Her uncle politely asked, as he too nut-shelled into a broken heart.

The lid of casserole replied, “No uncle, I need to make four more.”

Tara was getting late for the graveyard.

​

It was already quarter to nine, she wrapped herself in a woolen shawl, quickly slid into a pair of sandals, stepped out of the gate and marched towards the meadows. The graveyard was on the other side of the paddy field. Obviously, there was no gate, but wild sycamores crept everywhere. She stumbled upon a tiny grave, which appeared like a freshly buried gift box. Helplessly, she stood beside that grave for a few minutes, rearranged her shawl and then moved on.

On reaching her daily console, she skulked onto the cemented space between their graves. She took out two incense sticks, lit them to confirm her presence, a strange ritual, a kind gesture, homage to all souls. She took out her flute, placed her diary and uncapped her pen to put foggy words to sleep on that cold night, like every other night.

The drift blows back
To such places of time and again
Blue tides of oceanic nights roar
Leave me unwashed yet drenched
In sweet remembrances about
A stolen piece of cake
A warm lullaby
Seamless love
Clandestine respite to solace.

Midnight assembles beside your grave
I talk to the zephyr
Whisper to immortal souls
All have a gala time
Silence is the theme of somnambulant parties
The imaginary tune from a distant flute
May be eternal, seems like bliss
Serenity is the incense
At places of tranquil
I cuddle and embrace the epitaphs
A tiny drop of tear preserves a smile for afterlife
Posthumous of night sky.