With the prevailing chaos on the political front and economic uncertainty in ‘Naya Pakistan’, one needed a break badly. Bunking work on a Friday, one managed to take some personal time. A rather overdue trip to graveyard was the main thing on the agenda. Going to the Model Town cemetery is always a sobering experience. Most of the trees there have now grown tall. The Kikar and Neem trees predominate and are punctuated and interceded by another thorny cousin, the bougainvillea. Apart from appearing aesthetically appealing to the living, perhaps they also provide shade for the departed souls.

The graveyard feels familiar: the advantage of having a communal graveyard. There are not only the graves of family but of neighbours and friends. There is no parking, like most places in Lahore and you have to park on the side of a busy street. At the gate there are the inevitable beggars stationed permanently. As you step in through the gates, in the corner sits the flower (roses) vendor. Earlier incense sticks also used to be available but are now out of fashion.

As you walk up the path you cross the shed of cemetery caretakers. In this case it is entirely a family affair. The traditional ritual used to be that upon recognising you they would take their broom and a pail of water and sweep and sprinkle water on the graves. You would naturally tip them for their services. They would also come around the house every month for a small stipend. Those were quieter times. After the grandfather and his son, the new generation no longer comes to the house. With the growth in population they no longer recognise each individual and have to be requested for their services.

The apathy naturally implies that the graves are no longer that well maintained. A new regime is in place. All new graves are to be entirely devoid of permanence. No marble or other building material can be used to mark the grave.

Moving further as you enter the still environment, laced with white marble, shimmering in the sun, or simple earthen mounds invoking the earth, you feel a sense of reverence. Voices become hushed; demeanours become courteous and more measured. Walking up the narrow path, each grave recognised sends you down memory lane. So many lives so many stories: each narrative brimming with all manner of characters; full of exciting and dull incidents; happy, sad and mundane moments; each unique to its protagonist and author. A very tentative existence as conveyed by Ghalib: Larazta hai mera dil, zahmat meher-e- darkhashan per/Mai ho vo qatr-e- shabnam, jo ho khaar-e- beyaban per or ‘on inconvenience of the bright sun the heart trembles /A dew drop on the tip of a thorn in wilderness.’

While this maybe a fact, is that all it is, as the Bard morbidly put it? “The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!/ Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player/That struts and frets his hour upon the stage/ And then is heard no more: it is a tale/Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury/ Signifying nothing.”

Methinks not! Each story has its own receptive audience, participants for whom the tale is the be all and end all. No one truly dies as long as others remain clinging to their memory. A tenacious link which if broken implies the true end. While we might be rather caught up in our affairs these days perhaps we need to take time out to remember those that have passed. That is not to say that this necessitates visiting the graveyard, since remembrance requires no actual physical presence or proximity to the deceased. Yet, connecting to and reaffirming where the next phase of the journey begins, might not be a bad start. Without meaning to be macabre this is where we will all end up. — AM Lahori (AmLahori@gmail.com)

Published in Dawn, October 16th, 2018