It is said that one should always have respect for the dead, when visiting the cemetery. I have no grudge against the dead, but the footsteps were a greater attraction than observing mounds of clay. I pretended that I was going to seek out distant relations. I didn't want to tell them about the footsteps, as they mightn't understand. "He is very childish at times," they might say. I didn't care what they said, it was the principle that I wanted to defend. Must all childish desires and actions be submitted before the metamorphosis to adulthood can take place? I knew that they had to be sacrificed, but I just wanted to keep one, if Nature would allow me.
The graveyard was deserted when we reached it and the noise of the gravel delighted me, as we walked up the avenue. The air was thick with the scent of flowers. I took off my coat, knowing that we would be spending some time there. Aunt Mary stopped and stared at the mass of tombstones, as if wondering which relation she should visit first. She didn't believe that the spirits could be jealous, but she didn't like to aggravate them. "I'll visit my closest relations first," she said, as if to satisfy the spirits themselves.
She led the way through the maze of paths that strangled the resting places of the dead. She stopped. I stared. Her eyes observed the neat inscription on the headstone. "Say a prayer for the dead," she said. I stared at the plot. I knew that I should have prayed, but the advertisement on the headstone seemed more conspicuous. The shop that made the headstone was on the main street. I thought it seemed ironic that the owner made a living out of the dead. I laughed.
Aunt Mary seemed as if she was praying. Yet I felt that she was retrospecting the deceased's life. Her faith convinced her that her friend could hear her secret lamentations. One feels a deep sense of mystery, standing in the centre of a graveyard. When I thought about the thousands of people who were buried there, I shuddered. Maybe there were some crying out for my prayer. I could not hear them. My aunt blessed herself and I copied her.
There was an old tomb in the graveyard that time had exposed to the visitors. Two skulls could clearly be seen. These people had been completely metamorphosed. I could never imagine myself sharing the same morphology. Yet I knew that my aunt prayed hard for their souls, knowing that she would be with them some day too. Our minds were afraid of the unknown. We could not visualise their souls, so that their mortal remains dominated our minds.
I had thought that the sound of footsteps was the only interesting feature of a graveyard. I was wrong. Here men and women had shed their mortal bodies. The snake sheds his skin and emerges with a youthful body. Maybe these people have youthful bodies too. I consoled myself that they had.
A deep silence enveloped the graveyard. Only the wind dared to shake the trees, which groaned to show their disapproval. My aunt shivered. She was always very superstitious, especially when she visited the graveyard. She blessed herself and whispered a "Hail Mary".
"Will you not say a prayer for the dead," she said. I stared. Her face displayed age and worry; beaten by time and uncertain of her destiny. "Do you not realise that it may be my tomb that you'll be standing over next?", she said, but I knew that it would do her no good.
"What prayer would you like me to say?", I asked with a grin. "Don't be so bloody cynical", she shouted. I was surprised to hear her using bad language, especially in a graveyard. She was afraid. I wondered if it was either the supernatural or her own soul that she feared? I stared at her. She blushed and pretended to read the headstone. She apologised and told me that I was never to show disrespect in a graveyard again. I didn't answer.
We had visited nearly all our relations' graves now. The graveyard was alive with history, accounting for the origin of our family. Both my aunt and myself are fascinated by our genealogy. The headstones were resistant to time, preserving the identities of the decomposed bodies. We were both very disturbed by the fate of our forefathers. "What would it be like when we would be lying under a headstone?", I wondered. I knew that my aunt was thinking the same thing. "Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease," passed through my mind. Its meaning was apparent now.
I wanted to say a prayer for those poor souls now, if only my prayer could make them happy and put them at peace. Their bones seemed to scream out for help. I asked God to let them rest in peace. "At least I have made somebody happy today", I thought.
My aunt held a rosary beads in her hand. She muttered the prayer in a sequence of sorrowful lamentations. "I hope you are answering the rosary and praying for the unfortunate dead," she said.
"I am not a pessimist, Auntie," I replied. Her face lit up with anger. I knew that her temper would burst forth.
"Stay away from Satan," she said bitterly.
"Prayer is the overspilling of words from your heart, Auntie," I said.
"Don't you dare tell me what prayer is. You are too young to understand," she replied.
"When I saw those bones, lying helplessly in the grave, my heart was filled with sorrow and pity. I prayed that God would reward them and my prayer comforted me. So don't say that I didn't pray for the dead," I said, in a fit of temper. She stared at me, surprised and confused. She didn't speak, but her eyes displayed her anger.
The sun had begun to set and its decaying light filled the sky with a magical brilliance of red. We both stared and were amazed at its beauty. All thoughts of anger were compressed. We were ashamed that we had a disagreement. I wanted to apologise to her, but my pride wouldn't let me.
"Its a beautiful night, isn't it?", she said. I nodded my head in confirmation.
As we passed her father's grave, I saw tears in her eyes. She knelt down and whispered a prayer. I watched. "Say a prayer for his soul," she said. I blessed myself and prayed. I was happy to please her and put her mind at rest.
As we walked down the avenue, the sound of our footsteps were in total unity. "It is childish," I thought. The wonderful sound of the footsteps, that I used to love to hear, no longer interested me. I stared at the graveyard for a moment. I had prayed for the dead and my mind had been metamorphosed.
| |
| |
| |