Alone we come, alone we leave

Shadows slithered under the setting sun as the wind whistled above them. He walked slowly towards his destination, boots making sharp sounds on the pavement with each step. It was strangely still. No ghostly whispers, no silent screams, no chilling thrills or chills up his spine. Still, calm. A mellow wind whistled. The stone pathway beneath him, the dust on each side, the muddy graves, some withering just like their inhabitants, others freshly dug up, and yet to wither. Stone headrests marking the names and the brief periods spent on this beautiful blue spinning ball by all concerned. Father’s names. And then maybe a line or two about them. Something poignant. Something beautiful. More often than not, tried too hard, and painfully obvious. He kept staring at the ones deeper out, of which there were plenty. He was trying to find the one that was his destination. He would recognize it, but it would take a while. He had not been here in months. He had never been here by himself. He had always planned on it, i’ll go every Sunday, but that had never materialized, very much like the feel of spirits he had expected from this place. Somehow he had made it here, and he wanted to keep coming back.

He found it, and he plotted the route to it, graves were overpopulating this place, there was no defined route, he had to make sure that he did not disturb the sanctity of the rest of those who lived here.

He wanted to keep coming back. He wanted to talk to the man who would not speak back. In life, his grandfather had been as sharp as the sharp end of a fine Japanese blade, and as witty as the funniest writers television could produce. Even till his last conscious breath, the man had been full of witticisms. Even if he could not talk back, maybe he would provide some sort of guidance. This was the man who had, after all, built not just one, not just two, but many national empires. If anyone could be called an industrialist, with all the weight and implications of the word, it was his grandfather. And yet, he was a humble man, who bought nothing but necessities, who did not splurge. Who always looked for a deal. Who lived far below his means, who cared for others, who lived by a set of principles even the Sufi mystics would be proud of. Who always put family first, even if some of them tried to take advantage of him.

He wanted to keep coming back. Alone. He did not want others to know that he visited. This was not for them, this was not for show, as was most else in this country. You had to put up an act, pretend to be what they wanted you to be. This was not that. He wanted to keep coming back. Alone. So that he did not have to recite their prayers, and pretend to be sombre. That distracted from actually feeling the loss of the man.