Death Be Not Proud II

She was standing by herself next to one of the graves. It was a cold November day in our part of Arkansas. The grass had already turned brown, rust colored leaves were blowing in the wind and there was chill in the air. Definitely not a day to be standing outside, particularly since iron gray clouds were drifting across the sky blocking out the warmth of the sun. Her car was parked nearby.

I was driving home along my usual route that took me past the cemetery with its neatly lined graves and headstones. Whenever I pass the cemetery, I can’t help but think of the ’qabristans’ we used to visit when we were young. At the time, it was just a tedious duty on Eid or a death anniversary, something that kept me away from reading a favorite book, or playing cricket or whatever.

My father would insist, though and I didn’t dare refuse. We would drive to the cemetery, park on the road outside, buy some flowers from the man sitting on his cart just outside the gate and walk in. Even in Lahore with its continuous cacophony of car horns, bells, whistles, people’s shouts and what not, the graveyard would be eerily quiet as if this was one abode even the noisy denizens of Lahore did not dare disturb.

We would wind our way across the graves, stepping over one here, skirting around one there until we reached the corner where my grandfather and later my grandmother were buried. I would follow along behind my father, looking around for anything interesting, spotting a headstone here that said ’so and so, died 1974’ another grave there that had collapsed inward and looked to be sinking further with each day. I would take care though not to step on one. Even though I was old enough to know that its inhabitant wouldn’t care, it felt wrong, as if it would disturb their slumber.

Finally we would reach my grandparents’ space. We would sprinkle flowers on the graves. My father would touch the foot of the grave with his hand and then place it on his heart and we would raise our hands to say a prayer. He would then sit beside the head of the grave for a few minutes and, more often than not, I would see a tear trickle out of his eyes. He was a vigorous man, larger than life, with a short fuse and we all grew up in terror of him. To see him crying, even for a moment, was confusing and painful. I would turn away and gaze out across the graveyard. After a moment, he would say, gruffly, "Chalain?", I would nod and we would make our way back. Along the way, he would give some money to the grave keeper and tell him ’Theek tarah say saaf karna,aur panee bhi daal dayna’.

I never understood why being there had that effect on him until a few years ago when I took my oldest son to my grandmother’s grave. This was my mother’s mother who had lived until I came to America unlike my father’s mother who died when I was still in school. She and I had had a bond, I was her oldest grandchild and we had stayed in touch till the end, even after I had left Lahore and came to America. She actually lived long enough for me to have a picture of my son, her first great grandchild, in her lap.

We drove to the cemetery, I led the way this time with my son in tow. At her grave, I touched her feet and then my heart. She had died just a few months before while I was in America. I had not been at her funeral. A few months before her death, I had met her in Lahore and she had said, as always, "Ali, I don’t think I’ll see you again". I had replied, as always "Of course you will". As I raised my hands and said a prayer for her soul, I was seized by an emotion so strong that the tears sprang unbidden to my eyes. I turned my face so my son wouldn’t see and tried to collect myself. After a moment, I said to him "Chalain?" and he nodded. We made our way back to the gate and drove home.

I understood then why my father had cried. I understood, too, why I couldn’t cry then and why I couldn’t stop myself now. We humans are strange creatures. We can see our kind massacred in the thousands on the news, or read about a war that killed millions, then go about our business as if nothing has happened. Its only when the Grim Reaper takes one of our own that we mourn. Perhaps it’s just as well. No one in the world would have enough tears for all those who die everyday, whether peacefully, like my grandmother or painfully, like countless millions in wars, famines or natural disasters.

As I watched the woman in the cemetery standing in contemplation over the final resting place of her loved one, I wondered who she was mourning: a parent, perhaps, or a grandparent, or God forbid, perhaps a child.

A fragment of a couplet I had read a long time ago came to mind:
“Maut ek zindagi kaa waqfaa hai
Yaani aagay chalain gay dum lay kar”

I drove on and soon she was lost from view.