Blossom Burial

By Divya Bharti

Everyday is an opportunity to look for a different story set in time and carved on stone. The headstones near the coffins give a peek into the lives of everyone—cherished ones, strangers or an estranged friend. If nothing, one always knows the years they have spent laughing, crying or essentially existing. Compulsion to dig the unheard stories not only feeds my Taphophilia but also helps me understand the ultimate truth of life—Death.

My interest in cemetery wandering developed when I stayed with my Nana, at Kumarsain, a town in Shimla, as my parents never stayed put. I was bullied at school so at the age of ten, my parents sent me to stay with Nana who homeschooled me.

In due time he became my best friend and we spent almost every day together. His favorite pastime was to tell anecdotes of Manni—his wife. Nana denied that it was an arranged marriage; “I was always meant to love her and if fate wouldn’t have got us together, I would have”. We spent four long years together, until his frail health wore him down and he was mostly bed-ridden.

It was in the solitude of my own company, I discovered my distinct hobby. I used to visit across the town to look for untold stories to tell Nana. “You will find the best of the stories in the quiet. People don't give away their stories, the circumstance does” Nana said, caressing me as I was reluctant to step out.

I walked down the stream one evening, when I saw the rusted iron gate of ‘Silver lining Cemetery’. The place was contradictory at its best with tombstones covered in dried leaves under lush green trees. I took shelter under one of the trees when it started raining heavily. My knee hit the corner of a headstone, it read–Lt. Vikram Bhatt, 1950-1983. I ran to tell Nana about the long forgotten man, when Nana told me how the lieutenant's wife had died three years before him during childbirth.

That day onwards I became his little taphophile who would bring him the stories that lay six feet under. Days passed, Nana’s health worsened. It was the first week of March when I asked him after supper, “What was the most beautiful thing you gave Manni”? “A beautiful burial” He smiled softly.

Nana never saw the next sunrise. My parents flew down and he was buried under the cherry blossom in the backyard that was in full bloom. I went to his room for a final goodbye when I opened his photo-album kept in the drawer. I flipped through his wedding photos, my mother’s birth when I saw the photo of Cherry blossom from the backyard. Engraved on the tree was “Blossom Burial”.

By Divya Bharti