Tags:
Journalism of Courage
Tuesday. 11 pm. I am outside Pune8217;s City Church Cemetery, peering through the mesh at the gravestones. What lies inside? Ghosts, spirits, fear? The darkness, speckled by glimmers of light, gives nothing away. This is a place of serenity, I have been told. Serenity is about as far from me as the good souls resting here are from their loved ones. Truth is I am scared. But since I had volunteered for the assignment8212;and very enthusiastically at that8212; I can8217;t wriggle out of it. Not now, with the photographer standing on one side and the undertaker on the other.
So I enter the forbidden expanse. The undertaker, Mario Fernandes, leads the way to the chapel at the centre of the cemetery. With amazement, I see the beauty around. So they were right. The tombstones radiate in the moonlight and the stone effigies along the path seem to beckon. I notice the names on the tombs. Joseph. Juliana. Peter. All seem ask me, 8220;Spending a night here, are you crazy?8221; We reach the chapel in what feels like a million years. Mario flips the light switch. A transient flicker, darkness again. He flips again, again8230;The darkness doesn8217;t give in. Another eight flicks and the chapel lights up. Inside, I see shadows all around.
Mario is chatty. 8220;Some graves are exhumed after three years and the remains kept in the niches or given to the deceased person8217;s relatives. This is done to accommodate another deceased member of the same family. The embalmed corpses remain intact even after five years. Sometimes the flesh clings to the skeleton though,8221; he tells us enthusiastically. Hand-me-down graves. This country sure has a space crunch, I mutter. 8220;Have you ever experienced any paranormal activity here?8221; I ask bravely. No, comes the decisive reply.
Encouraged, I venture out of the chapel and walk on to the passage amid the graves. A ghost is not the only thing you should be worrying about, I had been warned. Human beings, louts, and brutes also haunt cemeteries.
Suddenly, a bloodcurdling yell. I jump out of my skin. Behind me, Arul, our photographer, is chortling in glee. I glare back and head for the graves at the far end of the cemetery. After a few angry steps, I stop. Something holds me back. Clasping onto the vibhuti in my hand, I egg myself on. Between a couple of stunted trees, something brushes my face. Quelling the panic inside, I reason. Hair? Unlikely. A cobweb, my mind snaps back instantly. Enough is enough. I fly back to the chapel and its light. Loser, a small voice mocks me. I ignore it completely.
Next stop on the cemetery tour: the niches burrowed into the walls surrounding the cemetery where the mortal remains dug out of graves are kept. 8220;These are the bones of the dead8221;, says Mario as a skull stares back at me. The cold, cold tug of fear. I am retracing my steps back towards my refuge, the chapel. The breeze makes me break out in goose bumps. I turn around to face a white blur whoosh past the far end of the cemetery. My eyes flip, whiplash to the spot again and again. Nothing now, except the fungi-mottled walls.
Suddenly it8217;s raining and I fall into a melancholic silence. Two more hours go by. Arul, Mario and I make small talk.
Finally, the caress of dawn. It8217;s time to go, I tell myself. In the pale light, the cemetery is even more strikingly beautiful, almost, excuse the pun, haunting. As I cast a last look behind, there8217;s a sadness welling out of me I8217;ve not experienced before. For a few brief moments, in the terrain of the dead, had I crossed over to the other side?
