“It’s a Graveyard; Where I write”.

    And it was a moonless December night; but the firmament was shining and blushing bright, with a sky full of glittering and twinkling stars. Stray Dogs were barking and restlessly roaming around like orphans, just like the way I used to. And constantly, the gentle blow of cold breeze was mildly slapping my face as I, wrapped myself in a woollen blanket.I was steadily advancing my speeding steps down through the muddy lanes of my verdant-land, in my small village/home town. I did not even care to look back, as if it would divert my concentration from reaching my destination in time.

    “Oh…! Those dark endless nights…” She whispered to herself, as she stumbled across an old write up of hers, which she wrote back then sitting near her Mom’s and Grandma’s grave.
    Now, after 13 long years, I wonder how it became a daily midnight routine/habit for me to walk and sit at the old Christian graveyard near my home town, Kamakshya in Assam. No doubt, my hometown is renowned for spirits, witches, black magic and as well as a good and strong faith in Tantra (Techniques to an art of making love), but any ways all these concerns hardly mattered to me as a brave and young teenage girl of 19.


    13 years ago:


    Tara was a beautiful girl with features identical to her mom, she was fair with sharp features and was brave, independent and was a bold and courageous girl of 19, back then. She strongly believed in following her free will and liberal thoughts.Tara was unable to accept the bitter fact of her Granny’s and mom’s demise. Her mother passed away a year after after the old lady of the house passed away. Apparently, she made it a deliberate daily habit to visit the town’s graveyard and would spent hour sitting beside her Mom’s and Granny’s grave. Her lamenting days were over by now and she wouldn’t shed a tear now.She would rather bring her pocket diary, a black pen and her cellphone. She would use the flash-light of her cellphone to write poems in minimal light. At Times, she would also resonantly play the sonorous blows from her flute, which she played beautifully on the hollow bamboo blowing instrument. No doubt, Tara was a liberated artistic soul although she was born and raised in a small town. Maybe her nature was because of the perennial liberated teaching and thoughts followed by Tara’s late Mom. Obviously, it had to pass to the daughter one day or the other and it did.

    ‘Tara, you done with making my chapathis..?’ Tara’s maternal uncle commanded and asked the 19 year old girl.

    Tara replied softly, ‘No Uncle, I am still not done, I need to make 4 more’.

    Tara was in a hurry to get over and done with those Chapathis, in order to serve it to her Uncle for dinner as soon as possible, so that she could get some free time for her daily routine visit to the graveyard.

    It was 8:45 PM , she wrapped herself with her Mom’s woollen shawl and wore her sandals and stepped out of the gate towards the meadows far across which was the Graveyards. She entered the main gate, which was dwelling a wild sycamore from everywhere. Then suddenly that night, she stumbled across a small and tiny grave, which looked like a small rectangular gift box buried. It was a small baby’s grave, she stood by that grave for odd 4-5 minutes and started to imagine, how difficult it must be for a family, especially for a Mom to get departed after losing her little one.

    She moved forward till she reached her daily console and sat down on the cemented porch made between her Mom’s and Granny’s grave. She unzipped her small pouch and took out 2 incense sticks out of it and lighted them to spread a fragrance into the atmosphere, as her tiny effervescent gesture out of gratitude towards her Mom and Granny. Then, she took out her flute and kept it aside on the porch, she also took out her diary and the black pen to jot down her tangential thoughts, like every night. She was not at all scared of the dark night with clouded mist, the distantly barking dogs and their treble-some howls and of course not at all of the dead people sleeping in their coffins. She picked the flute in her hand and raised the flute for the tip of the acoustic instrument to touch her lips and she started to play ‘Knocking on heaven’s door’, which was the favourite song of her Mom. After tirelessly blowing the flute, Tara felt like jotting down her overflowing feelings and emotions. She took out the diary out of her pouch and her black pen along with it, and started to write down a poem which Tara would read for us after 13 long years:


    “It’s a Graveyard; Where I write”.

    The changed wind of today blows,
    And drifts me to this place again and again;
    A new tide in the ocean roars,
    Leaving me washed and drenched in sweet remembrances,
    To creep for a Mother’s warm lullaby;
    To crawl for a Granny’s undivided stolen piece of cake;
    As a token of her endless love,
    And in quest of a solace to my soul.

    Sitting beside your grave,
    Like any midnight melancholic picnic of mine;
    I sit in the graveyards to write.
    Eccentrically, talking in Ether,
    Sometimes, whispering esoterically to two mortal bodies;
    And very often, chatting with two immortal Souls.
    I am here to have a gala time,
    Ooh..!!! My Momma’, Granny and I…!!!
    We so silently, timelessly party for all night;
    And I somehow manage to sleep in your arms,
    Under an everlasting, eternal bliss;
    As my heart is in love with this place,
    So serene and peacefully quiet.
    And my abstract mind,
    Chooses this immortal land to scribble and write;
    Amid all mortal corpses,
    Expressing all my latent flights.
    So, I go to the graveyard every night,
    Sitting in a graveyard; to write.

    This place is like a synagogue for me,
    And your grave is the holy idol
    Standing; like a divine tombstone.
    I sleep and pass out under your grace,
    With my head laid down with respect and regrets;
    In pain and reverence,
    With tears and smiling perseverance;
    Out of sheer love and gratitude.
    So, I go to the graveyard every night in utmost grace,
    Sitting in a graveyard; to write.

    This graveyard has been like my room,
    A place for me to hangout;
    My ear sips leisure from misty smokes here,
    To compose an endless harmony,
    Strumming a goodnight rhyme;
    Sometime… Absolutely any time.

    And times, even in late midnight hours;
    I stroll down the dark alley,
    Roll across the lonesome valley;
    To browse my personal solitude.
    And my heart crack opens with,
    The first ray of morning light;
    As my blessings in the graveyard, where I write,
    So, I go to the graveyard every night,
    Sitting in a graveyard; to write.

    A(a)kash has been a part of few anthologies and Poetry Festivals namely Efflorescence by Chennai Poetry Circle, Glomag by Glory Sasikala, The Virtual Reality (Sparrow Publishers), Guntur Int Poetry Fest and many more. He is also a proud member of Soul Scriber’s Society, Salem that curates Yercaud Poetry Festival every year.

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    1. Once again fabulous job Akash!!!But I’m confused was she really from this earth???And are you sure she was never been gang raped by those stray dogs??Just a thought as she was from this land and used to walk to the graveyard every night alone..Rest is finely articulated 🙂 Very much in love with your articles..

    2. This is a wonderful story and a wonderful poem… Are you published ?? Brooke Dylan told me to read you… and I love it.. Look me up on Facebook.. Deborah Brooks Langford … I am a author and an advertising agent .. I help people get published…

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