An Unusual Visit to a Cemetery

The last time I walked around without a mask was in March 2020 back in Pondicherry, the French capital of India. Every year Pondicherry attracts numerous tourists worldwide. Auroville in Pondicherry is one of the most famous tourist destinations in India. But of all the places I had seen in Pondicherry the most memorable one was to a cemetery.

My father and I hired a rickshaw to wander around the city. The rickshaw driver said there was an old French cemetery on the way and my father shrugged at the idea of seeing it. But something stirred inside me and I persisted on going there.

There’s nothing unusual about a cemetery. But I believe a cemetery is a place where each grave has a story-a story buried alive before it was told. The rickshaw ride was not smooth. Though we travelled on a smooth road the intermittent application of brakes by the driver made us jerk forward to the front seat. We felt like we were on a horse, not a horse which gallops but one which struts.

Upon reaching the destination the rickshaw came to a sudden halt and we jerked forward one more time. The road overlooking the cemetery was busy and noisy with the honking of vehicles that moved up and down. Getting down from the rickshaw, I walked towards the gate of the cemetery.

It was old, rusty and let out a creak as I gently opened it. The arch shaped entry forayed into the main entrance. As I entered, a figure jumped in front of me and before I could make sense of it, I shrieked and moved back. It was a poor man with a shawl covering his shoulders who was sitting huddled against the wall. He didn’t look at me. He just grabbed the shawl and put it around his neck and walked away. After regaining my composure, I walked inside and an eerie silence enveloped the whole place.

The entire area looked haunted and reeked of some kind of paranormal activity. The cemetery extended to the far back. Inter-lock bricks paved the path in between the graves. While my father who seemed rather uninterested looked at the graves in the front, I was determined to see the far end. With a mindset of an explorer who had set out on a ground-breaking expedition I walked along the path. I looked at the headstones of each grave that lay parallel on each side. I was particularly interested in the year of death marked on it.

Just when I was about to walk back, a lady with a cloth covering her head and a grass reaper in her hands appeared out of nowhere. She looked at me as if she sensed what was going through my mind and pointed to the far end of the cemetery. I thanked her and I stooped down to adjust my shoes and when I got back up the lady vanished. I saw no sight of her and even looked behind a few graves but didn’t spot her anywhere. ’That was creepy!”, I said in my mind.

Following her direction, I walked to the very end. The graves were old and in a dilapidated condition. Both the paint and the writings had fainted. The names on it were French and it was a tad bit difficult for me to pronounce. I moved on and saw a line of family graves. I made a mental calculation of the age at which they died and a pang of sorrow passed over me when I realised one of them had died at the age was 17.

I read the name again and realised it was the grave of a seventeen-year-old boy. I wondered all the possible reasons that could have led to his death. The year also revealed that this boy had died before his family members which meant they were alive and must have been there to bury him. A flower that withered right before it had blossomed. I let out a heavy sigh and stared a bit longer at it.

My fixed stance was interrupted by my father who called out my name and signalled me to come back. I turned around and started to walk. I decided to record what I had seen so I took out my phone from my pocket and switched it to video mode.

As I was filming, I suddenly lost my balance and fell down. My leg was trapped in a hole covered with a pile of grass and I struggled to let myself out of it. I realised since I was at the very back of the cemetery my father wouldn’t hear me even if I called out for help. After a few minutes of struggle, I pulled my leg out of it hastily and got back on my feet. I stretched my leg and did a few air-kicks to get rid of any knots. I looked at the graves and then walked back. I put my phone back in my pocket shutting down the urge to film more.

I walked quickly until I saw my father from afar and my pace slowed. I reached the front part of the cemetery and stopped to take one last glance. I was close to the arch shaped entrance and before making the exit I lost my footing and tumbled to the ground. I had fallen down once again.

I couldn’t believe it. This time my leg had swooped down between two well-laid bricks. Turns out one of the bricks was not strong enough and it gave away as I stepped on it. But unlike my first minor accident I extracted my leg easily this time from the hole. Though my shoe protected my leg from minor bruises my ankle was twisted.

My father spotted me falling and rushed to my help immediately. He asked if I was okay. I limped for a while. But after doing a few stretches I was alright. I took one last glance at the cemetery and letting out a sigh I walked outside.

When I narrated this incident to my mother, she joked that it would be a sign that one of the souls from outer world was trying to communicate with me. My mind thrived on that idea for a moment before we moved on to the next topic.

My mother could be right. It could be a soul trying to interact with me but I didn’t want to entertain that idea. When there was not enough time to communicate with the living, I didn’t want to brood on the idea of interacting with the dead no matter how interesting it might be.