Melody

On the 28th of June 2010 I went to the Tibetan Institute of Performing Arts or TIPA. A group of students were performing in an orchaestra .
They sang in an alien tongue. I'll never know if it was a song of mirth or grief. All I know is that my foot started tapping in a mellow introspective muse. What did I hear in that alien song? I did not hear, I listened, I listened to voices that sang of home in an alien land in a tongue alien to me.
I tried to delve into the melody of the tune that was thrilling the grove. But all I perceived were voices trying to create melody in remembrance of a distant unknown land called home.
The melody and the muse reminded me of sixteen when i would write at the drop of a hat, at the twist and turn of every emotion; not worrying about the quality of words or "Power Fame Money". It would be wrong to conclude that what I have become is a depreciation. Its a practical measure for circumstances. But it would not be too bad to feel deeply once again for a few short whiles.
One day at an English Drama Club practice we had to go up on stage and cry. I said," Play,'Ami paarer ashay boisha achi'" and I will cry effortlessly." To listen to the music of my native land, my boatmen, reeks of home and how I'll never go back. I too have been compelled out of my land. Its not that I cannot go back to Calcutta but going back would spell the end for someone seeking development...a better living. In independent India we are the hapless people born in Bengal and living in exile. Its not that we detest going out of Bengal in search of betterment, we are Indians.
Its the fact that we do not have the option of going back if we want to that makes us homeless.

I guess I listened to the chord of homelessness in their tune.

Elegies and Sunshines

A kilometre away from Mcleodganj square is the anachronistic St.John's church in the wilderness. A cobbled stone path leads to a fire-bricked church that has silently weathered all storms since 1852. The church also has a graveyard adjacent to it. Shaded affectionately by yew and elm trees, officers of the Raj rest in peace here. You can't help but get philosophical in places of death. All the splendour and pride of life as the masters of India lies forgotten in the dust here. However, reading the epitaphs makes you forget about death. For a while you come face to face with the aroma and the heart-rending romance of colonial history.

"To the Memory of Emily Burnette, wife of Col.E.C. Burnette of the Royal artillery
Who departed this life at Dhurmsala on the 11th of June 1862."

"In the midst of life we are in death.
In loving memory of Thomas William Knowles who met his death at Dharmsala by an attack from a bear on the 25th of October 1883, aged 50"

Bears roamed free in Mcleodganj in 1883, eh? In a span of 21 years Dhurmsala turned Dharmsala as well, quite an improvement on the British guffaw I might say.

That day I read and documented 27 epitaphs out of which three broke my heart and made me sad. Its not that the others were reeking of delight, they were pretty sad too but this triplet just stands aside.



Unedited from my diary entry dated 10th of June 2010, for your consideration...
"
"Sacred to the memory of Lucy Holden,
The dearly loved child of Walter John and Lucy Lemarchand
died 22nd August 1873, aged 11 months and 20 days"

"In memory of Ethel Emily
The dearly loved child of Walter John and Lucy Lemarchand
died 10th June 1881 aged 6 months"

I had never seen graves that small. They actually made coffins that tiny?
What did you do Walter John and Lucy Lemarchand after losing two daughters in their infancy? I shudder to imagine the loss. Today Walter John and Lucy Lemarchand are dust in the wind, their grandchildren if any may not even know of their dead ancestors and heart rending two foot graves in Dhurmsala that turned Dharmsala.

"Thy will be done

Sacred in the memory of Capt. Charles Mercer 1st Goorkha (LI)
Died May 22nd 1897, Aged 37
Erected by his brother officers in affectionate remembrance of an old and valued friend and comrade"

The loneliness of this grave is unmistakable. It does not read son, husband or father. It bears the shadow of a fairly young captain who died alone in a land not his own. The small note by his brother officers speaks a lot about his affable nature and camaraderie. May be that's the best tribute one can think of-to be remembered by your fellows and strangers whom you have left a mark on.
But the loneliness of the grave is just unadulterated loneliness, isn't it?

"In Memory of Elizabeth Edith, youngest daughter of Capt.G.A. Wilson 81st Reg,
Died 28th Aug 1877, Aged 21
Our Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord."

How did you die 21 Edith? Were you pretty? Did you have a lot of hopes and dreams? Did you dream of walking down the aisle of this church that now rests you in peace? Did anyone ever visit you after the Raj? Did anyone like me ever read your epitaph to spare silent thought?