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Musings

Thoughts of the grave

Tuup Chowdhury
I may not be entitled to wish for a certain place for burial after my death nor wish for a peaceful death. I believe all that is in the hands of the Almighty. How I die or am buried depends on what fate has in store for me. As a living being I know that I cannot evade death. And hence in life, with all the other hopes and wishes also comes a wish for a grave in which I hope I get a burial. Death is the macabre truth in life and all of us dread the day and yet all of us at one time or the other give a thought to the aftermath. Will there be a burial? Maybe the dead body will be in the sea with the fish having a feast? Perhaps a plane crash will leave the body charred beyond recognition? We ponder about the likely or unlikely events that may follow our passing.
The other day I read in Syed Badrul Ahsan's article “Between Basu and Foot" in this newspaper of how he wishes to write about his own qul and chehlum before death takes over. I couldn't agree more. If we can do that, why not write about what kind of grave I wish for? After all we can place our wishes before the Almighty, to grant the wish or not is up to Him. That is the joy of being able to wish, it has free wings of its own to soar high or low, to come
true or not.
We wait with dread and fear of that coming day when we will be forever far beyond the reach of our loved ones. When one falls sick or is old thoughts of death seem to be a constant shadow that follows us around. You fall asleep every night wondering if you will be lucky enough to see the dawn. Old age that brings in decay and frailty has your heart throbbing. Will your ears continue to hear the birds' songs in the morning, will your taste buds continue to savour your food as you eat? WUl your sight witness the sunrises? Will you be able to walk and talk? There are hundreds of questions that bombard your mind, questions that have hardly bothered you when there was youth, when the sun had promised golden days ahead. But within it all there are the hidden speculations of how one will die and what lies in store after death. And so here I am, wishing for a grave to my liking, hoping with all my heart that God will grant me my wishes.
When the heart stops beating I hope to be buried in a grave that will be under a large tree. The tree will play with light and shade over me as the sun rises and sets during the day. At night the moonlight will play hide and seek as the wind passes through. Quite often I
talk with trees and believe with all my soul that they listen to what I have to say. And that is why I want the trees to be near my grave when I am dead. The rustling of their leaves, their shade will be soothing to my spirit and maybe their roots will penetrate and touch my decaying body.
Wishes are just wishes. You wish them to come true and at the same time you are ready to face the denial. I live in Bangladesh where it never snows. But I have witnessed the wonders of snowing. Felt the soft kisses as they slowly and gently fell from the sky. I have trodden through the crunchy soft snow just when it has piled up high to form white mounds. And now when I wish for a grave I hope that somehow when I die God will allow it to happen in a land where the snow will bury my grave. I hope white snow will touch the ground of my grave and there will be piles and piles of it. The chilly wind blowing over the white land all around will touch me too. Miracles can happen! And then the gentle spring will melt the snow and the first crocuses will bloom over my silent grave. The birds returning from the warmer countries will sing away to their hearts' content. Before I die I will whisper these wishes to the birds. I
would like to imagine blue, red and yellow butterflies swarming around me all round the year. And then when summer comes rain will drench my grave till water runs in rivulets all around. The wind will play its maddening games all around and I will know that the withered leaves are upon me. In autumn the piles of orange, yellow and red leaves will cover me with the letter of winter while my hovering spirit might smile with pleasure.
Nature has two faces: it can be beautiful and it can be cruel. When the storms come with ferocity I hope they will touch the pile of earth over my remains; the crashing thunder will somehow reach my faraway soul and the lightning will lighten up my dark grave momentarily. When rain pours in torrents will not a few drops seep into the decaying body, will they not touch the bared bones? Maybe their cold touch will wake me from my long slumber and I will once again feel the pleasure of getting wet in the rain. Miracles do happen!
Much as I would like to have nature play its games of abundance, I hope that the loved ones I leave behind in this world will visit my grave. They will know that it's only my decaying body that is down there but they will remember my last minutes upon Earth. It is a
solace to imagine the children, relatives or friends sitting by my grave and talking to me, maybe the words will be heard by my spirit that may be right there with them. Who knows? Maybe the bones will do the hearing after the soul is out. God can work wonders. Perhaps the loved ones will leave some flowers for me and the bees and the butterflies will take their nectar from the blooming flowers over my small mound of earth. The insects, birds and the people; the thoughts of all these around my grave make me feel as if I will continue to be present in the world that I love so much. Do I sound too selfish wanting so much even after dying and leaving the world?
But then, as a human being I hold on to hopes and cannot stop wishing for miracles even knowing that they may never come true. But what about all the coins I have dropped into the wishing wells? Perhaps they will do the magic? And of course I can always hold on to the graciousness of the Greatest Provider of all who knows about my wishes, inside and out. I hope my spirit will continue to roam around my beloved world. Maybe He will bless me with all my wishes for my grave.
TULIP CHOWDHURY WRITES FICTION AND IS A POET.