My Chuchurah : The Dutch Cemetery

In areas near College Street there is today little space for solitude or contemplation. At Chuchurah, the town I live in for most part of the year, there are certain places which are steeped in quiet so much so that you feel a blessed belonging whenever you rest yourself, all at peace with oneself. Few strides away from my place is the Dutch Cemetery. Absurdly green, peopled with dilapidated tombs and frisk canopy of restlessness, the cemetery is a wonder which amazes me. Often, in the aridity of summer days, I leave everything to enjoy the hubbub of the cemetery. Lying on the grass floor, one senses a closure with the clouds poised right above you, and as the flight of pigeons swoop down like dive-bombers in a war comic, you are smitten with excitement to witness their wayward droppings on various tombs taking shape of a giant canvas, depicting the brilliance of natural art. The caretaker, an old man of fifty, with grey features, wrinkled skin but eyes, alert and attentive, is one companion you get in the cemetery. He persistently smokes. His teeth, like his fingers, are nicotine-stained. He talks less, sits passively, enjoying the warm presence of a living body midst the cold desultorily weary tombs.

That’s it. Nothing much of a splendor that attracts tourists or anybody for that matter, but the unnerving charm of the cemetery never precludes me from paying a visit to it, even today.