Scorching sun in the sky. The customary ritualistic showers were missing. The otherwise desolated place had a crowded look. Trees whispered of their presence. Black was the colour of the day. Mud and clay found their utility again. It was a funeral day.
Roshmon was having a tiring day. It was her husband’s funeral. They had first met a decade ago, in a poetry conclave. They connected instantly. The day he bought 2 plots in the graveyard, she understood he was the one. They married a few days later. They visualized their resting places beside one another. As it is, she was fond of cemeteries and funerals. It was her place of solace.
Scarcely did she know a decade later, she would be organizing her husband’s funeral. Time hasn’t come for her to rest. She must wait for the worthy place. Her husband wanted a traditional funeral but the weather played spoilsport.
Thoughtful, repentant she was taking a stroll through the cemetery. The funeral ended 5 hours ago. The guests and the organizers left an hour ago. She was reading the epitaphs. At last, she came to an epitaph and read out loudly :
“Side by side they rest,
Warriors of lonely conquest.
Travelling afar hand in hand,
Blurring the lines of misunderstand.
Resting together in the enclave,
The Lad and lass of the conclave.”
She remembered the poem. She had written it. It was her answer to his proposal. Her return gift to his gift. He purchased the plot, she wrote the epitaph.
She smiled. It started raining. The ritual was complete.
Traditional funeral, it was.