I was asked to write a post that summarized my experiences in India thus far. I was told it could be about anything. I wrote one and in it I tried to summarize my thoughts and reflections but I really couldn’t give its worth. There has been so much and all of it, the beautiful and the hideous, has been so rich and deep that a rote summarization sounds apocryphal. Instead, I have decided to post one of my earlier term postings written on a singular experience whilst in New Delhi. The prompt was to write about a place in the city. I wandered off on my own and this is what I got:
Qabristan
The sensation of dappled sunshine warmed my back; a cool breeze blew through scents of fresh paint, incense smoke, open sewage, and something else. I remembered passing an electric crematorium not far up the street. As I strolled along the overgrown paths there was a ceaseless heckling of crows around me. I made to step over a short dividing wall, disturbing two crows and causing them to fly off, inches away from my face. A hawk followed; its wing clipped my nose and rustled my hair. The stench was stronger there: a bird corpse being eaten by scavengers. I was in a graveyard. Headstones and dirt piles were everywhere. The trees were short and gnarled, the grass tall and fecund. The simpler graves were marked only with a pile of dirt and a blank sandstone slab. Some had collapsed inward, revealing a dark hole and giving me a sense of uncertainty. Others consisted of a body length rectangular sandstone box, open on top and filled with dirt. The fancier ones—of which there were few—were made of white and black marble. The expiration dates ranged from 1920 to 2015. Three of the older graves were made out of thick granite and were etched deeply in Arabic. Each of these three had individual metal cages around them, partitioning them off from animals and curious hands.
A gossamer of smoke lingered in the air, held still by the tree canopy and tall cement walls. A pile of dried, rotting plant clippings lay in a distant corner, smoldering. This place felt old, it felt sacred. The front gate had no doorman, no guard, simply a sign reading BOUNDARY WALL OF QABRISTAN URINE PROHIBITED and about twelve men and women raggedly garbed and tired. They were drinking water out of bowls, some were smoking, others sleeping. They greeted me as I walked in, holding hands out expectantly as though I was expected to pay tribute to enter this land. I did, they blessed me as I went. There were three signs immediately inside the complex written in a mixture of Hindi, Arabic, and what I presume was Urdu. The only English portion said:
NOTICE
THIS IS WAQF LAND,
NO CHARGE FOR GRAVES LAND
PAY ONLY LABOR CHARGES
CONCRETE “PAKKA” GRAVES STRICTLY PROHIBITED
To someone who wasn’t even sure how to pronounce “WAQF,” let alone know what it was, this sign raised more questions than it answered. No one around seemed to speak English. Later research explains that Waqf refers to buildings, land, or even money that has been donated to the Muslim religion.
In the middle of the cemetery sat a ramshackle hut. The single room building seemed to be made mostly out of recycled metal, plywood, and tarps. A man reclined in a plastic beach chair out front. He watched the goats forage between the tombs as he ate his lunch. Periodically he yelled for or at a young boy who kept running in and out of the shack. As I watched, another man approached a nearby goat with an outstretched hand, the man in the chair barked loudly at the encroacher, shooing him away with his hands. Since most of the cemetery was overgrown I believe that the goats are not a regular presence there, but perhaps brought in to give the place a well-needed haircut.
Loitering along the winding paths of the cemetery I found myself passed by people of varying apparent socio-economic standing. Some were old with hunched backs and long beards; others wore pinstriped suits with shiny, pointed shoes. Three women, colorfully clad with head coverings, eyed me suspiciously as they walked by. They looked lost, looking intently at the graves as they past, turning around often and retracing their steps. They smelled fragrantly of fruit and soap. Another man, middle aged, dressed comfortably in loose-fitting white and holding a FabIndia bag, walked briskly along the path, took a sharp right off the main trail, and maneuvered between graves, dilapidated walls, and trees, to one of the fancier grave sights. He stood there, head down and hands clasped as though in prayer, but quickly departed. I walked over to where he had been standing. The tomb was built up with glistening white tile. A bed made of stone, drainage for rainwater at the foot. There were no markings on the grave, but at the head there was a tile imprinted with a picture of the Kaaba. The grave was oriented south to north, with the heads presumably facing west, towards Mecca. I realize now all of the graves were oriented so. In the moment I thought the opposite: everything appeared so helter-skelter, like the land had been opened for anyone to come in and bury the dead there at their will. “No Charge For Grave Land,” the sign had said, I was wondering is there was any bureaucracy or order behind this place at all. Looking back on my photographs showed the opposite.
On the southern edge of the cemetery was a green Sufi shrine. There was an open can of “British Paint” lying nearby. Next to the shrine and still contained within the confines of the cemetery walls was a small field. I watched as a father and son played cricket together. I looked down to write my observations and when I looked up again it was to meet the eyes of three young boys standing directly in front of me. They were wearing white robes and topis. They began talking to me excitedly and called their friends over. I soon found myself circumscribed by about 15 boys, mostly pre-teen and early adolescent, with a few who seemed closer to my age. They wanted to know who I was, what I was writing, and why I was in this area. They were very intrigued to see me and not in the least bit perturbed. I told them I was a student and had traveled from the United States to study in their country. They liked this idea and began chattering in what sounded like Hindi. As we stood, blocking the path to the Sufi shrine, an elderly man with an air of worship walked by. He was holding a three-tiered tray. The lower level was filled with marigold flowers, the middle with burning embers, and the top with a dried herb. As he walked by one of the kids called him over, motioning to me. The man proceeded to light the incense atop his tray and smudge me with the smoke. I thanked him and he walked away without ever saying a word. The kids told me to give him rupees but I had none available.
Although they barely spoke English, they had evidently learned to read and write in cursive. They took turns writing their names in my journal. They had clearly been taught to write this way by someone. I tried asking them about this place, what it was called. One of them replied “Qabristan,” writing the word “CEMETARY” and also some Hindi I later discovered to say “Kabrustan.” I asked them why they were here, they replied “Cricket!” and showed me their bat and ball. They wanted me to play, but I was more curious about why these kids were playing cricket next to a shrine in a cemetery while dressed up as though for prayer. They told me this was their shrine and they prayed here but were really here just to play cricket. Or at least that’s what I thought they said, there was a strong language barrier and we were finding it increasingly difficult to communicate. They kept introducing themselves to me as Gandhiji or Modi, always followed by a cascade of laughter. This was clearly an area they frequented often. In any case, they all seemed wholly uninterested in the beating drums, smoke, and prayers emanating from the shrine. It was a bizarre interaction that lasted about thirty minutes before I finally said “phir melange” and walked away.
It was hard to pull myself away from this place, but in the same moment it was hard to remain. I wanted to play cricket with these kids, to discuss with the people in the shrine at length about the origins and stories of this place. How did it come to be? Who are the people buried here? Who tends to this land? Who is this Sufi saint? Why are these children dressed for prayer but playing cricket whilst in a graveyard? I am continuously bemused by my perceived contradictions in Delhi culture; it may be some time before I really start to understand.