Unmarked

We sat at the dry ground near the farm field. My friend and I loved walking and exploring the field near our house. We were eleven years old celebrating holidays from the cruel institution called school. She lived in Kalimpong, one of the beautiful hill sub-division of Darjeeling where she studied, whereas I was trapped in Darjeeling. We were apart for most of the months, it was only during Puja Vacation and winter we were together.
We were the best of friends, even sharing half of our names.

The month of February was cruel for both of us because it was a time where our classes resumed.
It was our regular afternoon, we sat by her farm on the narrow mud road. Her mother had planted radish and potatoes in the farm and had gone to fetch waters. One could see the banana and the many orange trees with handful of small yellow ripen oranges lose on the old bowing trees. We shared stories about our friends at school. Of course no one could replace her in my life and I knew that no one would replace me too. We chatted about the school ,memories without any pressure of jealousy which was alien to us.
As we were reminiscing the school days I noticed a part of the land was raised by the field. It was a small raised land where nothing grew. The weed circled it but couldn’t touch the swollen earth. I couldn’t suppress the question any longer so I asked her. The colour of her skin changed, there was a sadness in her voice when she said it was a grave of her infant sister.

I had been her friend for eleven years yet I didn’t know that she had a sister. She then told me about her unfortunate little one who only lived for a day.
She was born feeble, the fever clinged unto her and she lived for one night but couldn’t live for another. She died before she was given a name. Thus the grave had no name over it.
Her mother was so distraught that they had to exorcised her of the evil spirits. She mourned her daughter for months. She was buried in the farm land and had been there for nine years now.
“I don’t know her name” my friend said sadly, “My parents couldn’t give her any name before her burial. She died before they could decide to give her a name.”
So it was an unmarked grave for her. I thought.

“Do you miss her?” I asked. “Do you feel if you could have a sister, your life would have been different?”
She looked at me perturbed but answered, “No I don’t miss her but yes I feel it would be better to have someone.” she smiled and continued, “but sometime I feel it’s ok because I don’t like to share my parents with anyone.”
We shared a smile. I plucked few wild Himalayan daisies from the surrounding and placed at the small grave of her sister.
She laughed at me. “What are you doing?”
“It’s for your sister” I told her.
As I resumed by place by her side, strange question haunted me. “Do you think there are bones inside her grave?”
“Maybe” she replied.
“Why didn’t your family cremate her?”
“I don’t know” she began to get irritated.
Just then we heard howling of young teenage boys. The road was a common narrow path that passed across the field joining the forest and our village.
They were young boys from the village returning from the swimming adventure from the lake situated at the foothills of the Estate. They all looked at us. We had them blocked as we sat down on the narrow road that connected the forest with the village.
“What are you witches looking at?” the oldest one asked us. He was a shabby lean guy who wore his hair on his face. His incisor tooth bit his lower lip. He looked demonic in his ugly pimple prone puberty face. We maintained our silence in fear because never play with a barking dog.
He looked at the flower I had placed on the grave.
“What’s that?” he asked.
We were silent.
He poked my forehead with his index finger and asked again.
“It’s my sister” my friend said in belligerent voice.
The other boys laughed at the answer. I didn’t know why they laughed.
The boy smirked at my friend and I and went to the grave. He crushed he sapling of potatoes, my friend’s mother had planted some weeks ago. He stepped on the grave. His ugly shoes were worn at the edges. I gasp along with the other boys, while my friend stood still.
“Do you want to see a magic?” it wasn’t a question anymore. It was a statement he had proposed and we could do nothing.
He jumped on the grave. He showed his dance moves as he jumped his weight upon the grave. The grave was nine years old. The being inside it was dead and couldn’t feel the weight above it. My friend who stood beside me felt the weight of insult that had befallen upon the dead who was her own flesh. As I shifted my eyes from the assaulter to her, she was still with shinning eyes. She said she didn’t miss her sister who lay inside the womb of earth. Her declaration didn’t mean that dead sister had no value.
The boy was exhausted of assaulting the dead. He said to us, “If you stare at this for 10 minutes, BOOM! The dead will come alive” he laughed. I could see a trace of tobacco attached to his pale teeth.
The boys who stood by us gasping at the disgrace, laughed and they left us sore with the consequences of the humiliation the boy had caused. My friend wept as it was the only thing an eleven years could do. She didn’t tell her parents about the incident. At eleven we were wiser human than the boys who had hurt us. Perhaps that’s the gift from nature to us woman kindz enduring the evil of the society.

As time passed we forgot the incident. I don’t think she remembers it as i do so vividly.
We go to our village sometime and watch the hour hand slide with a cup of tea. The farm fields are prone to weeds, the village looks barren. There are no farmers now to look after our land. One can see cable wires and dish TVs everywhere. People have running waters at their own houses. So the morning gathering at the nearby stream is a yesteryear tale. Children do not play these days, they are all glued to a magical stone they call mobile phone, which has massively affected their physical health. The reality of my village is that there are hardly anyone living here.
The congested and chaotic village looks serene in its silence as everyone has left the god forsaken land for metro cities. Some fortunate has moved to the gulf country where some women work as domestic helpers at the houses of Bollywood film stars.
I remember the face of the boy. I remember the tears of my friend. I wonder if it’s a curse or a blessing to remember, but I do.
It was one of those lazy afternoon, some years ago, I was walking alone through the same field. I didn’t see the unmarked grave. Weeds grew everywhere. I entered the village to see a funeral ritual on a small hut. Almost everyone was here, yet it was a thin crowd. I saw the same boy who was now a grown man. There was a small coffin about the size an infant wrapped with numerous khadas. I inquired and found that it was a still born baby girl of the man who had humiliated the unmarked grave years ago.
I was surprise at the turn of events. I cannot say that man reaps what he sows. The child shouldn’t have died. My heart was filled with pity for him. He saw me and dropped down his sad head which his shoulder held in this unspoken tragedy. His wife was weeping at his side. A group of men carried the small coffin on their shoulders. Though the size of the coffin was small the weight of a dead infant was heavy. I saw them move the casket away to the farm field for burial as I wondered if she too would have an unmarked grave.

Kate Sarah