Colonial Graves

Colonial Graves

I take that bend in the trail,
(which, in childhood, I used to avoid),
past the bed of hydrangeas,
across the broken, wooden bridge,
that lies hidden from the view
of our house atop the hill.

The trail had seen better days,
and now, each rut, in mournful disrepair,
weeps its own tears in rivulets
when it rains.
When the trail forks again,
in the slope leading towards the lake,
there lies the graveyard of the
non natives; of many children of a
bygone age, many who did not make it
to blow out candles in double digits.

Shrouded in the veil of mountain mist, and
claimed now by lichens, bramble and brush,
the muted RIP- headstones tell no stories,
flash no smiles, peal no laughter;
nor recite nursery rhymes now cut short.

The etched names tuggingly recall
Beloved Pamela, Dearest Paul,
ravaged by pestilence, in this
foreign land, or drowned in the lake,
still shimmering, concealing
half life, half death,
annulling dreams of Oxford forever.

Unaware of winds hymning through the trees,
the grief stricken mourners in black,
must have stood clutching
sepia toned photographs
of compelling innocence,
until the mourners themselves
became the mourned.

Would it have eased their pain
if their children had been buried 'back home'?
Is the earth more compassionate there?
Would have greener grass, bleating sheep,
white blanket of snow, sturdier flowers,
made a difference?
Would they?

I guess, they were never us -
even when we played hop, skip and jump,
even when we played hide and seek,
they were never us.
They were white and belonged to the crown;
whereas I, with my brown skin,
have belonged here forever.

~ Krishna ~

9 October 2001

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