It was sheer joy to meet old friends and relatives. They all say how good I looked and how I never aged at all. I foresaw all these and of course I was prepared. I have gifts for everyone, small momentous for remember me by.
After the usual round of meeting friends and relatives, and old friends my next itinerary was to visit the grave of my parents. Visiting the old haunts has always been part of my trip. It was expression of parental love to visit their resting place and pay my respects.
The old cemetery had not changed in its landscape. Only this time it looked more crowded inside the compound. So many had been laid to rest since my last visit. But the place had maintained it’s dignity over the years. And as we approached cold winds gusted through stately trees.
As we walked through the beaten path on our way to my parent’s grave I noticed an untouched earthen grave nearby. Weeds seemed to have taken control. The mound was almost without any identifying sign. It was also dug in the wrong rows of other graves with slabs or wooden cross with the name of who passed away with birth and passing dates.
My curiosity got the best of me and asked the caretaker who was with us as to the person resting in that unwedded grave. “This man came to this place from somewhere peddling his wares during the occupation years.” He started.
“At that time the guerrillas were continuously harassing the enemy occupation troops and any new face was a subject. In short, he was arrested and since no one knew him, no one could vouch for his calling”, he said.
After lighting his cigarettes, the old man said “without notice he was brought to the wall and shot”. “Who buried him?” I asked. I did with the help of others who were scared like the dickens”, he answered.
“Every All Saints Day, we would also try to clean his grave and as always, someone, someone would put a lighted candle. After a week or so, weeds would grow again covering the mound. We could not even place a slab for no one knew his name, age and circumstance”, the old man concluded.
As we walked towards my parent’s grave, a though came to my mind. Was he a guerrilla or just an innocent ambulant peddler at that time when all these happened? If he was a guerrilla, he died as an unfortunate hero and if he was just a peddler, he was surely a victim of circumstances. His unceremonious death gave me a deep feeling of sorrow,
The grave where my folks rested in a fenced area was well kept and clean. It was be there as the afternoon sun slowly faded in the forested hill beyond. The moments were solemn as I said a little prayer with the cool breeze touching my face like a soft wand.
I felt very consoled having visited my parent’s resting place. Good old memories of them flashed in my mind as I knelt before their graves. I knew I was speaking to them, and they must be happy I was around after a long absence.
And yet, in spite of all the emotions I felt that time, the forgotten grave kept creeping in my mind. How could one be so unfortunate even in death, if he was a guerrilla he belongs to a tomb enshrined for the unknown soldiers who have sacrifice their lives for their country.
And if he was just an innocent victim at least a name should stand before his grave. He has none of both. He was a mortal that came, leaving a tragic memory and soon to be forgotten.
I was so engrossed with these thoughts and failed to notice twilight was falling. It was time to leave. Darkness was slowly enveloping the area. The katydids were starting their choral rendition signalling the coming night.
As we left, we passed again the forlorn and forgotten grave. I could see lingering of the gorgeous day as the grown weeds move with swish of the wind. He was not alone today, for we are here to give him solace and company.
To me, if true, it was a measure of quiet satisfaction and joy. The tangle of weeds became the stately guards of this unknown man in a grave no longer forgotten. *****