A Lazy Saturday
It is a lazy Saturday .The kind of day where the city outside turns into a mess, and staying home is the only sane option.
Breakfast is done, and I am on the balcony of my house on the 10th floor. I can see the suburb stretching out into the distance. It is an absolute eyesore. Hundreds of buildings have risen. They look like crooked teeth all haphazard, asymmetrical, and crowded together.
Closer to the building, though, is some open space. One stretch of land to the right is bare. It is fenced off and probably waiting to be sold to the real estate sharks. To the left is a smaller patch of land. It surely won’t be sold, as it is a cemetery. There are just a few tombs, and there is room for many more. Some of the tombstones are black granite and others are the usual grey stone. They all look quite similar in shape and design.
It is then that I catch sight of some activity.
There is a flock of sheep that has arrived, and it is breakfast time. The sheep have a dull white coat and look unwashed. These are the malnourished and underprivileged lot, unlike the cute Valais of the Alps or the well-fed Shetland sheep of the Scottish Isles. These ones will probably end up as the wool in the cheap socks sold at the neighbourhood corner shop.
There are also a few goats, most of them the common brown and white variety. They were probably being raised for milk or meat.
It is yet another day out there as the shepherds, three of whom I can see, are sitting under a patch of trees. There is not much cover for them in the cemetery.
I am intrigued now, more so as I have the whole day to myself, and watching the world go by is always instructive. I am surely not going to miss a beat here. I draw up a chair, settle into it, and watch.
Games Around a Tombstone
The goats are, as expected, restless. Two young ones are bouncing around with boundless energy. Food can wait; it is playtime for them. Life is just a game at this age. The game centres around a particularly sparkling tombstone. One manages to climb it, and the other doesn’t. You could see that failure had rattled the latter, making him even more restless. He wants to get on top of the tombstone but can’t. The one who is on top of it suddenly realizes he can’t come down, as the drop seems too much.
One of the elder goats is upset about all this. It walks over to the tombstone and pushes the young one down. He falls off but seems happy to have been rescued. The other one is pushed away, probably being taught a lesson for trying to be too ambitious. It sulks.
It was life itself , of wants, ambitions, disappointments and quiet defeats.
Following the Leader
The sheep, meanwhile, are in a world of their own. They move in close formation, led by one who looks a bit fluffier than the others. They run into a pile of stones, seemingly left by the mason to be used for the next visitor to this land of no return. The first one stops, and the others just run into it. They have nowhere to go. The leader stopped, and that was it for the rest of them. They fret and jostle while stationary, hoping for the path to clear. They are puzzled and remain so for a long time.
The weather is iffy. The sun is bright enough to hurt, but very dark clouds in the distance are threatening to bring rain.
The shepherds, meanwhile, are oblivious to the predicament of the herd and the flock. They are seated under the meagre shade, busy with whatever occupied shepherds on long afternoons. There is a green bedspread, which they use as a mat, and a dusty brown sling bag that probably has their lunch.
They are the ones in control here. One of them decides to give water to the animals. He walks across to a tank and gets a bucket of water. He hauls it across to where the sheep are still jostling and plonks it down. One bucket of water for about three dozen sheep, not the brightest move, but he was the man in charge. The sheep push at it and knock it over. There was very little on offer, and even that was wasted.
The man is angry now. Oblivious to his stupidity, he swings his cane at the flock. A few innocents get it across the muzzle and moan. The rest just scatter, happy to have escaped the rap. The man picks up the bucket and goes again.
This time they’ve learned. They approach one after another, taking turns, no jostling this time. The sheep had understood the problem far quicker than the man holding the bucket.
The other man’s goats fare a little better only because the buckets are bigger. He’s no sharper with them than his friend was with the sheep.
Rain Over the Cemetery
As the afternoon wears on, the clouds in the distance decide to move in. The sky darkens, and the rain is all but there. The animals sense it and start looking for cover. Not much of it is around. They are at the mercy of the elements now.
They look instinctively towards the men in charge, as though expecting protection that never comes. The men extract foldable umbrellas and hold them up as the heavens open. They are now safe, while their charges soak in the rain.
Bleats become louder, and the jostling increases. There is very little cover, and the animals are soon drenched. Cold, shivering, and muddied, they file out of the crack in the cemetery wall. The men, with wet, glistening umbrellas held above them, lead them away to whatever hellhole awaits them for the night.
The Living Among the Dead
I had spent a good four hours watching. It was as if I had watched a capsule of what happens in all our lives. At work, on the roads, in the nation, and in the neighbourhood. The barren patch of the dead was playing out what transpires in the world of the living.
Nothing about the scene was extraordinary, yet it seemed to explain far more about the living than the dead ever could.
The procession out of the cemetery was a disturbing sight. A procession of self-serving, insensitive men leading a bunch of helpless, mild-mannered animals into and out of a cemetery. It was a cycle that repeated itself everywhere. A cycle of ambitions crushed, hopes diminished, and the vulnerable forever following those least worthy of leading them.
Of all those I watched from the balcony, some would be slaughtered soon, while others would have their hides skinned.
Those who led the procession would also soon be back in the cemetery, only to be given a granite tombstone with a meaningless epitaph.
All I would say is, look around … go figure it out.
Cemeteries don’t need epitaphs; the living write them daily
