January 31st, 2014, Koramangala.
I was walking alone along a secluded street late on Friday night, with the beautiful night sky for company. I love the supernatural, and so just to keep it exciting I had decided to walk the lonely road next to the cemetery. It was a moonlit night, and the whistling breeze bristled with sounds of the supernatural, the whispers of the dead, and the insects sang a soulful tune that accentuated the eerieness.
In the misty light cast by a lone streetlight, I could sense a silhoutte of a man leaning over a fence, plucking flowers from a gigantic tree whose branches hung low over the street. I walked closer to him, wary of being trapped alone with a strange man, but also with a beating heart that sensed something amiss. On close inspection, he seemed like a beggar. He had tattered clothes, his face was gaunt and bony, and his pale skin glistened in the moonlight.
I reached within inches of him, and he was still oblivious of my presence. He was lost in his own world, slowing plucking flowers and placing it on the fence tenderly. I cleared my throat, expecting him to stop and look at me awhile, but he didn’t hear me. What a waste of flowers, I thought to myself. I gathered a little more courage, and squeezed my fingers together in an attempt to sound even more brave than I was.
“Hello Mister . . .stop plucking those flowers. Is it your property?” I told him.
He turned finally to face me. I couldn’t make out his eyes. The streetlight cast shadows on his face that hid his eyes, and all I could see was two empty hollows . . . like a black hole. I stepped back warily, taken aback by the features of the man. He looked at me incredulously and turned his back on me, continuing to pluck flowers from the tree as if nothing had stopped him in his reverie.
I was intrigued. I wanted to know what he was doing, at this late an hour, in a secluded street near a cemetery, on a moonlit night. The man finally finished plucking flowers, and he gathered all his collections into his hand, and held them together tightly. He whisked away, leaving me in his wake. I followed him for a little while, but I stopped the moment he opened the cemetery gate and entered the graveyard. I was afraid of following him inside. I have a fear of ghosts, and even though I act brave, I really do fear that I might be possessed by a ghost someday.
Through the gates of the cemetery, I watched him, walking past a dozen tombstones . . . he seemed to know his way. I watched him more perplexed than ever, as he knelt down in front of a tomb, lay the flowers down, kissed the cold stone slab, and left without another glance. I was scared of walking into the cemetery, but, curiosity got the better of me. I slowly opened the rickety gate, the echoes of its wails sending shivers down my spine. I walked past the tombstones, cold and eerie, the crackle of dead leaves under my feet increasing my pulse rate to a million beats per second. I reached the tomb he had kneeled next to, and I squinted my eyes to take a closer look at the inscription on the tomb.
“Sarah . . . the woman who never died. Living in our hearts. (Dec 2nd 1985- Jan 31st 2013)”
As I read the inscription, a tear silently rolled down my cheek without invitation. I realised that this man was the husband. What happened to Sarah, or to the man is a mystery . . . but, like all the beautiful mysteries of this world, this one would best be left unsolved. But, one thing was for sure . . . that night . . . as I walked back to my house, tears streaming down my face. . . I understood what love truly is. True, unconditional love . . . Never dies. For the death of a person might mean that the person can no longer walk this earth again, but . . . the love of that person lives on . . . for an eternity more.