A patch of land

It was a harsh winter day and Shriya knew she had wandered too far. Her little feet had it in them to carry her to places far beyond what her parents would allow, but her heart had never been self-assured, until now. She had run off when she noticed papa taking off ma’s clothes in the car, roundabout the secluded hairpin turn. Fearing no reprimand and seeing that they had private work, she had fled to the woods.

She walked in rapid steps, her white shoes making crunching sounds on the snow. The trees were thick enough to blot out the sunlight, but that attracted Shriya even more. It infused a heightened sense of adventure into her little escapade. She knew she had about 15 minutes with her before ma and pa would notice her gone, so she took her sweet time exploring the woods. Crows were cawing in clusters, mynahs were singing in their melodious voices, and the constant hum of crickets rang in her ears sedately. Wild brambles grew in narrow areas between trees and white lilies were in full bloom despite the crippling cold. Everything was peaceful and bolstered her to venture further on.

Suddenly, as if by providence, she chanced upon a fairly large clearing in the woods. Sunlight filtered in through the gap in the canopy, illuminating a patch of the pale snow. The opening revealed colours more vividly: the green of the coniferous trees was deeper, the blueness of the sky was more marked and her own hands seemed to be flushed with a dash of crimson. She looked around, stopping in her tracks, and expected to find company. She beheld the scene with wondrous awe, breathed in the fresh morning air and thanked herself for her audacity to slip away from the car.

She looked around and noticed a slab of stone jutting out from a heap of snow in the centre of the clearing. Curious, she walked over to it and tried to wipe off the snow with her gloved hands, one handful at a time. Gradually, she had cleared almost all the snow covering the stone slab, and could make out the words inscribed upon it:

‘Kaizad Mirra

1978-2008

Son, Lover, Gentleman.

“All men and women, merely players,

They have their entrances and exits…”

You are missed.’

She stared at it for the longest time. Then she pondered, looking blankly at the forgotten patch of land with its quaint tombstone, sheltering the forgotten, most-definitely decayed corpse of a young man who died ‘young’. She sat down, resting her back on the stone, wishing she had picked one of the vibrant white flowers on the way and put them beside the grave.

She felt like scratching her chin, but her trimmed nails did not fully cure the itch. She bent down and rubbed her rosy chin against the rugged edge of the tombstone. The birds chirped, the trees swayed in the cold breeze, and the highway seemed forgotten in the serenity of the woods. She continued to gaze into nothingness for a long time, and then some more, until desperate cries of her ma and papa began to resonate among the firs and deodars, like mynahs’ for a mate.