As Old as Time itself - گور کن

19

Few professions in this world are as honorable as that of a grave digger - or as we call them in Urdu - a Gor-kun 

    A duty as old as time itself, these گور کن across the ages have been the custodians of the veil that hangs between life and death 

    One of the goals at Wst was to be authentic in narration, because there seems to be a vivid lack of that in our picturesque plastic societies

Following that, today comes as a somber, humbling reminder of the duration of our stay:

    Backs arched, noses hung high, eyes that detest the sight of petulance. That is how most humans live their short lives. It is only when we come face to face with the reality that is death, that we realize we are living. At times, purposelessly

    Those are the thoughts circling me as I snake through the scattered headstones and marble coffins littering the oddly well-lit graveyard.

    I'm in pursuit of a Trowel, a رندا

    Theres been a death in the family. It was an unborn child. I'm told the mother is mourning and so I ask no more questions, instead I busy myself with the physical preparations, while the others manage the burial rites. 

    My journey brings me to a halt in front of a concrete hut located in the far western end of the graveyard. Herein resides the grounds-woman, a lone beating heart among the silent. 

    Today, I find her sitting next to a grave, her aged face so pure and honest, radiating an authenticity I feel has since died with the last of her generation. She embraces me, asks about my father and motions to the grave next to her "Were my Sajjid alive, I'm sure your father would have visited often" 

  
 My cheeks flush as I mumble excuses. I knew her late son had been a childhood friend of my father. An image of them as youth playing cricket flashes in my mind, I push it aside. 

We make a little more small talk and she hands me a bucket of water and the trowel and I promise I'll return both items, and make my way back. 

    The gravesite is a small, enclosed patch of dirt. knee high stonewalls on three sides, strung together by a rusted copper gate. Before me the Gor-kun prepares the soil that will embrace the child. I watch, numb, undisturbed and emotionless.

    For a while the metal tool hacks at the damp soil, clumps of which are scooped and heaped nearby. Then it stops and the man looks up and me, I nod my head slightly. It's time. 

    As I near the exit of the graveyard, I cant help but move my feet faster; wanting to rid my nostrils of the overpowering fragrance of rose petals and joss musk. The unmistakably familiar scent of death.