8th February, 2020.
It’s 4 p.m. The weather is quite cold, and the sky is overcast. A biting breeze makes the air feel even sharper. The fading rays of the sun pierce through discontinuities in the cloud cover, casting golden patches of light here and there. Numerous cars whiz past the majestic entrance of the South Park Street Cemetery in central Kolkata, as two security guards – one on either side of the gate – look on with bored expressions on their faces.
The South Park Street Cemetery, established in 1767 and known formerly as the Great Christian Burial Ground, was one of the earliest non-church cemeteries in the world. The cemetery is home to numerous graves and monuments, mostly belonging to British soldiers, diplomats, and their families. With a blend of Gothic, Egyptian, and classical Greek styles, the tombs and memorials present a striking and evocative sight. The cemetery attracts visitors from all over the world, especially during the winter months when the weather in Kolkata is favorable for tourists.
On this particular afternoon, a young Englishman is seen wandering among the graves, his gaze lingering on everything around him. He has long, neatly parted hair to one side and is wearing a high-collared, white shirt with a necktie. His brown tweed trousers complement his shirt and polished leather shoes. He wears an expression unbefitting his age, which appears to be in the early twenties, one that hints at hardship, resignation, and a quiet nonchalance. He wanders through the cemetery, observing the people who have come to pay their respects.
He sees a large group of school students loitering around the graves, taking pictures over the tombstone of the legendary poet and thinker Henry Louis Vivian Derozio. They belong to a local school and have been brought here for a field trip as part of a lesson in colonial history. A section of the students are listening to their teacher, who is giving a speech about the achievements of Derozio and his role in disseminating Western learning and science among the young people of Bengal. While some students are busy taking notes, others stare in awe at the young poet’s headstone and adjoining marble statue. The Englishman smiles at the sight, happy to see that Derozio continues to inspire the youth even 189 years after his untimely demise.
A little further away is the resting place of Colonel Robert Kyd, the founder of the botanical garden in Howah. A family of four crowds around the grave, with the father telling his wife and children how the colonel single-handedly conceived and developed the botanical garden, planting 4000 trees and shrubs in his private garden. The Englishman stops momentarily to pay his tributes to the great colonel, whose legacy has also withstood the test of time.
As he continues along the narrow, cemented path, flanked on both sides by numerous tombstones —some large, some small —all adorned with intricate decorations cut into stone, he notices a stray dog running playfully in a lush green clearing. It runs left to right, stopping to sniff visitors and waiting for a customary pat, then retraces its path to allow new visitors the opportunity to pet it. A smile appears across the Englishman’s face for the second time.
It is almost 4:30 p.m., and the crowd has started to thin. The cemetery closes at 5.
As the Englishman approaches a secluded corner of the cemetery, he finds a young Bengali scholar, also in his early twenties, sitting on the grass with a book in his hand. He’s wearing a plaid shirt and jeans. A small backpack is lying half open in the grass beside him. He has crew-cut hair and appears deeply engrossed in the book he’s holding.
This corner of the cemetery houses some of the older graves – their stone surfaces cloaked in moss from years of neglect. The cemetery’s boundary wall looms in the background with a couple of ancient trees lined along its edge. As the Englishman approaches the seated visitor, a cold breeze blows past, making the leaves of the trees rustle in the background.
The scholar looks up from his book and notices him. They stare silently at each other for a moment, each examining the other from head to toe.
“Is this your first time in Kolkata?” asks the scholar, a broad smile plastered across his face.
The Englishman is quite surprised at this sudden query and stares blankly for a couple of seconds.
“Not really,” he finally replies, moving closer to the scholar.
He gets a better look at the book in his hands. It’s a hardbound edition of A Tale of Two Cities, one of the finest novels written by one of the most renowned authors of the 19th century, Charles Dickens.
“I’ve come here many times before,” he continues. “I love this city. I feel a deep connection to it, especially this place. This cemetery, steeped in rich history, is an amazing place. I come here once every winter.”
“Wow,” the scholar replies, bewildered. “That is quite some dedication!”
“You could say that, yes. Are you a local?” The Englishman enquires.
“Not really,” replies the scholar.
“I live near Gariahat, which is around half an hour from here by bus. I’m on the verge of completing my undergraduate degree in Computer Science from St. Xavier’s College, which is roughly a 10-minute walk away. We had a special program today which ended around 2 PM, and I’ve been here since 2:30.”
“Oh, that’s very good. It’s rare to see people your age reading books these days,” says the Englishman. “I’m glad you still enjoy it.”
“Oh yes! I love reading! You’ll always find a book in my bag. There’s nothing like delving into the pages of a paperback in a setting like this,” beams the scholar.
The Englishman smiles at the scholar’s enthusiasm.
“I see you’re reading Dickens,” he says, pointing at the book. “Do you like his work?”
“Of course! He’s one of the greatest literary geniuses of all time. I’m a huge fan of his works. Oh, how masterfully he writes. Each word feels like a piece of art, flowing straight off the page and into my heart. I’ve nearly finished this book. I’ve been sitting here and reading for the last two hours, unable to put the book down,” the scholar replies excitedly.
The Englishman breaks into a wide grin. By this time, he has taken a seat beside the scholar in the lush green grass.
“What about you?” the scholar turns enquiringly at him. “Do you like Dickens? Surely you must acknowledge that the man was a genius!”
The Englishman stares into the distance. He sits silently for a few moments – as if carefully forming a reply in his mind.
“I admire Dickens. Dickens the writer. As far as Dickens the man is concerned, well, that’s another story,” he replies with conviction.
“What do you mean?” the scholar asks, puzzled.
“You see, there’s no doubt about the fact that Dickens was a literary genius. Even his most bitter critics must acknowledge that. However, like many geniuses, his immense literary talent was accompanied by personal flaws, chief among them being a marked apathy towards his family. You see, Charles Dickens was a perfectionist. He believed in discipline, duty, and productivity – all of which are praiseworthy traits without a doubt. However, he held his family to the same standards, and as a result, was frequently disappointed in them. He always held the belief that his sons would never amount to much and end up squandering all the money he’d acquired over his lifetime. He was always very critical of his sons and made a conscious effort to remain aloof, keeping a deliberate distance from them. He treated his wife poorly and separated from her quite publicly and cruelly after 20 years of marriage. At no point did he seem to consider her feelings. All the while, he even carried on a long-term secret affair with an actress 27 years his junior. Based on these arguments, I would say that Charles Dickens, as a human being, was far from ideal. He lacked the integrity that truly defines admirable character.”
The Englishman finishes his monologue and takes a deep breath.
The scholar had been sitting and listening intently to every word that came out of his mouth.
“Wow. You sure seem to know a lot about Dickens,” he finally speaks, a little upset at the Englishman for criticising his idol.
“Yes, that’s true,” comes the reply. “You might think I am berating your idol, but trust me, I have first-hand experience.”
“First-hand experience? What are you talking about?!” the scholar asks, utterly flabbergasted.
“I’m his son…or rather, I was. His second son,” the Englishman replies, meeting the scholar’s steady gaze.
“My name is Walter Landor Dickens.”
A look of disbelief and ridicule flashes across the scholar’s face.
What is this man talking about? Is he crazy? The son of Charles Dickens? What nonsense! He thinks to himself.
But there’s something in the Englishman’s face that prevents the scholar from expressing his thoughts out loud. There’s a quiet conviction in his eyes, and his calm, steady demeanor holds the scholar in place. He sits transfixed, eyes wide, words frozen in his throat.
Walter continues his speech.
“From the very beginning, my father was always disappointed in me. When I was only 16, he sent me to Calcutta with the British Army – more relieved than proud when I, albeit reluctantly, accepted the path laid out for me. Not once did my father pause to consider how I might feel, or what dreams I harbored. I always looked up to him. I was proud of his achievements – awed by his status. I wanted to matter in his eyes, to make him proud. But alas, that never happened. Until his dying breath, my father always saw me as a disappointment. Although I fell in love with this city, I could never enjoy my work here. I soon fell into debt, which drew even more criticism from my father. Shortly before I was to be sent back to England as an invalid, I died of an aortic aneurysm in 1863. I was only twenty-one years old. Ever since my death, I’ve been bound to this city. Although I was initially buried in the Bhowanipore Military Cemetery, my grave was shifted to the South Park Street Cemetery in 1987. I rise from my grave and walk this cemetery once a year – on my birthday. You see, I was born on February 8, 1841. One hundred and seventy-nine years ago – on this very day. Yet in all my years of roaming around the graveyard, you’re the first person to be able to see me. I was surprised when you looked at me – when you talked to me. But as I approached you, I realized the reason behind this strange occurrence. It was the book. The book that my father wrote. The book that you’ve been reading. He has left behind fragments of his soul in his writings, and his words have connected you to him – and through him, to me. This is the first time I have spoken to someone after 157 years. I thank you for that.”
Walter rises, dusting the blades of grass from his trousers.
“I think it’s time for you to go now,” he says. “It’s almost 5:15. The cemetery officially closed 15 minutes ago. The guards have started doing their rounds. You’d better hurry and leave.”
The scholar tries to say something, but words do not form in his mouth.
“If you want to see me again, you have to come next year on the 8th of February. Oh, and don’t forget to bring a Dickens novel!” Walter lets out a laugh.
“Hello! What’re you doing there, young man? The cemetery is closed. You need to leave – now,” the gruff voice of a security guard interrupts the stillness of the atmosphere.
“Yes, yes! I’m leaving!” the scholar replies, startled. He looks back instinctively.
But Walter is gone. Of course, he is. What else did he expect?
As the scholar makes his way through the sea of graves towards the exit, he tries to process everything that transpired in the last half hour.
He’d come to read a book. But he left having spoken to a ghost.
Perhaps, he thinks, they’re not so different in the end – both are voices from the past, aching to be heard.
1 Comment
Congratulations Sayan, nice reading….keep it up! Waiting for more.