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REFLECTIONS
When the dead protect
RANJIT LAL
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Nicholson's Cemetery in Delhi was once a thriving refuge for a variety of bird and animal life. Will it survive another makeover intact?
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I HAVE lived next door to the historical Nicholson Cemetery for over 25 years now, and by and large, the neighbours have been quiet. Except, of course, for the band of monkeys that have made the place their home for longer than I have been their neighbour, so probably enjoy more rights. When I first shifted here, it was a place of mystery and wonder. Shrouded by scores of gigantic and magnificent neem, peepul and tamarind trees that soared high and wide as any cathedral, it was a tiny sanctuary in its own right, a place where the dead looked after the living. From my balcony itself I had ticked off over fifty species of birds, from peacocks and partridges to minivets and crested serpent eagles. Inside, you could meander about the overgrown pathways and (almost) lose your way, stumbling over the odd marble gravestone with a murmured apology. Many of the tombstones were broken and many who lay beneath had died very young. All this just a rifle's shot away from that hellhole, the Kashmere Gate ISBT!
Sense of serenity
Occasionally, from my balcony I spotted visitors to the cemetery, moving cautiously between the tombstones, peering at the headstones, in search perhaps of a lost ancestor. The undergrowth was wild and wanton, but a haven for butterflies, dragonflies and other insects that whirred and buzzed busily in the sunlight all day. Yes, it was derelict and had an uncared-for look — though there was always a sprig of fresh bougainvillea on the grave of John Nicholson right near the entrance and there was sense of serenity and peace amongst the thrumming insects and glimmering tombstones.
Then, back in the early 1990s (1990 I think), they felled nearly every one of those magnificent trees, an act for which there can be little forgiveness. Those that were left, had huge limbs amputated and reminded you of figures whose arms and legs had been cut off. They could do it then, because at the time there was no law in place to prevent the cutting down of trees on private land without permission. Talking to them made no difference — you were first told that only rotten trees were being cut down, and then that they'd be storing the (rotten) wood in godowns, and that maintaining a cemetery was expensive business... By the end of the exercise the cemetery resembled a bombed-out wasteland — open to the ivory sky and blowtorch sun and sandblasting loos. Gone were the homes of scores of mynas, owlets, parakeets, coppersmiths, barbets, doves, orioles, woodpeckers, hornbills and the like. A few years later, they repeated the procedure with the few remaining trees. To clear the undergrowth they simply cut it and set fire to it after the monsoon, a practice that is still brazenly followed despite the law saying something else.
Preserving the essence
Now I read that a professional outfit has taken upon itself, in association with the British High Commission, to manicure and pedicure the cemetery and look after its interests. That they'll clear the undergrowth, keep the pathways clean, repair the tombstones, raise the wall and make sure unsavoury elements and vandals do not enter. All to the good I suppose, just as long as they don't kill every other living creature that has found sanctuary here. Ah yes, and irony of ironies, they've actually gone and planted new trees too!
John Nicholson was one tough customer, but I'm just wondering how many times he's turned over.
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