Whispers Among the Tombstones
A Journey to Remember
Idukki’s narrow, winding roads twisted like faded ribbons between emerald hills, thick with mist and memories.
I sat in the car with my lifelong friends, Philip and James, our hearts heavy with quiet thoughts. We were all 70 now, carrying the weight of years in our wrinkles and faded voices.
But today, it wasn’t just our age that made us feel fragile. We were on our way to attend the first death anniversary of our beloved professor, Dr. Joseph Arecanutparambil, who had shaped our minds with wisdom, discipline, and warmth.
The car finally stopped in front of St. Augustine’s Church, tucked away in a sleepy village. Its whitewashed walls had weathered by time and rain.
The air smelled of damp earth and distant cardamom plantations. A soft drizzle had begun, making the moss on the stone walls glisten like green velvet.
The Churchyard of Memories
We walked towards the old cemetery behind the church, our footsteps slow, not just because of the slippery ground, but because every step felt like a walk through the pages of our youth.
The cemetery was peaceful, yet there was an unsettling stillness—as if the trees themselves were listening.
Rows of tombstones stood silently, some proud and well-kept, others crumbling under the weight of forgotten years.
The wind whispered through the tall, swaying areca palms, brushing against our cheeks like a ghost of time past.
Philip suddenly stopped near a large, ornate tombstone with faded gold lettering. He wiped away the moss gently and read aloud:
“Here lies Thomas Antony, Secretary to Government of Kerala.”
James chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I remember reading about him. One of the most powerful men in Kerala back then. They say he controlled the state like it was his chessboard.”
“But fate doesn’t care about power,” I murmured. “Even the tallest trees fall.”
We stood silently, thinking about how life reduces even the greatest to just names carved in stone.
A Stranger in the Rain
Just as we were about to move on, we noticed a man approaching. He was thin, his shirt soaked from the drizzle, and his face bore the weary look of someone walking for miles.
His unshaven face, tired eyes, and trembling hands told a story of hardships we could only guess.
“Excuse me,” he rasped, his voice rough as gravel. “Do you know where the grave of Chackochan Kadvathu, the poet, is?”
The name struck a chord. Chackochan Kadvathu was a poet whose verses we admired in our youth.
His words had once danced in the pages of literary magazines, filled with passion, sorrow, and life.
“Are you a writer?” James asked, curious.
The man gave a bitter smile. “I was… once.”
We decided to help him find the grave, walking together through the tangled paths, our shoes sinking slightly into the wet earth.
The Forgotten Grave
After some searching, we found the grave, almost hidden under wild grass. The simple stone marker was cracked, its letters fading:
“Chackochan Kadvathu, —The Voice of the Forgotten.”
There were no fresh flowers, no candles—just silence and neglect—the poet who once made the world pause with his words now rested in obscurity.
The stranger fell to his knees, placing his trembling hand on the cold stone. His shoulders shook—not from the cold, but from the sobs he tried to hold back.
“I owe him everything,” he whispered. “And I hate him for it.”
We exchanged glances, unsure of what to say.
A Story of Love and Loss
Before we could ask more, we heard footsteps behind us. A woman in her fifties, draped in a faded saree, approached slowly, holding the hand of a young girl, perhaps 12 or 13.
Her eyes, dark and tired, had a sadness more profound than grief.
The stranger stood up, his face pale with recognition.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he murmured.
She nodded slightly, her voice soft but steady. “I come every year. He was my husband. And this,” she said, looking at the girl, “is his daughter. She never met him.”
The words hung heavy in the air.
The man sighed, tears streaming down his face now. “I hated him… because he made me believe in dreams.
His poems gave me hope and made me think I could change the world with words. But words don’t pay for food.
They don’t heal an empty stomach.”
The woman didn’t flinch. Instead, she sat beside the grave, brushing the dirt away gently.
“I hated him too,” she whispered. “For leaving us with nothing but his books and memories. But I also loved him—for the same reason.”
The little girl bent down and placed a small wildflower on the grave. “I wish I knew him,” she said softly.
The Bitter Truth and the Gentle Goodbye
The stranger pulled out a small bottle from his bag, unscrewing the cap with trembling fingers.
“To Chackochan Kadvathu,” he said bitterly. “You gave me dreams—and destroyed them.”
Then, after a pause, he added softly, “But without those dreams, I would’ve been nothing.”
We watched him pour some of the drink onto the ground as if offering it to the poet beneath.
He looked at us with tired eyes. “This is the last time I’ll come here. The doctors say I don’t have long. I just… needed to forgive him.”
We didn’t say much. There were no words big enough for moments like this.
The Lesson Etched in Stone
As we walked away, the rain grew heavier. The wind carried the faint smell of wet earth and old flowers.
James finally broke the silence. “It’s strange. A man can write words that touch thousands but still die forgotten.”
I nodded. “And sometimes, the people who love us the most are the ones we hurt without meaning to.”
Philip sighed deeply. “But isn’t that what life is? A collection of moments, some beautiful, some painful—but all real.”
We walked quietly back to the car, the cemetery fading behind us.
That day, we realized something simple yet profound:
It’s not fame or success that matters in the end.
It’s the hearts we touch, the kindness we show, and the memories we leave behind.
Because even the brightest stars fade, but their light lingers—if only for a while.
