The Graveyard Gatekeeper
The chiming of the obsolescent pendulum clock that hung in his living room told the gatekeeper that it was almost eight 'o clock.
Time to leave for his night time duty at the graveyard, the old man thought to himself as he changed into his usual outfit, blue shirt and dark pants. Since, it was December and the Kolkata cold too much for his old bones to bear, he wore a thick sweater.
It might've had been black once upon a time but, it had turned dark grey now either because of excessive usage. If he had a washing machine, he was sure, it would have turned it light grey. He was wary of all the new machinery mumbo-jumbo. It just didn't suit him. It didn't suit him at all. If his son still talked to him, he would have started coaxing him to buy one of these weird machines and ultimately, bought him one.
At times, he just forced a smile onto his chapped lips. His little granddaughter, Lizzy said it lightened up his wrinkled face. But, in his heart he knew all this emotions, all this feelings were his yet not his. It was hard to explain.
After all, what could a--
But, that was such a long time ago...
The monotonous chiming of the clock carelessly poked its nose into his thoughts just like his new neighbours did. Quite often too. But, he didn't like people interfering in his matters. He just found them to be very nosey, brash and most importantly, curious.
Curiosity, according to him, was an utterly despicable trait. After all, it was curiosity that made Pandora open the box and it was curiousity that killed the cat.
He fumbled with his wrinkled fingers to tie his shoes while sitting on the decrepit wooden chair. The maroon covering was threadbare and the coir stuffing was springing into view. It had been half destroyed by the termites but he hadn't bothered to call in the pest control even though his son had said that he would pay. For him, it wasn't a matter of money. It was his philosophy of letting things be as they were. It was something that people didn't understand about him.
Beside the chair was an old, circular tea table. Unlike the chair and several other things in this room, the table was in a comparatively better condition. On the table there was an old gramophone that must've played records when there was a jungle surrounding half of Kolkata. Besides the gramophone, there was a couple of tattered newspaper covered packages, old brass coins and a rusty iron box.
Opposite the chair, in the middle of the room, there was a big, brown table. The kinds that are disappearing from people's houses nowadays, the kind you would find in some old curio shop on Park Street. There were several things scattered on the table in a manner that was as nonchalant as the expression on the old man's face as he tied his shoes.
The big, totemic chess set, that had been passed down the ages in the old man's family dominated the face of the table. Along with the chess set, there lay another of his family's heirlooms, a pair of sapphire studded cuff links.
The way these things lay on the table seemed as if the man had no care for any of his ancestor's or the memories he had linked with him. After all, it's not everyday anybody sees sapphire studded cuff links, lying on the living room table, in a very lax manner as if its primary job is to tempt somebody to steal it. Everything lay on the table in a very undisturbed yet somehow forgotten manner.
The old man checked the time again and retrieved the house keys from the table and got up to leave. He took one last look at his room and proceeded to lock the door, slowly.
He was walking down the old, spiral staircase in the dark when he felt footsteps approaching him.
"Ah, Abner Wickham, isn't it? Cold evening, isn't it?", the enthusiastic voice of his old, neighbour inquired.
"Yes, the weather's been quite bleak. Good night.", came the gruff, curt reply and the sound of foosteps scramming followed which cut the conversation short.
"Nosey..", Mr. Wickham, muttered to himself as he went out into the dark street.
He reached the graveyard at about half past eight. The gatekeeper was leaving as he arrived and didn't pay much heed to the new arrival. He couldn't have.
This graveyard had been shut down for a long time now. People mostly from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries were buried here. The graveyard was ancient, it truly was. There were trees and weeds growing all over the place. Most of the tombs had moss growing all over them and some were even broken.
These people who were buried here could have been somebody famous in their days. Now, that they were dead and gone did anyone think about them? Miss them? Maybe yes, maybe not.
Mostly not, Mr. Wickham ascertained.
After all, who cared about grains of dust and sand? They were just..dust and sand.
He left the gatekeeper's room to take a stroll around the cemetery. To see if someone had to decided to pay a little night time visit. He took his lantern and sauntered up the leaf strewn path. Brumal gusts now and then seemed to make old Mr. Wickham shake in his bones. The cold was getting a bit hard for his bones to brook.
He walked down the grassy, craggy pathway and shone his lantern at one of the graves.
He went up to the grave and read by the light of the lantern,
Abner Joseph Wickham
(1805- 1877)
A most honest and honourable man. A loving father and husband.
A man was coming up the pathway with heavy steps. He shone his flashlight at the grave and cried out, "Who's there? Show yourself!"
Only a gruff, curt reply vibrated through the calm stillness of the cold, December night.
"The graveyard gatekeeper."
