Who am I? I am just a cemetery, tasked with hugging the bones of departed souls. Today I have a story to tell.
One day, they brought the body of a dead woman. Poor Annette, they whispered. Died due to a prolonged fight with Typhoid, poor soul. As they laid her body on the ground, her husband laid his head on her chest and shed copious tears. He cupped her face in his palms, and gazed over her supine form. His crying children and relatives held him for support. “Be brave, David. It is all divine providence, no one can escape one’s destiny”. I get a bit bored by these familiar shenanigans of whoever comes into my parlour. Come on, get it over with. But no! The Sun suddenly shone on Annette and the glint of the diamond ring caught David’s attention. He took Annette’s hand in his and tried to pry off the ring off her finger. Well, David was unsuccessful, thanks to Annette’s finger being swollen. With a heavy heart, David gave up his struggle, and he alongwith his brother and other relatives, lowered Annette’s body into her grave. I welcomed her into my warm but claustrophobic bosom. David and family left, but I knew it won’t be long before some other greedy humans appeared soon.
As it grew dark, two of them approach. They sit where Annette was buried in the afternoon. Both of them share a bottle of spirit, to give them courage to do what they are going to do next. Soon they are digging, while taking turns to swig from their potion of fearlessness. The diamond ring beckons them even in the fading light. They start pulling it from Annette’s fingers. But alas! The fingers are still swollen. Sweating profusely, one of them empties the entire bottle and fishes out a long knife from his pocket. It glints in the moonlight for a heartbeat, and soon he is cutting the ring finger.
“Aaa…eee…”, a blood curdling cry pierces the still of the night. Even I am startled for a moment. As I gather my wits, I observe that the finger cutting robber is frozen by fear and staring into the eyes of an equally terrified Annette. And as she struggles to her feet, the robber drops dead on my chest while the other one shits in his pants, but finds some last ounce of strength to vamoose from the presence of a ghost. But Annette! Poor woman, she is no ghost, just a shocked woman who had suddenly woken up in a cemetery, with a bleeding finger. She struggles to her feet and walks falteringly to her house. I can only imagine the scene when she gets home.
Well, I don’t have to imagine for long, for the next day, it’s the turn of poor David to lie in my bosom, while Annette is crying over his grave, which was her’s yesterday, while her bandaged finger throbs with pain.
Image courtesy- unsplash.com and Rodion Kutsaiev