Short fiction from Kashmir: A middle-aged man struggles to locate his lover’s grave

Every evening I had promised myself never to return to this city, our city, and after years of promises, here I was, searching for her, carrying under the folds of my jacket the handful of flowers I had picked along the way.

All through the journey, on the flights and in the waiting areas, I had imagined this moment a thousand times, but always thought this graveyard would be small, like the one where many years ago my grandmother and then grandfather were buried and where, before them, my father had lain in a corner forever. I had, in fact, seen it as the same square graveyard fenced by low brick walls, and I hadn’t thought I would have to search for her. I had seen her all along at the centre, as if all the dead in their graves had made way for her. How foolish it had been of me to imagine her like that, dignified and distinguished in death, exacting a special treatment.

The graveyard spread out in vast brightness. Afraid all along of running into someone here, now I looked around for help, and it offended me that amid all these dead that meant nothing to me, my love…

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