انت مٹی دا مٹی

Today at the graveyard, for the first time I stopped to notice the names at stones.
Grave stones from 1933 to 2019.Maakha Pehalwan.
Zahoor Illahi headmaster.
Haseena Ikram zauja Ikram Ali.
Dr. Wajid Hussain.
Major Abdus Samad.
Karam Deen khaadim daargah...

No woman had any distinction outside her relationship with a male. Men had relationships, associations, and sometimes their passions mentioned as their marks of significance.

Funny thing how we believe a stone to bear a witness to our significance, when we're no more.

Imagine how little it all matters now. The graves side by side. All mounds of dirt. All of them crumpled clay ... who knows at what station of 'Hast o Neest' now. In which state inside the earth!
Wilted flowers, faded stones. An uninterrupted quiet, punctuated by an old man reciting darood aloud walking through the grassy patches, or a sobbing young widow at a fresh grave.

Walking back from my parents graves, lying next to each other despite their wisaal 12 years apart, I kept thinking of who'd leave me in the ground. What'd my headstone read? Would my aulaad be like those dotting aulaads who have found their parents of no worthy identity than a mention of relationship with themself?
Walida of so and so. Walid of so and so...

Would I be fortunate enough to have a piece of land claim my being of clay? Would I be lucky enough to find my 'ant'?

Ant mitti da mitti...


Image my own. Of my own.