Union of a Special Kind
Tulip Chowdhury
One Christmas Eve, the late afternoon found
me wandering around the downtown of Amherst. Relaxed on the holidays, my eyes
feasted on the white world of the deep winter. Massachusetts is famous for its
cold and piles of fresh snow was tempting me to walk on its soft layers. The streets
were bright with colorful lights. The shop windows had lines of smiling Santa
Clauses and cars passed by with Christmas carols singing on their radios.
The last, pink hues of the setting sun in the
western sky gave a conquering look on the fading day. After I crossed the post
office I felt a tug on my heart strings and entered the West Cemetery. Emily
Dickinson, my favorite poet was buried there. I am fond of nature as she was,
and the scenic beauty of Amherst tied my soul to her through all seasons and
their waves of changes in nature.
However, on that day, I felt as if someone was
beckoning me to the cemetery. When I visited the Emily Dickinson Museum earlier,
the presence of her spirit had engulfed me. Inside the cemetery, my creative self
was holding out hands, seeking a deeper affinity to her spirit.
I was a few steps into the sacred ground when
I became aware that Christmas carols were echoing all around the graveyard. And
there came voices reciting poems too. The notes and words were not clear but
they penetrated deep into my mind, like echoes coming from a deep cave. I was
transferred to a mystic land of people long gone from my world. It was winter
but trees around me, no longer were bare but full of green leaves. I was not
sure whether I was sensing or actually seeing it all. Even birds, butterflies
and bees were floating around and they held me in a trance. Was spring there before winter, a time travel of the seasons?
I had expected a solitary walk in the West
Cemetery, the place of the eternal silence. But, I was not sure what was
happening, for the graveyard seemed to be bustling with people. I could feel
their presence though could not see them clearly. Hazy forms of men and women were
moving around, but they wore clothing of long past. Women in billowing skirts
and men in tall hats as seen in the paintings I had seen of the 17th
and 18th century were moving around. As I walked on, I could see
people dressed in modern clothes and wondered if they had left this world
recently.
I felt fearful of where the approaching night
was taking me and I blurted out,
“Oh dear, what is going to happen, where am I
going?”
I heard a distinct sigh beside me and
hesitant footsteps stopped, as if to listen to me. Had someone been walking with me? As if in
answer I heard a soft, gentle voice,
‘It’s your heart that brought you to our
gathering for Christmas. Had you not so longed to see me?’
I stopped dead on my tracks. At my right, I
could just fathom a familiar figure standing beside me. All the gentleness and
sweetness I had seen in the pictures of Emily Dickinson seemed to radiate from
the figure. I knew it was her, it was Emily’s spirit. I always had firm belief
that spirits continue to be in this world after our physical self ends. As I
stared at Emily, if I had any doubts, they were gone. The blending of our two
poetic souls held the universal bond of mankind that very instant. Emily walked
along with me, perfect harmony of steps, but keeping quiet with perfect
understanding of my need to take in the miracle of our meeting. I was dumbfounded
for a while, but managed to come up with some words,
‘Hello Emily, I’m honored to have you with
me. I had no idea that I would really meet you.’ I spoke softly, as if loudness
would drive her away.
I spoke but my voice was not there. I was
caught in the strangeness of the moment and did not panic. However, she seemed
to understand me, hear me. With a tilt of her head and a sweet smile, Emily
took my right hand and gave it a friendly squeeze. The warmth of her hold
seeped through the three lairs of clothing I wore and I was not cold anymore.
My heart was bubbling like summer streams. Me, from Bangladesh and my American
beloved poet, we bonded like soul mates, both transcending our times on Earth.
As we moved deeper into the graveyard, the
voices I had been aware of earlier became louder. Other spirits of young and
old people moved around us. There was magic in the air and I could feel an
immense sense of giving into creative moods of Emily and myself. I could distinctly
hear many voices going up and down, reciting Emily Dickinson’s poem “Death”.
“ Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just
ourselves
And Immortality…”
A
woman’s voice was saying from nearby. “Emily spoke our thoughts, not many of us
could write poetry. We are so proud of her.” I could fathom the form of the
other spirit talking to me and wondered if she had read many of Emily’s poetry,
like me.
As we moved along the pavement, eyes fell on
the different kinds of tombstones. The recitation of poems and snatches of
hymns rose from them, as if that was a special day for the departed to read
poems. I could catch snatches of Emily Dickinson’s other poetry. The voices
reminded me of cicadas that sing in summer days. The spirits around me were in
a festive mood. They were not lamenting for the loved ones they had left behind,
rather there was peacefulness in them with acceptance of death. I felt my
spirits reach a tranquility of its own, I was at peace in my world or beyond. Once
again Emily’s hand reached out and patted me on my shoulder, sort of steading
me on my thoughts.
My eyes fell on all the graves around me.
With every reading of the names on the headstones I could hear voices, as if
the buried people were reaching out to me. My eyes fell on a grave that was
marked very simply on a square shaped stone. A woman’s form sat on the stone
and smiled at me saying.
‘Oh I see you have finally found our Emily,
we knew how badly you wanted to meet her.’ ‘
There was a soft laugh, sweet like the first
tweet of the morning bird, it was Emily. She remarked,
‘How can we not meet, we two are free
spirits, our hearts are captivated by love and nature.’
Somewhere an owl hooted and I pinched myself
to make sure that I was awake. Was I dreaming? But Emily knew just what I was
thinking for she said,
‘Oh you are awake, very much alive. But on
this day you got lucky and got your wish to meet me and other spirits. You are
safe and will go home soon.’
Passing
by a huge mound of snow, I tried to take a closer look at Emily’s face. I longed
to see those lovely, large eyes, the delicate nose and the smiling lips set on
the very sweet face. True to the pictures I had seen, there was an aura of
pureness in her whole poetic self.
Then
there was a soft laugh and I could hear Emily reciting her poem, “Nature is What We See”.
“Nature is
what we see—
The Hill—the Afternoon—
Squirrel—Eclipse— the Bumble
bee—
Nay—Nature is Heaven—…”
The
frozen world of winter was bursting with liveliness with joyfulness of her
voice in her poem. I felt and oneness with Emily under the vast canopy of the
darkening sky. My brown skin and her white did not cause a ripple in our soul
connection. We were poets in love with life.
Evening set in and gusts of chilly wind began to blow. I gathered the lapels
of my coat closer, seeking warmth. As Emily and I walked, I wondered what had
brought me to the cemetery that day. Things happen for a reason, and I sought
answer in my own puzzled self.
We were passing by a large tree when I heard
a voice from its trunk area. I was not surprised, trees have life and our
conversations were a regular practice. I could tell trees my best and worst
secrets and they would understand. The boughs moved up and down as the voice
came,
‘I’m
the oldest tree in this cemetery you know and the oldest witness to people’s
crying for the dead. I too wait, for with all living things I too will be taken
on my time, maybe I will witness your burial too.’
‘What
do you mean? How do you know I’ll be buried here? Is death near me?’ I asked,
puzzled.
As I
waited for the tree to speak, the branches stopped moving and the people
suddenly vanished. But I could hear their voices singing on,
‘Silent
night, holy night
All
is calm, all is bright…’
I was
about to turn and go home when I caught the sight of a very familiar figure, it
was Rabindranath Tagore. I was going crazy, was that the day even Tagore’s
spirit had come to Amherst? Tagore, with this versatile work of songs, poems
and prose was the beacon to all my literary inspirations. He seemed to be
walking along in a long white garb, the “dhuti” that Indians wear. The distinct sharp nose, the long beard and
those deep set eyes, I was not making any mistakes. I felt that it was the
depth of my worshipping his work that had brought him there to join in the winter
evening. And once again I could distinguish his voice breaking the silence of
the cemetery,
darieyo acho aamar gaanero paare
( you wait on the threshold my
songs…)
I looked around me bewildered. Were there some Indian immigrants buried in
this cemetery? Was he conveying the message that he knew how much I loved his
works and how was it that he was singing one of my favorite Tagore songs?
As I
moved on, I felt as if Emily was gently holding my hand, leading me on,
explaining,
‘This
is a special night when spirits of poets meet across the world. In the world of
the spirits there is not boundary of land and so Tagore too roams around.’ She
paused before saying, ‘ See the white snowflakes, it’s snowing! Don’t you love
this wonder of nature?’
Just then icy snow fakes touched my face. I
had been too absorbed with the happenings to notice the snow. It was to be a
white Christmas and snow fell like angels’ kisses all over me.
‘Aha, so another poet is here.” I heard from
Emily as a new form stood in front of us.
I could not believe it. It was the Afghan poet Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi,
my spiritual harbor. There he stood, with that humble look that often comes on
men of wisdom. His head was covered with what we call “turban”.
‘You, my poet friend would perhaps like to
listen to a part of my poem of the spirits since we are gathered here
reconciling our poetic senses,” he was telling me. Then in very gentle voice, I
heard Rumi’s poem filtering in the air,
“There is a
community of the spirit.
Join it, and
feel the delight
of walking in
the noisy street
and being the
noise.
Drink all your
passion…”
‘I..I..I…am…honored
Sir,’ I stopped.
But where was he? Just as suddenly as he had
come, he had vanished. Somewhere a bell clanged. Suddenly I began to feel an
emptiness beside me. Indeed, there was no Emily, no more of her spirit. Then my
eyes caught her receding figure, moving farther and farther away from me.
‘Please Emily stay a little longer.’ I said
softly but she looked over head, smiled very sweetly, her voice seeping into
the space,
‘It was a good communion of spirits. In our
world of creative hearts, the living and the dead at times meet in spirits and
I was happy to see you. On my behalf spread the beauty of nature and peace in
the present restless world.’
I could see the spirit rising up and then all
was quiet. It was a quiet cemetery giving into the darkness of night. I was sad
but Emily’s spirit left me content, my creative thirst had been filled with the
sweetest wine. I whispered into the darkness, knowing she will hear me,
‘Emily, thank you. You have given me sense of
purpose and I will continue your mission to spread truth, love and nature with
my poems.’
As I moved toward the gate of the cemetery to
go home, Santa passed in his carriage, the reindeer and bells jingling away.
Life was strange. Burial places are supposed
to give messages of the end. But for me, Emily had given me new beginning to
believe in my work, bonded in spirits, we were locals of Amherst. I have to
continue writing how beautiful life was to our senses and beyond.
Writer & Poet Tulip Chowdhury lives in Amherst (birthplace of Emily Dickinson), Massachussets
