Only The Forgotten Are Truly Dead

The British cemetery near the historical 18^th Century Potagada fort in Odisha’s Ganjam district is one of the oldest in the country. This abandoned burial ground, just outside the village, contains nearly forty graves, comprising tombstones, obelisks, bottle-tombs, crypts and a dozen magnificently erected spire-like monuments in masonry. Most of them have engraved plaques, many of which have faded with age – mouldy and unreadable tombstones which mark unknown people.

Though there is a boundary wall around the cemetery, there is no gate and nobody takes care of the place. Even though it is predominantly a British cemetery, there are French and Portuguese graves too, as the nearby Potagarh fort was under different occupation in its nearly 150 years of existence.
The cemetery mostly contains the graves of British officers, planters and administrators. Most of these are cenotaphs for those killed in the three resistance movements against British rule between 1753 and 1886 by the rulers of Ghumsur, Mahuri and Paralakhemundi. I found two graves of Frenchmen and one of a Portuguese woman.

Although the surviving headstones are still in their original places, there are no longer neat rows of tombs like it must have originally been. There is a cluster of half-a-dozen tall bottle-shaped spires. Grave robberers have obviously done their work, as many of the marble plaques were missing.

Nature has moved in and taken over, and many of the graves are lost in a tangle of vegetation. There were thorny creepers and shrubs, and falling trees had damaged many of the headstones. Roots have cracked open and uprooted some grave markers.  In many places, tombstones lay in ruins; they were just piled-up heaps of stones and bricks.  Headstones had toppled over and were sinking in the dry grass and overgrowth. This final resting spot for so many of these souls was terribly neglected. I am sure many more graves and headstones are simply unseen and hidden by nature.

There was an unnatural eerie silence that enveloped the place. I had to thrash my way around to reach most of the tombs and photographing them, surrounded by dried thorny shrubs, was quite a task. The afternoon wind whispered in hushed tones as if trying to speak to me; it was as if the spirits of the dead wanted someone to remember them. The far-away sound of the breakers crashing on the beach added to the symbolism.

It is often argued that British cemeteries in India were sites that functioned to display and maintain British domination. Most gravestones were done in grand style, and tall cenotaphs were made for the dead who had perished elsewhere. The plaque on the tomb of Denis Hanson had been whitewashed over. I cleaned up the granite slab to read what was engraved:

To the Memory of Denis Hanson

 Medical Charge of the Zillah of Ganjam,

Drowned on the 7^th October 1858

in Embarking for Madras from this Port

Aged 43 Years.

In the midst of life we are in death. Of whom may we seek for
succor but of Thee, O Lord, who for our sins are justly displeased.
Thou knowest the secrets of our hearts; shut not thy merciful ear to
our prayer

By now a curious bunch of villagers had gathered outside, but no one came near the graves. One of them called out and warned me to be careful of snakes.

The Portuguese occupation of Potagarh Fort is evident from the grave of Maria Asuncion Artiaga. I had to clear a lot of foliage to read the elaborate inscription that ran as follows:  

Till The Resurrection of the Dead

Here Are Deposited the Mortal Remains of

Maria Asuncion Artiaga

The Beloved Wife of Thomas Fletcher, Planter

Who Full of Faith Fell Asleep In Jesus

On the 24^th of February 1857

Aged 35 Years  5 Months  17 Days

A Token of Affection for Her Loss and Regard for Her Virtues This Monument is Erected to Her memory By Her Bereaved and Sorrowing Husband.

It was after some time that realisation hit me. I was reading the inscription on 24 February, 2013, an ironic coincidence that I was visiting the place on her 156^th death anniversary. I picked up a bunch of wild flowers and laid them on the grave and offered a silent prayer. In the periphery of my sight, I saw a few villagers too folding their hands.  Rest in peace, Maria.

The tales of the ghosts that haunt this cemetery were not much different than most graveyard stories. The villagers told me that there have been many startling paranormal events. Some of them told me that they often see a woman in white who is usually sitting on one of the markers. She sits still, looking into her lap apparently reading or praying. One of the villagers said that she held a baby in her arms and spends an eternity searching for the child’s grave which must have been destroyed.

As daylight faded and darkness moved in, it became difficult to discern the tombstones amongst the trees. The small copse where this cemetery now lies hidden took on an even more creepy atmosphere. The villagers left after waiting patiently for me to finish whatever I was doing. Some of them told me to leave before sunset. However, I waited until it was dark, hoping to see the woman in white who roamed around, or maybe some dark foreboding shadow. However, the only ghosts around were the unseen dogs who barked incessantly.