It was rather accidental that I stumbled upon this most peaceful of resting places. It is not often that you wander into a graveyard that you are not specifically visiting to shed some tears for a loved one who has carried on into the next world.

I was on horseback, just riding here and there in the hills when I rode past two white pillars, with no gates. My eyes just managed to scan the almost unclear text on the pillar and by the time my mind registered what it meant I had already trotted ahead.

But of course I immediately reined my horse in and turned around and asked my guide and new friend Terry if we could go in.

The pillar said �Last Resting Place For Parsis�. Intriguing. For Parsis as a rule do away with their dead, differently. Dokhmenashimi it is called and the place where the ceremony takes place goes by the lovely name of �Tower Of Silence�.

Getting off our horses, we walked down the long, narrow, cobbled pathway, at the end of which was a wrought iron gate. It was ajar. Even as I stepped in, a sense of quiet enveloped me. And my soul was transported to another country, another time frame. Toronto, circa 1979, when I used to catch a train from Scarborough to come downtown, to meet my friend, only to drive back home with him after he finished work. On the way, from my train window, I used to read a floral sign which said, �Mount Pleasant�. It was a graveyard, and the prettiest one ever. In a strange way I used to love looking at that place and the thought that would run through my mind was �lucky to be buried there�.

It was a similar thought here, as I walked around the graves of Parsis with names such as Sunny Dinshaw, Hilla Jehangir Nariman, Bai Shirinbai, Framroze and Farida, by all accounts, strangers. And then I came across one I knew, Jimmy Lord, who can quite easily be called the father of Matheran, his love for the hill station was that great.

There was no sense of morbidity, it was in just plain and simple terms, an overwhelming experience. Why was I feeling so moved? I couldn�t understand. Till I started reading the epitaphs. Oh such gentle words, so filled with love, the pain, the ethos, the sad acceptance of death, of parting.

I suddenly remembered my camera. I started shooting pictures. For no reason, just for myself. For surely a graveyard could not form part of a story in a food and wine magazine� And I walked on meandering between slabs of marble and granite, shooting close-ups of the verses of love and longing, promises and prayers. There were some truly moving ones like:

Eternal Rest In Her Land of Love and Joy
Mourned by Her Ever Sorrowing Husband
Awaiting the Call by Her Side

The Cup was Bitter
The Sting Severe
To Part with One
I Loved So Dear

Though Dead You Live Within My Heart
Your Presence Lingers Here
Remembered Only By Your Love
My Memory Holds You Dear

Sleep On Dear Child
And Take Thy Rest
God Taketh First
He Loveth Best

Up the gentle slope, around the trees, in the first row and the second, a tiny baby�s grave here and a 90 year old man�s there. Flowers cut in marble, iron chains encasing tombs, the sun peeping through the ancient tall trees now and then, the dappled light creating an aura of serenity, the chirping birds adding to the harmony.

This is how it should be, I thought. Respect and love for the departed. Love and care shinning through. Beauty transcends all emotions. And tranquility evokes normal responses. No wonder then that even strangers get moved and say prayers for the souls they never met. Who knows bonds can get created in the most unusual places.