Graveyard games and chutney tales

The land behind Bengaluru East Railway Station, where Lazar Layout now stands, was once a sprawling graveyard. The area stretched from Richards Town in the west to Cooke Town in the east and from Lingarajapuram in the north to Fraser Town in the south. During our younger days, my brothers and I would often sneak into the graveyard, which served as our secret haven and green lung. We’d spend our free time playing cricket, climbing the massive tamarind trees, or making tamarind chutney on the polished tombstones. The rustling of leaves, the sound of bat meeting ball, and the smooth feel of the tombstones are memories that still linger.

As expected, ghost stories circulated among the locals, who, steeped in superstition, dreaded venturing towards the cemetery road after dusk.

The fear of the unknown and the eerie silence at night kept them away. However, I recall policemen lurking near the Fraser Town underbridge, catching cyclists off guard for riding without lamps after dark and demanding bribes. A toll gate stood at the far end of the graveyard, allowing villagers to enter the town and conduct business. Farmers navigating their broods of ducks through the Fraser Town underbridge, clogging traffic, were a familiar sight. Dr Fernandez, a well-respected doctor, had a clinic near the cemetery, which attracted a steady stream of patients.

All this activity and the place’s unique charm, with its massive tamarind trees and century-old tombstones, are now a part of history.  The sweet scent of tamarind attracted curious children, rodents, and monkeys to the cemetery -- and all of them feasted on the ripe fruit. My brothers, friends and I would head there with our cricket gear. We would stash salt and chilli powder in our pockets, wrapped in newspaper. After a game of cricket with wickets marked on a tree trunk, we climbed the trees, gathered the unripe tamarinds, and prepared a delicious chutney paste on the tombstones. This unique setting gave us the best of nature and a chance to indulge ourselves.

A narrow path meandered through the burial ground, and my maternal grandfather, the late Lieutenant M Dharmalingam, used this route for his daily evening strolls. He’d walk up to the toll gate, umbrella in hand, then turn around and head back. He would pause to watch his teenage grandsons, us, play cricket with glee before moving on. A hockey player in his army days, he loved watching children play.

Unfortunately, nothing lasts forever. Workers arrived one day and desecrated the graves, felled the cherished tamarind trees, and flattened the ground. Within months, the levelled land transformed into a neighbourhood filled with rows of newly built homes. The once serene and green space turned into a bustling residential area. A Hindu temple at the cemetery’s edge, which still stands, is a silent witness to the developments. Looking back, the time spent there during our salad days evokes fond memories.