Let’s call him Uncle Saby to protect his privacy. Dare I say, it’s close to his real name though I’m pretty sure that in the rare likelihood of him learning about this little ode to him, he would be cool about the attention.

Often, when I step into the cemetery where my dear parents are laid to rest, there is an inexplicable urge to invoke dark humour. Why? Perhaps, it’s my way of processing grief. Then, there are these masala Western flicks that have left a mark; snatches from those VHS-era films, starring the likes of Clint Eastwood, Gregory Peck, Yul Brynner and co. that come rushing to mind whenever I approach this space. It’s high noon and a scorcher. Dust bowl-like scenes greet me. Crows and hawks hover above in the salty, heavy air [the cemetery was laid over salt pans]. It has all the trappings of a frame when one gun-toting, denim-and-leather-vest-clad rebel faces off against another. The missing element is the main street of a Midwest town, where such scenes are usually set in. And yes, there is no handsome Eastwood or Brynner in sight.