Armed with my hardly-ever-borrowed-before-I-came-along copy of Beckett’s most famous play, I headed home to finish reading it, knowing I would just read the wikipedia page in French/English to present the play to my fellow-french haters in class. It’s not that I didn’t like to read, in fact it’s one of the only things that make life bearable, but having to do it in French just sucked all the fun out of it and made it a tad too difficult. Having to look up every other word while reading just kills a book. However, I thought I knew enough French by that point to actually be able to read the play. And I was really, really excited about reading it. The French on the first page seemed easy enough. A couple of hours of struggling through the first 10 pages later, I was completely confused and lost. All ideas of presenting it in class in a couple of days were abandoned. I just presented Voltaire’s Candide instead, a book I had already read a long time ago and loved for its humour. Numerous calls were eventually made to friends all over town, trying to get hold of the English version. A friend finally lent me his photocopy of Waiting For Godot. What followed was a long romance with Beckett and absurdism.
My fascination for Beckett’s work since those early days drove me to choose a class on Molloy in the second semester of my first year at the Sorbonne, and to work on the question of the representation of women in his work for my second year dissertation under an eccentric professor specializing in 20th century writers like Bataille, Camus, Sartre and Beckett. I knew that Beckett had been buried somewhere in Paris, but I hadn’t found his grave at the famous Père Lachaise Cemetery, where the who’s who of the last few centuries lie crowded together competing for space and attention alike, among hordes of tourists clicking invasive-seeming pictures of their idles (bad pun, I know), smiling and posing by their graves. Way to rub it in, guys. Nothing like being full of life on a beautiful day next to dead people.
The more well-known Père Lachaise cemetery. Please don’t use this image without my permission.
So when I realized that Beckett was actually buried at the Montparnasse Cemetery, I resolved to go there immediately. However, a lazy person’s resolve to do something immediately being about as meaningful as Modi’s promise that he had nothing to do with the Gujarat riots, it wasn’t until many, many months and missed opportunities to go there later, on a pleasant day in June 2012, that I finally kept my appointment with the dead. We quickly found all the other graves we wanted to visit- Sartre and Beauvoir, the Ionescos, Baudelaire, Vallejo etc. etc. However, search as we might, we just could not locate Beckett’s grave. No amount of map-reading and calling out helped. It soon started raining- it was the perfect horror-movie scenario. Eventually, it was closing time and we were forced to abandon my search for another day. And that day didn’t arrive till last week, when I finally made it back to the cemetery after over a year.
Accompanied this time by my determined friend Saumya (name unchanged out of lack of concern for her privacy), we searched low and low (see what i did there?) for his grave. Given my complete obsession with the man, was his grave not calling out to me, she chided. We knew there was something obvious that we were missing. How could it be so hard to find such an important person’s grave? This time, however, thanks to my friend, her smart-phone and her determination, the grave was finally found. And just as we had thought, it was in an extremely obvious and visible place, we had somehow just managed to not spot it all that time (HA, no I’m not going to reveal the exact location. Have your own little adventure, trying to locate his grave!). In a way I was happy to not have found it the first time round, because it was a special moment for me, and it was a relief to have shared it with the female equivalent of a ‘bro’ (I’d say ho, but I don’t want to offend anyone).
There lay the tomb, nonchalant and unpretentious, humble and austere (much like Beckett himself when he was alive), right under our noses. Waiting for us to notice him, perhaps. No fancy epitaph, nothing, (unlike the more flamboyant grave of the more stylish Oscar Wilde, if I may say so). Just his and his wife’s names and dates of birth and death. And on it, a little scrap of paper placed by another fan, with ‘En Attendant Godot‘ scribbled on it. The moment I had been waiting for since that day when I first picked up En Attendant Godot was finally here.
Again, my personal photograph. Please don’t feel free to use it without my permission.
Since, I have decided to visit his grave more regularly. Not just because I think that the cemetery is extremely beautiful and that it would be a good place to meet smart young men who love Beckett and are thus, by default, attractive to me. Not even because I think hanging out at a cemetery will make me look edgy and eccentric enough to be considered an intellectual and/or an artist, but because in a world where one is painfully aware of the absence of a higher power to turn to in times of trouble and the living are too imperfect to set an example, I turn to the dead to show the way. Don’t get me wrong, Beckett was certainly not perfect, but death brings a sort of consolation in imperfection, unlike the disappointment you feel when the living prove themselves to be fallible. I have a personal bond with Beckett because like him, I am homeless. Having left Ireland and settled down in France and even switched languages from English to French, Beckett spent his life in search of a home. So is his work haunted by the themes of waiting and the quest for Home. Some of us are born at home; some of us spend our lives in search of it. And all we have to keep us from being too lonely on our solitary journey is some healthy self-derision and dry, ironic humour. All we can do is laugh bitterly at ourselves and our petty dramas. There is no other hope, no other consolation. And most certainly no resolution.
Eventually, towards the end of his life, Beckett changed back to writing in English from writing in French. Was he finally at ease with his heritage and his language? Being an Indian writing in English and speaking hardly any Marathi even though I really want to (I’ve now even forgotten to write in Devnagri), and studying in French for the last two years, I am often consumed by questions of language and heritage. I never felt at home in Pune, and when I came to Paris, it finally felt like I had found home. But of course, things are never as simple as that, and perhaps, like Beckett, it will be many years before I find my language and home, before I am at ease with my roots, if I even have any. Meanwhile, I have his grave to keep me company in a strange city where I live far away from everyone I love and care for. So maybe that was home, right under my nose, while I unwittingly looked for it in so many other places without knowing- that simple tomb of a beloved writer where I finally felt at harmony with the world.
