The symmetry of the dead from the chaos outside! The year is 1988 and we are at Pere Lachaise, the cemetery in Paris which recently became the permanent abode of J.R.D.Tata. The object of our visit is to pay obeisance to Jim Morrison, the leader of the phenomenal band “The Doors”, the magician who set poetry to music and then went on to sing it as no man had ever sung it before.
Streets, streets and more streets, dividing the cemetery into numbered divisions! The place is a veritable miniature city. Sepulchers, houses, temples of every size and style can be observed from every possible angle. And a great number of dead- over a million burials! Thy grey sky above, the black tress below and the granite stones underneath presented with a somber combination.
We move on down Avenue Circulaire. At the 89th division, we come across the family vault of the Tatas. The green granite vault is carved with six torches. We read the names of Jamshed Tata, Dorab Tata, Ratanji Tata, Sooni Ratan Tata, J.R,D’s occupancy is still some years away. Further down is Oscar Wilde. There’s Edit Piaf and Mondigliani along the row. We find memorials to concentration camp victims and executed resistance fighters of the last world war. Coming up next is Mur Des Federes, where troops of the Paris commune were lined up and shot in the last days of the battle. The inevitability of death is all pervasive. The oppressed and their oppressors, interred with the same ritual. Yet the modest tomb there and a grandiose one here still reflect the unequal riches and fame of its occupant. Inequality among the living continues even after death.
It’s getting chilly. We bow our heads in silent salute to Sarah Bernhardt, Moliere, Hugo, Chopin, Balzac, and Rossini. Abel and Heloise lie side by side in prayer, still chastely separate. Imre Nagy, Bizet, Seurat, Proust all scattered in different directions. The list is endless. This is a necropolis of the famous.
Morrison’s tomb is a disappointment. Its modesty takes us aback. Wedged incongruously between imposing mausoleums, the simple slab of granite does no justice to the legend that lies underneath. But the limited space is packed to capacity. Visitors of all nationalities can be seen; hippies rolling joints against a backdrop of Door’s lyrics. A group of American youngsters, one of them wielding a guitar was singing his songs. Rucksacks are casually strewn around. There was graffiti in every language on every stone.
Flowers, many of them withered with time are scattered all around. Some people sat in silence staring at the tombstone bearing the legend: “Jim Morrison” – 1943-1971”. Everybody is alone with his private thoughts and yet together in his devotion to the man and his music.
The last phase of the singer’s life was spent in Paris drinking and taking smack. The end came on the 3rd of July, 1971. Morrison had spent the evening at a club called “Rock n’ Roll Circus” (Still going today as the “Whiskey a Gogo”) where someone gave him heroin to snort. By some account, Morrison died in the club, and then was moved, dead, back to his apartment. Officially, he died in the bath.
As our visit draws to a close, we visit the Colombarium, crematorium and central meeting place. A quotation above the entrance reads:”Voici I’ heure de nous en aller/moi pour mouris, vous pour vivre/qui de nous a le meilleure partage?” (The time has arrived for us to separate; I to die; you to live.Which of us is better off?)
We leave the dead to their peace and solitude and step outside into the battleground. Tomorrow is another day and the war of living goes on. (written in 1988)