The grave of fast bowler Fazal Mahmood, titled 'Oval Hero' for his exploits in a 1954 Test played against England.

On a tombstone in a derelict graveyard in Lahore, are written the words: “My wife, my friend, my love, my life” – a love story in eight short words.

Above this proclamation is a name and dates of birth and death.

Poignant, yes, but also startlingly unique. Hers is probably one of the very few tombstones planted above the millions of dead in this country, that expresses an emotion.

That is just not how it is done in Pakistan.

Traditionally, when a marker has to be put up, it will carry a name, a date of birth and a date of death, along with a few religious inscriptions. That’s about it.

Rarely will any other detail of life be mentioned. Rarer still is any expression of sentiment.

Rites upon rites mark the first 40 days after a death, but the tombstone remains void of emotion. Almost all departed souls are dearly loved.

Why then, the reluctance to express it?

Deadpan epitaphs for the dead

This is a land of raging feelings.

Drivers will scream, weddings will be week-long affairs, politics will be passionate, friends will be for life, neighbours will be nosy, religion will be second to none, cricket will be second only to religion.

Each citizen carries a lifelong pass to an emotional roller coaster entirely his own. But one trip to a graveyard is enough to dispel this image.

Who is buried under these depressingly sterile nameplates?

Are these the same people who in life knew not a single moment of staid conventionalism, for whom being alive was synonymous with being opinionated?

Why have we ignored all that they were in the final words ever ascribed to them?

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Many famous people of course do not fall into the above category. As in life, so in death, their fame is on display, marking them as different from ordinary folks.

Waheed Murad’s tombstone lets us know with no ambiguity that this was the “Great Superstar”, the “Chocolate Hero”. Fazal Mehmood’s has “Oval Hero” engraved on the back, the sound of those 12 fallen wickets still echoing five decades later. Allah Wasai, a queen to the last, is buried as “Noor Jahan, Malika-e-Tarannum”. Manto famously wanted his epitaph to be a challenge to God’s writing skills, but his relatives decided to make do with a less controversial message.

Waheed Murad's epitaph remembers him as the 'Chocolate Hero'.

Saadat Hasan Manto's epitaph.

Surprisingly, the real celebrities of this country – politicians and statesmen – mostly have simple markers with a cursory mention of a title or two. Larger than life while still breathing, their last resting places are marked by humble plaques.

General Zia-ul-Haq is just the "President of Pakistan & Chief of Army Staff", his absolutist 11-year rule over the country seemingly a figment of imagination.

The most flamboyant of our Presidents, he of the bow ties and horse rides with Jackie Kennedy fame, Ayub Khan’s marker simply reads “Field Marshal”.

Salman Taseer’s many avatars and achievements fade away in the face of the final one; the successful businessman, politician and collector of art is ultimately a “Martyr of Humanity”.

Benazir Bhutto’s inscription is only slightly more elaborate, stating this to be the grave of the first woman prime minister of the Muslim world, “martyred fighting for democracy and for the peaceful message of Islam”.

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Women — the mothers, daughters and wives of men

For both the famous and the ordinary, a tradition had previously existed of leaving a written tribute on a tomb. Graves four or five decades old are inscribed with poetry, blessings, regrets, and salutations.

Somewhere along the way though, the epitaphs were turned into emotionless inscriptions, and those are now morphing into something more impersonal: more and more women’s graves are marked by not a name but a relation.

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She is now a zauja (wife) of Malik Fareed* or a dukhtar (daughter) of Chaudhry Bashir or walida (mother) of Jamil Ishfaq. Her name will not be mentioned. She will forever be a possession. Here lies proof that Malik Fareed existed.

Religious belief is part of the reason behind the namelessness of these tombs; life and death are accepted as God’s will, and a human emotion in face of the Almighty’s irreversible final decision seems inconsequential, so why bother about it.

The epitaph of Boota Pehelwan.

Tombstone of the founder of Lunda Bazaar, Mohammad Sultan.

There’s also the reasoning that if space is limited, then it should be dedicated to scripture, blessings bearing down eternally. Another reason seems to be a desire to follow the crowd. In a lot with many nameless graves, few would want to stand out as the odd one out.

The real reason, though, seems to be a national reluctance to publicly express love, especially towards a female. Couples do not hold hands, do not engage in perfunctory hugs. Many fathers are reluctant to shower grown-up children with physical affection.

Our men are stoic, far above the messy business of feelings.

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In another derelict graveyard of Lahore is the grave of a 16-year-old girl.

A small metal plate stands on two spindly legs at the head. The name and dates are painted on in a neat, clean professional hand. Underneath them, with an unsteady hand, that lays no claims of having done this before, is written “Meri Pyaari Laado” (my pampered darling) – a tragedy in three short words.

Not a stoic man who wrote this.

He lets you share his pain, he does not let the reader walk on unhindered. The messy business of feelings screams out that his child lies here and she was his beloved. The paint bleeds as does the heart when reading it.

—Photos by author