The game of Sangirag - 25th letter

Dear Khodayar, I went to visit your final camp – the place in Dandenong where you lived out the last days of your life beside the creek. The winter afternoon was cold but sunny and beautiful. As I walked through the bush I saw many people gathered near your tree. Drawing closer I saw that they were Hazara men playing a game. I was astonished. I watched the men as they threw smooth stones at small wooden targets. The stones arcing through the air against the bright blue sky and the sunlit leaves of the eucalyptus trees. There was the dull thud as the stones fell back to earth near the target – the occassional click as the target was hit directly. When each man had taken a turn the group changed ends and collected their individual stones. I asked what is this game called? It is called sangirak they told me. You can’t stand here, it is dangerous. I moved off to your tree and straightened the flowers that I had put there days earlier. Later when I was departing the game was still continuing. The small smooth rocks being hurled one after the other at the target as player after player took aim. I saw in their faces a continuity with you and your story, Khodayar. Love Stephen