Personally I always seek out graveyards when I'm travelling in India. They're heavy with stories of the long-forgotten lives of suicidal subalterns and opium agents that populated 19th and early 20th century India.Like Mr. Foster, I have a fascination with graveyards, and other markers of the lives of our ancestors in all their particularity and individuality. [For instance, this recalls the time I spent at the St. Thomas Cathedral in Bombay this summer, reading the various marble slab inscriptions of British soldiers long gone].
My favourite is in a Bihari town called Motihari, where George Orwell was born to an opium agent. Half the slabs are being used as washing stones and the other half disappearing under a green slime being produced by the local sewer.
Among the headstones slowly sinking into the mire is the pathetic, child-sized memorial to Eileen May, the daughter of Anthony O'Reilly Edwards, who died aged "1yr, 2mths and 17 days" in May 1881. Beside her lies Mr Edwards's "beloved wife", Caroline, who followed his daughter into the ground 18 months later in Dec 1882. Of the broken-hearted Mr Edwards there is no sign.
William Dalrymple's new book on the last Mughals looks simply delicious. I read a review this summer, but it wasn't yet out in the bookstores in India. Something to look forward to for this winter's trip maybe.