“Where are you –
you promised me that you would text me the instant you land ... call me urgently” was a frantic message I received as I stood in a long cue at Narita Airport.
“If my plane crashes, news channels will let
you know, earlier than the airport authorities” was the message I typed on my smartphone - but never sent to my sensitive wife, who always gets worried during my travels, disregarding
the logistical challenges of immigration formalities.
Her nervousness on my well-being is not new; it is
just that the recent mysterious disappearance of planes made her, more
vulnerable. She would fear that the first officer of my plane would
deliberately crash the plane. She would imagine that my plane flying either in an
altered altitude or in a zone of armed conflict will have a catastrophic breakdown.
Well, these fears are understandable; what is not understandable
is her desire to see her husband hale and hearty for the next several years. Some
day she will be wrong and that would end this fear forever, enabling her to
embrace an eternal truth. As a matter fact, no wife ever wants her husband to
board even a remade Titanic ship even
if it assures 99.99% passenger safety.
0.1% odds will always worry 99.99% wives, after all.
There is a tiny terror in everything that we do, almost
every day.
Life runs a constant battle between time and destiny.
The hazard of death is all over. It is a tricky time
bomb that silently lies in our pocket which may explode without a thud, some day.
A spontaneous combustion, a prolonged indigestion, a speeding car, a livid mob,
a gustiest storm, a wicked act of god or a gentle act of sex - technically,
anything can claim our life with a blink of an eye. Driving down to the office without
succumbing to a head-on collision, stepping out of an elevator without being sucked
dangerously - are sheer providential miracles that we unmindfully live, almost every
day. Even when we hear about these freaky accidents happening elsewhere, we do
not ever think that this could happen to us as though we are Spiderman’s cousins. Avant-garde vigilance may escape us from dying stupidly by delaying
death’s early assault but death is right behind us, following us like an
inseparable dark shade. Even while you are reading this blog, just turn around –
you may see it hiding, smiling wickedly at you.
Even death has a
heart, writes Markus
Zusac in The Book of thief.
Millions who complete their life successfully to die
peacefully are the beneficiaries of death’s good heart. If I am still alive
after writing this and if you are still breathing while reading this, do not
attribute your life to your leafy vegetable diet or good karma.
It is just a preprogrammed strategy governed by god’s manuscript
that we are still alive.
He alone will choose the cause and he never feels
necessary to inform his target, ever.
It is foolish to disregard and deny his caprice.
***
I quizzed myself today - what if I end up dying tonight; the
imaginations were scary.
First thing first; I am sacred of dying - dying lonely.
Implausibly muted body slipping into total darkness into
a cottage of absolute quiet and quantum emptiness - indeed is a scary thing. A
sleep with no nightmare, a body with no sensation, a brain with no thoughts, a
heart with no feelings, an expressionless state with no events with no distinctive
fears must be a terrible experience.
So, dying is a scary thing.
Secondly, the very thought of prematurely
bereaving my young children and a loving wife would pain me – immensely.
When I am gone, I would perhaps leave
behind a deep void, besides some interesting memories for my family.
Sore silence, excruciating
emptiness and a plentiful pain would envelop my small house, making it unbearably
bigger and unnecessarily duller.
My smiling photo hung on the wall
of our drawing hall would seek a sharp attention from every visitor for the
first few days.
My parents, my brother and few good
friends of mine would inconsolably praise some of my deeds and the effect of
those deeds. They would remember how I had a great will to live and how I left
nothing to chance.
My wife would exactly know what
people would mean when she repeatedly hears them giving her an abortive
assurance that I am not dead but alive in everyone’s hearts.
At midnight, she would abruptly be awakened to a stirring
dream that depicts that I am alive - only to be disappointed to confront with a
cruel truth.
My second son, persuaded by his mother that his dad
has gone to the god to get a mysterious sword for him will continue boasting about
his brave dad’s heroic deeds before friends.
For my first boy, life would never be the same, again.
He would dramatically turn out into a mature guy, mostly foregoing his boyhood.
He will miss his dad in social events at his schools.
He would remember me in every academic success and co-curricular victories.
Characterized by a diminished faith and a vanished
joy, my kids will miss seeing their sloppily whistling dad on the driver seat
of my car while my wife will miss a warm chest to caress, while lying
sleeplessly on an empty bed.
The roads would look longer and so
do the nights.
Sunk in the subtler shadows of subsiding
grief, bored with the whispering silence – soon people would come to terms with
a life minus an important person in it.
And when the sorrow exhausts them
and tears dry away, grief will mature them.
There will be some recurring and
relevant sadness - but the memories of the stupid tricks I played and dirty jokes
I cracked, petty poems I wrote and impossible culinary I tried would slowly
start bringing a brief laugh, back on their faces.
One fine morning when they would wake
up to a scintillating sound of pouring rain after a good sleep and find coffee tasting
better, they would suddenly learn that the numb pain is subsiding. The dull
pleasantness would slowly push them out of grief and life starts tipping from despair
to hope.
Some encouraging conversations, motivating
text messages, mindlessly forwarded jokes, spam mails, innovative apps, new
recipes, new friends… will slowly but routinely begin gaining space in Uma’s life.
She would be hesitant in the beginning to accept resurfacing joy - like a
sobbing child made to smile whose unfinished anger and untold complaints, holding
the child back from being fully into the present - but newly gained spiritual
approach would enable her embrace new life, steadily and surely.
My elder son mused with pubic hair
and erection would unexpectedly start exploring his new identity while enjoying
new possibilities and new relations.
My second son will learn that the mysterious
sword was a cruel joke and would never dare to ask for one thereafter - fearing
that his mother would also be gone forever to get one.
New occasions, new events will
loosen too tightly held grip with grief.
Unavoidable newness in the air would
confirm them that life is taking a turn, for good.
And then life moves on; and
everyone would mechanically start walking through the blunting pain.
A delicate delight would well everybody
up.
Well, they won’t miss me any less -
but they would soon discover a working hypothesis for life, knowing well that
they too have a good life ahead.
***
There is mysterious resistance to accept death and its
harshness.
Even while I was writing about my imaginary death and
the assumed harsh state of my family, there was a cognitive dissonance that was
fighting death back, reminding me repeatedly that I have good chunk of an unlived
life, yet ahead.
Sigmund Freud calls this marvel ‘Eros’ – a dogma that seeks both to
preserve life and to create life.
It is just that I want to win
life’s generosity for a little more time.
I am yet to confess some errors, I am yet to make last
few errors.
I am yet to live an unlived life.
***
I went to a nearby shop other day to quickly refill my groceries and as I reached the shop, the shopkeeper pulled the shutters down.
I had plenty of money to buy the things that I wanted with enough
time by my side to shop. But the shop keeper closed the shop, way ahead of time.
“You cannot do this..it is just 7.30 in the evening ” I said infuriatedly.
“But sir, it is time…” he shamelessly
smiled at me and disappeared in a few seconds.
Our life’s shutter can many a times be pulled down ahead of time.
Not that I decline to die; but the very thought of dying
early makes me go weak at the knees.
Honestly, I view death as an odd
relief; perhaps mankind’s only path to respite. It is a final frontier, a
well-known fear.
Interesting thing about death is that, it controls me.
The very thought that someday I shall sleep - never to wake up again – renders a
remarkable poise in life. It calibrates my illusions, it reconnects me to the
reality, it deepens my sense of responsibility, softens my ego, and it strengthens
my agility.
Recognizing the fact that the joy of life always co-exist with fear
of death, I move on singing ‘abb to jo bhi ho so ho’(No matter whatever
happens).
