Thank you ladies and gentlemen for coming! I really really wanted to
talk to you. The matter is a serious matter, of grave concern. Grave! Huh!
(smirks) Grave. Grave is serious. The man who coined this synonym, this
allegorical synonym must have been a morbid man. Have you ever thought about
it? Why would he choose, of all words, the word ‘grave’ to mean to be something
very, very serious. Give it a thought. (Thinks)
Come to think of it, and you know, it makes sense. You can’t dismiss a
grave. You can’t just laugh about death. Can you? And hence the word does make
sense, after all. But I am getting increasingly curious about this origin, this
man, and how it must have occurred to him. May be he was a child, and... well,
not a child, a grown-up, a grown-up of say age around 25, or let’s just say my
age, (grins) and he was talking to his parents. They were talking about
something, well anything, and he happened to say kind of kidding, “Mom, blah
blah blah blah blah blah, but what if I die before that? What if I go to the
grave, and you are laying flowers on it..” “Oh stop!” The mom’s reaction-pretty
easy to guess. “Oh come on, what are you saying?” She was totally disturbed,
fretting more than ever, “Don’t say such a thing ever again, my boy. Why should
you die? If anyone has to die, God take me, but you are talking in front of a
mother about her son’s death. Why should you die?” And with this snubbing, he
realized that man, never ever mention death, leave alone joking about it. Death
is damn serious. Grave is damn serious. So whenever, he would have to say that
this is a damn serious matter, he started to say, it’s a grave matter,
requiring grave concern. What! Did this man have this inherent ability to be
funny; to bring this morbid word into a common everyday usage and thus mock at
the teaching of his mother. Or, was he trying to tell us something? May be he
was trying to tell us that it’s..... no wait, let me not say it right now. I
pretty well have digressed from what I was going to tell you about, happened to
get into this word, but on a second thought, I’ve not really digressed that
much as you would think. You would think much more, because this is not what
you would have imagined. That when I said that please come, I got to tell you
something important, it was death that I wanted to speak to you about. Did you?
Is death important? Or money is important? Huh! Which one is more important? Or
is there something more important than that? The Saturday night party, planning
for the upcoming birthday celebration, office work, business, what? Whatever it
be, now you’ll have to bear with me, because indeed it’s death that I want to
shove into your ears; and (pause) your mind.
Many of you would be thinking that oh God! when we could have been
enjoying an ice-cream among the (shouting this one word) over-bored, mundane (whispering)
- pardon me! I’m not feeling well - enjoying ice-cream with the big happy crowd
at India Gate this evening, we are listening to this morbid man. I treated that
man with the same pathos. We made a point to stay away from him. We, I mean, my
siblings, my friends, (quick recollection) even my family and I. When I met him
for the first time, he was sitting in this park where I used to go for evening
walks. He was sitting there on the bench. I was exercising. I had sweated a
good deal. There were other benches in the park, but I don’t know why I chose
to sit along with him. Actually this was queer of me taking into account my
otherwise covert, I mean introvert, nature. I would rather avoid than talk to
someone if it was optional. But (pause, thinking) I don’t know, I am not sure
actually, May be that’s where I finished my sprinting shoot, and, and that was
the nearest bench. (Irritated with the confusion) Well, whatever it be, I sat
on that bench where he was sitting. I was resuming my breath. A few silent
moments, before he asked me, “Who are you?”
“Huh?”
“I asked who are you?”
“Who am I?” Now, this question, “Who are you?” three words ‘who’ ‘are’
‘you’ None of these words were foreign to me, or to any of you. These are
elementary words. Yet the question formed out of these was in a way peculiar.
No one had asked me that before. Generally people would ask, “What do you do?”
or “What is your name?” But “Who I am?” But it wasn’t so peculiar after all,
even though unheard to the ears. “Who I am?” that’s a relevant question. Well,
well, I didn’t know then what to say. It was so ambiguous. I was a lot of things.
I was a son to someone, someone’s brother, someone’s friend, student. I was a
resident of so-and-so place, student of XYZ school. But was I really any of
that? I mean, just that? Did the answer have to be an essay like that? Couldn’t
it be something more definite? So, I wished not to go about elucidating my
whole history, my stats, because I feared an awkward moment. I thought I would
rather keep quiet. But the man pressed again.
“Who are you?”
“I don’t know.... I don’t know.”
I turned my face away. Then, suddenly, as if by instinct, I turned
back towards him. “Who are you?”
“I am a dead man.”
“Fuck you!”
Was that a joke or something? What was that supposed to mean?
(Caricaturing the imitation) “I - am - a - dead – man.”
“What are you talking about? You are some sleazy ghost or something?
Damn you!” I got up instantly and walked briskly towards the exit of the park
grumbling, blabbering. I could hear him rip-roaring with laughter. He shouted
from behind,
“No, I am not a ghost. I am a dead man.”
“You know what? I don’t care. I don’t give a damn.”
I came home, had dinner, I didn’t talk much during dinner, then I
changed into my overalls, and went to bed to retire for the night. As I closed
my eyes, I had a sensation that he is sitting in a corner of the room, and he
is looking at me. I knew this was idiotic, but still for some reason, no, not
for any reason, just like that, I opened my eyes and looked into the corner.
The study-table. It was all the more foolish, but I even bent low to have a
peek below the table. The corner. Empty corner. I closed my eyes again. He had
occupied my thoughts. I had to struggle really hard to catch on some sleep that
night. The following morning my eyes were red because of lack of sleep. As I
sat in the classroom with the teacher explaining some rocket science, I had a
surreal moment. A sense of isolation. A sense of isolation. A sense of being
removed from the surroundings. I could see the teacher scribbling something on
the blackboard, I could see him speaking, but what I heard! “I I I I I I I
ammmmmmm A (crisp) dead maaaaaaaan” I shook myself.
“So, to start any lucrative business, you have to look into certain
things. Are you going to run it alone? Or do you need a partner? A trustworthy
partner.”
“Dead maaaaaaan”
(Shaking)
“Then comes the analysis. A structured analysis is very important
primarily because there are so many things to look into, any of which can’t be
ignored. If you happen to overlook any of these important aspects, leave alone
the business attaining those heights, even before it starts to bloom, it would
be dead.”
Dead.
“So, we have here this 10-point analysis. The first part is the
location analysis. Then comes the market. And so on. But before that, know your
constraints. In order to survive, know well what can kill you.”
Was he saying all this or was I hearing things. Nonsense. Well, the
class ended. I had some water. (Drinks water) Amar went about telling me his
everyday bullshit. No, sorry, it was not bullshit. I used to enjoy it actually.
I used to talk very much the same. About some or other girl having had
responded to our distant gestures. Or so we imagined. Complaining of the
idiotic syllabus. A complaint of all ages. Calling the teachers several names.
Ha! Dreaming about the future. Talking of placements. Or sometimes, simply
picking onto something trivial and going about it endlessly. But that day, my
mind was occupied with something that had broken this routine. That was
something out of the ordinary. A new man. A dead man. Why couldn’t I dismiss it
as a joke? I don’t know. Somehow I knew that he was not joking. But if he was
not joking, then what? I mean, Who talks in that manner? Let me admit that the
man had become an enigma for me. Batman – the man who was afraid of bats since
the time he was thrown into that well full of bats, and eventually he overcame
it as a final fear, and donned that garb to become batman. Spiderman – the man
stung by some rare species of spider, and getting the power to spread a web and
go about jumping, crawling on walls like a spider. But this one was a big
puzzle. What could it mean? It didn’t mean a ghost. Then what? Oh God! I wish I
could stop thinking. But he had become kind of my unholy secret.
The following evening, I went back to the park. I argued with myself
that it was nonsensical of me to go there. But I counter-argued that why should
an idiot matter to me enough to prevent me from going to the park for exercise
in the usual manner. But all the time that I was exercising, my eyes were
looking around. But he was not there. I slept rather peacefully that night. I
smiled for no reason. I felt strangely....liberated. The morning after that, I
shared this with my father. But my father didn’t take it as calmly or as enigmatically
as I did. He was rather upset. He demanded in a way, as the king orders his
servant to procure someone before him.
“Who is he?”
“He is the dead man.” I replied instinctively.
“What nonsense? I mean, who is he? Where does he live?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him ever before. I don’t know who – “
“Well, I’ll walk with you to the park in the evening. You show him to
me. Let me see who goes about raving in this manner.”
“Come on dad. Don’t be so upset. I didn’t mean it in the way of
complaining about him. I was just sharing it with you.”
My mother, who’d already stopped her household chores to listen with
careful attention, joined in at this moment.
“He must be all mad.”
“Come on mom, it’s fine.”
But dad just wasn’t in a mood to let it go. It was a Saturday. You
know, what I did. I was checking my e-mail. (sudden hurry) No, nothing special
about that. I checked the e-mail. Just the usual mails. After that, I searched
for death on Google. It was in abundance. Articles, stories, images,
everything. Bizzare. Spooky. In childhood, how talking about sex was such an
adventure. The adventure with death reached far beyond childhood. I was
enjoying it. Not exactly an adrenaline rush, but yeah, an excitement. Probably
it was not about death. It was something out of my ordinary routine life. Something
new to set my thoughts on. And probably that’s why it was enticing. Or... I am
not sure though. Next, I thought to google ‘dead man’, but for some reason, I
refrained. I knew the reason. I didn’t want any explanation from any such
source. Anyways, it had to be a figurative one, because literally speaking, a
dead man means someone who has died. I thought I would better leave it to
myself. Or say, to myself and the man. I found some poems on death. But
strangely, no! Not so strangely. I mean, it was strange to me that they were
not in the least bit spooky. Because that’s what I associated death with. They
were kind of philosophical. Death and philosophy! Oh yeah? Really? Well, here
was Emily Dickinson. Frankly speaking, I couldn’t make much out of those poems,
but I liked them. Ironical, isn’t it? (laughs) But.... How do I say it? Man, I
was reading something, something different. It was not a Stephen King thing.
The murder, mystery, blood, death, ghost. Nor it was a local Ved Prakash novel
kind of stuff. Revenge, bloody knife, thirsty for blood. Or the laying life for
country, parents, lover etc etc. with the white cloth for burial tied on one’s
head, martyrdom, sacrifice.
No! This poem said a different thing altogether. Quite similar to
listening to a middle-aged man in a park saying without the least bit of
animated expression that he is a dead man. I could grasp the meaning of neither
the statement nor any of these poems, but tell you what! Don’t mock at me, but
I was almost feeling like an intellectual. You know, reading stuff. Different
stuff. Forbidden stuff. Indecipherable, puzzling, philosophical.
Well, it came to an end. Or let’s say a new beginning. My father went
with me to the park. And we did find the man. I wished to go to him by myself, sit
with him, and ask him,
“Who are you?”
Upon his reply, I would ask him to elucidate, thus listening to
something new. A break from the usual words and sentences of everyday life. I
couldn’t say it to my father this way. A break? What break? Why break? Why
think? And think death? Are you gone mad? (sighs) So, I put it across another
way.
“Dad, you wait here. Or you take a walk. Exercise. Relax and let me
handle it by myself.”
But he wouldn’t let me.
“Why? Come. Come with me.” He said walking. “Or wait, you wait here.
I’ll handle it.”
At this point, I realized something. It was not just about his son
being infested with anything morbid or unholy; not about someone cracking a
nonsense joke in front of his son. I felt that it was a mild shock for him too.
Words different from his daily dose of words as well. But for him, it was not
an enigma. For him, it was a disturbance, an anxiety. What kind of anxiety?
Why? I don’t know.
“Excuse me.”
“Yes?” He looked towards us. He identified me.
“Hey, you!” He smiled at me. A friendly smile. A warm, reassuring
smile. “Come on, sit,” he said, offering me the vacant space on the bench. And
then, as if suddenly remembering that there was someone with me, and inferring
that it meant something, yes, a propaganda, he again looked up at my dad and
said nonchalantly, “Yes?”
“I am his father.” My father said in a tone of assertion.
“Ok, great.”
“Why would you speak any such nonsense to my boy?”
“Liberate him, will you?” He said fixedly with an intent gaze at dad.
“What? What are you talking? Speaking all kind of nonsense. What did
you say – you are a dead man? What nonsense is it?”
He didn’t retort. He didn’t defend himself. He spoke matter-of-factly,
“You want to know what does it mean, or you want to tell me that it’s
nonsense?”
His rational manner of talking caught my father unawares.
“I don’t want to know anything. I want you to know better than talking
such foolish things in front of my son, or anyone for that matter.”
“Your son meets hundreds of people every day. They talk to him
thousands of things. How can you screen everything he hears? Why not rather
make him screen it himself by the simple process of thinking? Well anyways, I
would take it no further. And - ,” He shifted his gaze at me, “If I upset you,
I am really sorry boy, though I had not the slightest intention to do so. You
see, I am a poet. That time I happened to harbour some thoughts on death. And
that new identity was just a manifestation of those thoughts. Just then you
came and sat near me, and it came out rather spontaneously. But I meant it to
be a silent – “
Dad was too impatient to let him continue or to let me revert.
“Ok enough. Stop it.”
Dad was embarrassing me with being so rude when he was talking so
gently. Making a mountain of a mole hill. I regretted having discussed it with
him. As we walked away from him, I turned to look at him. He was looking in my
direction smiling. Catching hold of my eye brought no change in his smile. I
smiled back as if to say it was ok. And he winked in return.
All hell broke loose when my dad discovered the death poems on my
desktop.
“It’s the effect of that old goon. What magic he has done over him!”
He shouted at me in front of my mother.
My mother said to me calmly, “What all you are reading, my son! Concentrate
on your studies.”
I said ok.
“No, it’s not ok. You won’t go to that park again.”
“Alright, calm down. I won’t.”
But he didn’t calm down. He told it to the neighbours. They took heed
like responsible parents and instructed their children to play in the other
park. God! Dad had made a big scandal out of it.
I discussed it with Amar as well the following Monday. The guy was
excited as he used to be excited about almost each and everything. Then it
waned when the man didn’t show up for many days. After around two weeks, I
found him yet again walking to and fro.
“Hello dead man!”
He turned around to look at me.
“Ah! Hello! How are you doing?”
“I am doing good, dead man.” I spoke in a way a child does, with the
resurgence of my lost interest in the topic. He laughed in a manner quite
responsive to it.
“Well, well, well.... so?”
“So what?”
“Who are you?” He asked with the undertone being that you can’t evade
the question any more. And I still didn’t have any answer good enough.
“I’m more interested in who you are, hoping that you still are what
you were that day. A dead man.”
“All of us are lot of things. It’s the role that we reinforce
ourselves into which creates the difference. You know, the priorities, the
preoccupations. Now stop bothering yourself too much over all that. As I said,
it was a spontaneous remark.”
“Whatever. Now don’t go about beating the bush.”
“Oh my! Alright boy, but I am afraid that it might disturb your dad
all the more.”
“Come on now, I won’t tell him.”
The unholy secret was losing its covert nature. So I felt as I drew
him into every other sentence of conversation. Spontaneous remark in a poetic
mood. Well, some of it lingered though.
“Well, what do you want to know?”
“How are you a dead man? Were you into despair?”
“Oh no! Not that. Look, I am bound to death, and so are you. We can’t
evade it. Whichever path we take, wherever we go, death is the ultimate
destination. It’s certain. And it’s around the corner. It could come to us
anytime. And it’s this fact of the imminence of death which, in a way, is the
precursor of life. Hence, I am a dead man who is bound to die sooner or later.
We were born from an absence and we’ll die into an absence. Before birth and
after death is an absence. The same absence. It’s a round journey.”
He looked at me expecting me to say something in turn. But at this
point, my eyes caught sight of a funeral procession through the bars of the
gate. They carried the deceased on the arthi
(a wooden bed made of bamboo spokes used to carry the dead to the cremation
ground) which four men held onto their shoulders. Behind it a large procession
of men mostly in white clothes followed. The young guys wore t-shirt and jeans
though. I kept gazing. He had his back towards it. He traced my gaze and looked
behind.
“See.” He said so nonchalantly as if he himself had done some magic to
create that scene as a demonstration. A moment later, he was disturbed though,
probably on seeing me disturbed.
“It’s a coincidence.” I said without looking at him, more to myself,
with my intent gaze still in that direction.
“Yes dear, of course. Just a coincidence. Nothing more.”
I looked on until the last man had disappeared from my sight. Then I
looked at him. I had lost onto the string of words. Even he said nothing more.
He pressed my shoulder softly with a touch of reassurance. Yes, I knew for sure
that it was nothing but a mere coincidence. This is how coincidences are.
“Are you okay?” He asked me with genuine concern.
“Yeah, I am cool.”
Actually, whenever I would happen to watch a funeral procession, I was
never cool. I would feel that some morbidity hovered in the air, which I would
first try to pacify by praying to God to bless the soul of the dead and rest it
in peace. And then, I would try to dispel it by whistling a song. But here, I
was caught in a different situation. My natural habitual discomfort might be
misconstrued as one appearing from the current situation. I did not want to
present a weak picture of myself. I am mature. I know what death is. Why should
it affect me? I resumed my exercise, while he lay down on the grass and closed
his eyes.
As I retired for the night, the words kept coming back to me. Bound to
death. Death is the ultimate destination. Round the corner. I stuck earphones
into my ears and played some music on my music player so as to rid myself of
the thoughts and lull myself to sleep. Bound to death. So? What’s new about
that? Even I knew that I am going to die. I never thought that I would live
forever. Everyone knows that they are going to die. Who doesn’t? What’s the big
deal? What’s so philosophical about it? What’s there to be talked about? I
dismissed the whole affair. I shuffled the tracks on my player, and started
listening to a new song.
The morning paper carried news of a road accident. A truck had smashed
into a car, and all four members of a family had been killed. It was sad, but
it was not uncommon. The papers carried such news almost every day. People
murdered. Trains derailed. Buildings on fire. Road accidents. I would hardly
ever read those news articles. What was there to read about? A stranger, who I
didn’t know, who I didn’t have any connection with, died. How could it make me
feel sad! The sound of it is rather blunt but I had nothing whatsoever to do
with them. It didn’t affect me even remotely. Only at the end of the day, I
would pray to God to bless peace to the souls of the people who died that day,
and bless the new-borns with a good life ahead. That was it. That did it. There
was nothing more to think about.
But now, I did think. I would suddenly find myself ruminating about
death. Random thoughts. The enigma had disappeared. The puzzle had been solved.
Only the unholiness of the secret still remained. No one is supposed to ponder
over death. Least of all, a youngster like me. I was gripped by blues.
Sometimes I would sit ruefully thinking of death in conscious thoughts. I would
shake myself. I would call Amar. Sometimes, I would skip my exercise routine
and roam around with him in the malls. I would hang out with my girlfriend on
the weekend. I would try to immerse myself in the nuances of modern life. We
would eat pizzas, and drink coke. We would watch films in theatre. I would try
to keep my mind off the uprising topic which went on inside my head. I would
talk non-stop with desperate urgency about several other things. But once, I
happened to mention my death to her. No, actually I did it quite deliberately.
“What if I die, will you be able to live without me?”
She pressed her fingers to my lips. “Don’t ever say such a thing
again. Promise me, you won’t say it again.”
“What? What have I said? I was merely – “
“I can’t ever bear to listen about your – “ She wouldn’t even say
‘your death’. She suggested that there was something wrong with me. Why was I
talking in such a sadistic manner! But was something wrong with me? What about
how hysterical all these people suddenly became! Did they not know what death
is? Was there nothing wrong with them? After that, I never mentioned death in
front of her.
When I would return home, I
would start reading poems. I would think of reading poems in general, but
eventually it came about to poems on death. I had started fancying it to be a
meditation, or a path to self-development or to exaggerate it, enlightenment. I
was getting closer to Emily Dickinson. And there were some other people who had
joined in. Osho, the man who taught death. I loved the way he had phrased his
sentences. His similes, his seeming comfort rather relishing while talking
about it. And some, rather several others who spoke of it, death, as beautiful.
Sometimes I experienced spurts of frustration. Why was I undergoing all this
turmoil? May be I was advancing on the path of maturity. May be it was an
important lesson that needed to be learnt. I wasn’t clear what lesson. But I
had realized that there was more to what the dead man had said than what I had
understood. It couldn’t be all dismissed just like that.
I had realized at least something. The understanding of inevitability
of death, which although is a definite, unambiguous fact, has some levels to
it. Knowing. Actually knowing. And may be something furthermore. Are you
getting the point? Everyone knew it on an outer level, but they never really
admitted it. They never discussed it. They went hysterical over it. They
couldn’t imagine themselves dying. As having left forever. If at all, the topic
came up, especially the question how would you like to die, they would say they
would prefer to die sleeping. They attributed it to being a painless form of
death, but I felt it was more because of the ignorance involved. That way they
wouldn’t have to face it. But I had come to imagine my death. With comfort.
Which cremation would be better? Or shall I make use of my dead body by having
it thrown to the vultures, as in the Parsi culture. Or shall I donate it to a
hospital so that students could experiment upon it and learn new things. Shall
I donate my body parts? Also, I had thoughts about the mourning sessions. I
wouldn’t like people to sit around my family members with their sombre
pretentious faces and thus deject them all the more while also contrastingly
not allowing them to express their grief openly. I liked what they showed in
some western films. People drinking, talking about the dead person, sharing
their moments with him, praying together, even singing songs for him. A
celebration of death. How dreary and how romantic! Slowly, my discomfort was
ebbing. I could think about death without fretting. It was no more an obnoxious
morbid obsession. I was seeing death and hence life in a different vein.
A month later, my teacher’s mother expired. When he was absent for the
second day in a row, it was then that I discovered this from another teacher.
They had gone to his place the previous day after school The whole staff. I
liked that teacher. I wished he were fine. So, I wanted to see him. But what
could I say to make him feel better? I didn’t know. Even after all that
self-development, I felt nervous even at the thought of having to face him. So,
I didn’t want to visit him. But I wanted to console him. I asked Amar if we
should go to his place. He said that he would anyways be back to school in a
few days.
“Of course, he would come, but that’s a different thing Amar. At this
time, he must be sorrowful.”
“But what would we say to make him feel better? It’s rather awkward
for me.”
Yeah! What would we say? How would we face him? The awkwardness
related to death. But I really wanted to show him that we cared for him. At
least, I did. No, in fact, Amar also liked that teacher. But he was unrelenting
to go to his place, to the site of death. So, I thought to go to his place by
myself.
Earlier as a child, I would never have to go to anyone. Children were
spared this horror. Oh sorry, I mean.... Well actually, this is what I mean. My
parents would go visiting friends mourning a near and dear one’s death. I would
be at home. Then they would return, and initially I expected them to look sad
and serious when they returned. But they would be so normal. Sometimes more
normal, I mean cheerful, than otherwise. Oh God! so cruel of them. They used to
be talking about the most mundane things. No solemnity, nothing. I would fear myself
becoming harder day by day. But then, I gradually got over it. Let’s say I
matured. I sensed that they were internally sad about the friend’s loss, but
the person who went away wasn’t connected to them. Hence, they didn’t really
mourn that death but they were sad about the friend’s loss and consoled him or
her by visiting and talking. So when they returned home, it was okay for them
to be normal. Until this time, I never had to visit any mourners. In a way, my
parents could take us with them just the way they took us to marriage functions
but they would have us stay at home in such cases. They never discussed death
in front of us. It was a conscious decision on their part. I know.
So, after all I went. I was nervous. I saw my teacher. There were many
people sitting around him. Would I go to him, or would I settle here in a
corner? Sooner or later, he would see me. What a selfish thought that was! But
in a way, that selfishness carried a concern for him. I wanted myself to be
seen by him so that he knew that I was there. That I am with him. I wondered
how much support seeing me would provide him, but well, maybe it would. Why
else would all these people be here? It was so as not to let him and his family
feel lonely in such a difficult grievous phase. But then I reconsidered. Let me
go to him, I thought. Every step that I took towards him felt so heavy. Finally
when I was a few feet away, he looked up and saw me. I stopped there itself. I
couldn’t move further. I looked down to avoid the discomfort, in the excuse
that I was finding space among the people perched on the ground so as to move
forward. Looking down, I moved forward and reached near him. I sat close to
him. It was one of the most difficult moments of my life. I bent on my knee
towards him.
“Sir, I came to know... But don’t be – “
God! What was I saying! Don’t feel sad? Come on, why won’t he feel
sad. He had lost his mother.
“Don’t feel that you are alone.” A big pause. “I am here.”
His lips pressed together into a wry. “Yeah..” he murmured.
He looked so sad. I wished I could hug him tight. I felt that a hug is
what he needed rather than so many words. But although I liked him, yet he was
my teacher, not a friend. Yeah, it’s fine to hug a teacher, but you know, a
kind of barrier... moreover, there were so many people around. I felt shy. I
settled down on the ground. Just then, an elderly man called his name. He was
inching his way towards us through the gathering. But sir stood up and went to
him to avoid him the trouble. I retrenched towards the wall behind, and sat
there without talking to anyone. After some time, they brought food for
everyone. Sir was there. He put in my plate a roti and daal. Eating at
the mourning of a dead man, I mean, dead woman? I felt morbid. Also I didn’t
like him taking all this trouble when he was anyways so aggrieved.
“Please eat.” He said to me softly, almost in a whisper.
“Sir, you sit and eat. I’ll help with it.” I said half rising.
“Oh no! It’s ok. Sit. It’s all done. You eat.”
I had to eat. The associations with food and death had always been so
contrasting. Holy food, unholy death. I was finding it difficult to chew. But I
rebuked myself. Had death entered the food or what? What’s wrong with the food?
I felt calmer. I ate. The food was tasty. Oh God! I felt so guilty at this
thought of finding the food tasty. I also felt all the more morbid.
The teacher rejoined us at school 4-5 days later. Within a week, he
was fine. You know, he was fine. I saw him talking and laughing with another
teacher. But then, what did I expect of him? To wear mourning costumes, or to
wear his grief over his face? To never get over his grief? Moreover, how did
laughing on whatever they were laughing about, talking or seeming normal imply
that he didn’t feel that sadness inside. He would have been still missing his
mother now and then. Of course! Yes, one has to accept death. One has to move
on. In fact, life moves on irrespective of anything. The memory fades but the
loss remains. And you get to accept it more and more firmly.
That autumn, death showed itself to me at closer quarters. The roles
were switched for me. My grandfather passed away one morning. Well, he was old
and diseased. He was in the hospital for the past week. And although we hoped
against hope, yet we foresaw it as a possibility. It wasn’t shocking for me.
Nevertheless, I was aggrieved. It was the first death in my family that I had
witnessed. I wouldn’t see my grandfather ever again. He was gone forever. I
tried to accept it by thinking of it as the natural course of things, and that
given his ill health condition, living longer would mean only suffering for
him. Thinking on these lines helped but I couldn’t stop feeling heavy at heart.
Amar came to me. As per his usual self, he seemed uncomfortable in saying
anything. But he was there. And that was enough. He hugged me, and a tear
dropped from my eye. Also I showed traces of guilt of an unknown nature.
Someone, i.e. my grandfather had died but I was still alive. Well, I would die
too. Some day. I had begun to accept death more closely.
But still, what I didn’t realize that this ‘some day’ could be any
day. It needed not be at the age of 70 years, rather it could be any random
day. I wish I could be kept away from this realization because it came at the
expense of breaking my heart. Nothing has been able to hold my attention for
this whole past week. Any moment I slip into a morose mood.
Amar is no more. He died. He met with an accident and died on the
spot.
Not just this once, I have repeated these words to myself in my mind
over and over again. But it’s too hard to digest. The boy who I met almost
every day would meet me never again. The parties and the fun we used to have
would occur no more. It’s strange but at times I totally forget this fact. I
start to dial his number, and then the grim reality takes hold of me. I wait
for him after college to go home with me on my bike, but after waiting for a
minute, the reminder of his death suffocates me.
He was not meant to die. That guy who was uncomfortable thinking about
death showed no possibility of dying. He was not old. He was not sick. He was
humorous. He was filled with life. And yet he died. And so I realize, it could
very well have been me.
This realization that death is around the corner has come to me
shockingly. It has almost mentally crippled me. But you don’t have to go
through it to learn it, because here I am baring my heart and all the pain within
it. All of us know it, but we never actually realize it. If we did, then we
won’t live our life so carelessly. There are friends whom we have not spoken to
for years. We think that we shall meet them some day. There are several dreams
inside of us dying a slow death, because we have compromised and put them on
hold for a few years or even until the age of our retirement from the earning
job. There are unsaid words which are waiting for that unknown day in future to
be spoken. There are feelings that have been left unexpressed in the vague hope
of being expressed some day.
But my dear people, please understand that that one day might never
come. Death doesn’t discriminate. It waits for no one. Whatever you wish to
say, do, feel for yourself or others, now is the time.
Don’t forget death, because only this continuous reminder of death
could unleash a spurt of life inside you. Not by knowing but by realizing that
you or anyone around you could die any fine day, you would be able to shake
your inertia, your lethargy and go about doing what you want in this moment.
Living in the moment has to be the way to live, because it’s uncertain whether
we would see the light of the next day or even the next moment.
Antonyms are tied closely in a thread. If you detest and ignore death,
you wouldn’t be able to live. It’s inevitable and imminent, and thus the most
powerful stimulant to bring about a surge of life. We are here for a limited
amount of time, which again is unknown to us. And it’s this limit posed by
death that makes life valuable.
Even if in a figurative sense, that man was right. All of us are dead
men. Well, if you don’t like his poetic expression, find out your other answer
soon. Find out who you are and even what you are before you are actually
reduced, or burnt or buried, to being nothing. So that when anyone asks you in
the park who are you, you must be ready to answer it. You can’t lose any more
time. Go on, discover your heart. Discover yourself.
Discover yourself. With that, here I close. Please pray to God to
bless peace to Amar’s soul. In a way, I speak through him, and I am feeling a
little better now. Thank you for coming. I hope to see you again. Take care!
padne mein waqt lagta hai aur waqt logo ke pass hain nahi..par maine pada hain aur tune accha likha hain..i hope Testen ma'am reads it too..
ReplyDeletedeath is sad
ReplyDeleteby the way some people are still alive and there life depends on manto's book....you ignored alive ones so completely
send me..if you cannot let me know
anonymous