When end comes

AS I sit down to write this piece, visuals of a line of coffins with the mutilated remains of the helicopter crash that took so many precious lives play on the TV in an endless loop. How can one not feel the grief of those families that have been devastated, even if they stand there with admirable poise and stoic dignity? The armed forces live in constant terror of losing their loved ones on the battlefield or in action elsewhere, but this? An air crash that occurred when they least expected to be killed and on a day that was meant for a different occasion? This is what a bolt from the blue must mean.

How does one explain the strange ways of destiny to grieving relatives? When so many old and terminally-ill people pray for an early release, why does death choose those who had so much to live for and contribute? The answer is contained in an old Jataka tale and still remains a mantra one repeats when faced with such a situation. An old woman, who had lost her only son, went weeping and distraught with grief to the Buddha and begged him to bring back her son to life. He looked at her with compassion and said, ‘Bring me a handful of grain from a house where there has been no death and I will do so.’ His message was clear: no one escapes death; some die early and some linger to a painful end but, in the end, go we all must.

Our rituals and rites often appear meaningless as the mourning family goes through the 13-day cycle (for Hindus) or 40 days (for Muslims) of unending prayer and ceremonies. Yet, they are also a means of giving the grieving human heart the necessary pause that it needs to accept the finality of a loss. When you go to a holy place to immerse the ashes of a loved one, you see others whose loss may be even greater. An aged father who comes with the remains of his young son, or a young lad with the ashes of his parent — whose grief is greater, you ask yourself and the answer is exactly what the Buddha gave that weeping mother centuries ago.

Perhaps, it is a blessing that no one knows when the end will come. This is why the wise exhort to live your life as if tomorrow is your last day on earth and leave with no regrets. All this is told to us by saints and seers but it is only as you cross a certain age that it strikes one as a good rule, and something that one must try to follow. Having said all that, I have to confess that there are many things that I promise myself every night I will do and promptly forget the next day. Among them is writing down the passwords of all our devices for each other. Also, ATM passwords and getting down to writing a will. I have tried to start giving away those clothes and stuff that I do not need to hoard any more, but why I have not taken stock of my own relationships and responsibilities is a question I do not like to answer. Somewhere, I feel, we all think that doing so is inviting doom. Let’s face it, we are all in denial about our own mortality. That is a fact no one can deny.

Few couples I know have been fortunate to go together — Gen Bipin Rawat and his wife were a rare exception. Most of us will outlive our partners and although I often threaten my family about how they will miss me, I shudder to think what they will do when I am no longer there. On a lighter note, my husband will sleep on till noon without my pounding on his bedroom to wake up and have tea. The kitchen will become a mess and all my pots and pans will be filthy and never cleaned the way I like them. The domestic staff will become lazy and take days off without notice… the list is long and frightening. But then, I tell myself, if I’m not there, how does it matter to me? If the family is happy to sleep in unmade beds, drink endless cups of chai and coffee and eat unhealthy food, let them deal with the consequences.

But what will they do to my precious pashmina shawls and Kanjeevaram silks? Or to those beautiful bedsheets and table linen that I bought like a magpie from abroad and squirrelled away to use on a special day, but never did? Hai, hai, as they say in Punjab, what a dreadful thought that they may never handwash these precious items but give them to the dhobi to ruin? I am sure that all old women think exactly like this and even now, whenever I break a house rule that my mum or mum-in-law had laid down, I look over my shoulder to see if they are around and watching.

The truth is that our parents and habits never go away, they live eternally in us and then in our children and grandchildren. With this solace, I shall forget to write a will this week and postpone all such pesky lists for another day.