A Blog on Death

Like I said in my earlier post, death is just one of two constants in our lives - the other being change. We may be fascinated by it, feel funny about it, be terrified about it, be brave about it, but it is there.

And the most fascinating thing about death for me is that I have not met a single person in this world who has been able to tell me how it feels like at the moment of passing away. You read about it in books, see versions - exaggerrated or understated - in the movies even (the 3-minute speech version in Hindi movies, or the simple knock-over version in English), but I do not know how it feels.

And that to me is the true mystique of death. Nothing highly philosophical like where it takes me to, or do I get to have that drink from the skull in Valhalla or watch Rambha dance, seated to the right of that meekest of gods, Indra, or anything like that...Not even something from the realm of spirituality, or metaphysics or whatever.

The mystique for me is the inability to answer that simplest of questions - how does it feel at the moment of passing away? More so because I do not even have the privilege of a preview or a sampling, so to speak. When I do go through it, it will be my own personal experience. I can share it with none.

There used to be a time when I used to mouth stuff like 'I ain't scared of death', 'I will just accept it as it comes'. Now when I think back, I realise it could be one of two things - the glorious and blissful ignorance that we are draped in when we are young, or just foolhardiness/simple plain stupidity. I mean, how can one not be scared of that one thing about which no living person in this world has an idea about?

I used to think like I said a few lines back. Until my grandma passed away. She was one person I was attached to. And the circumstances of her passing away were pretty dramatic for me. I hadn't seen her in about 3-4 years, and so made plans to go home in January 2003 for the express purpose of seeing her and spending the festival of Bihu with her at my ancestral home in Assam, a beautiful little village called Helem. I reached there on January 12th; she passed away on January 11th. Just like that. I realised when I reached home that the person I loved the most I would never be able to see, talk to, and touch, ever again. And that is a very scary thought.

Her death also made me realise another thing. That my own father was growing old. That soon a time would come when this brilliant, lovable man whom I respect more than anyone else in this world would be gone too, and some day, I would be gone too. Those were days of frightening realizations. I realized that a day would come when life would have had enough of me and asked me to fuck off some place where I would not be able to be a nuisance to anyone any more. I would be loved, probably, and even remembered, but I would not be able to sit with my friends and share a laugh or a drink. I would not be able to talk. I was more terrified than sad...

So now when someone says they aren't afraid of death, I feel funny. I mean ... people say they aren't afraid of dying, but they are scared of snakes and lizards...and a million other little things... we have an entire list of assorted phobias...

I think we are so caught up with the idea of living that we haven't bothered to spend quality time thinking about death, the actual event of our death. And every now and then when a loved one or a friend passes away, we get the shakes for a while - could be sadness or fright - but we soon forget those terrifying moments because we are again caught up with the idea of living... which is not a bad thing at all, actually.

Which brings me to another thought - wouldn't an 80-year old Ajishnu feel the same way as a convict on death row whose appeals are being turned down as fast as they are being made? Condemned to die, knowing that the hour is soon approaching, but not knowing exactly when? In fact, the convict is better off, because with the turning down of the last appeal is a sense of finality, he knows the hours.. or may be he is worse off because then he has sit through the countdown...

I definitely want to live till 80, and write down what I experience in my last days, until the end...I don't know whether I will have the strength of mind to do this, though...

Death and the Love Birds, Not Necessarily in that Order...

This blog is about a story and the concept of death. Not necessarily connected, you might say. However, everything living is connected to Death. A story is a concretization, through written or oral tradition, of events or occurrences that have some basis in reality. An experience, a sighting, a feeling...our stories are about us, and death IS a part of our lives... This blog is also a result of events and occurrences in my life...

Let's start with the love birds. I have a pair of lovebirds in my house - Senor and Senorita. About ten days back, Senor, an unruly, noisy brat of a bird, had a window of opportunity, literally, or what he thought was a window of opportunity. I had left the cage door open while taking out the food tray. The guy took his chance and off he flew. I hunted around a while, but in vain. I hoped he might have flown away to some better place, and tried to be glad for him.

Until the friend who had introduced me to these birds said there was little chance of the guy surviving - the crows would kill him. I was aghast, as it reminded me of scenario where a kid sets out to explore this absurdly wonderful place called his neighborhood, only to be bullied and beaten up by the neighbor's kid. But anyways, if that was how it was to be, so be it!

Then, yesterday the kids from the hood come and tell me that the guy is alive, in another chap's house. So I rush there, and the little bloke is there, chirpy as ever! Apparently the crows were chasing him, and he sort of flew into this family's house, and the people kept him. He nipped the guy that caught him, of course, because Senor is the perfect example of the Little Sergeant syndrome (about that, in another blog). It was nice of this family to have taken care of him. Of course, he is cute and makes funny faces and sounds...:-)) The people there had even got a female bird to keep the little chap company.

I thanked the kids for looking after the little guy, and there was this procession back home, me and the little chap and a large number of kids. Anyways, finally the little fella is back, and the house is noisier than ever.

The moral of the story - strange things can happen that will make you realise the value of people and stuff you usually take for granted, even little ones...

I couldn't help but think of Senor's brush with death. His static life inside the cage had, for a few moments, suddenly exploded into a dynamic possibility - flight, freedom even (however misplaced that notion might seem, because no one is ever free). In fact, I think everything about our lives is dynamic. Our existence is dynamic, constantly changing. There are, I believe, two constants in all life. I will limit myself for obvious purposes, to human life. There are two constants in our lives - change and Death.

Change is eternal in our lives. From the moment a human life is conceived in the womb (let us take conception as the first event in our lives, for otherwise there is the chance of us getting into a never-ending cycle of birth and existence - you know, before us, our parents came, and before them...you get the drift, I guess...), there is change. In the number of cells, from a single sperm fertilising an ovum to a multicellular complex life form (what we normally call the foetus or baby or child) to multi-faceted complicated individuals (commonly - you and me and everybody else on this Earth). In adapting to situations and thinking new thoughts and ideas. Did you realize that to be a moron also takes an extraordinary degree of complication in the nervous system, for a malfunction to happen?

The other constant in our lives, I know, is death. From the time we are born, there is one supreme ultimatum - we have to die. Our act of living a life and trying to make something of it - achieving success, failure even, is one of the greatest ironies or acts of courage, depending on how you look at it, as a cynic or as an optimist.

So much more to pen down, but sleep beckons... more tomorrow.

A love bird update... ever since Senor's adventure became public knowledge (the procession back home seemed proof of his popularity), there has been an explosion of love bird population in my apartment block. Every kid wants one, however cruel that may ultimately be. The spillover has been that the numbers in my house are now 4, two more came courtesy the landlord's son, who could not look after them properly...

Mind Talk and Tangential Thoughts...

Let's talk about ... ideas and the mind. Sometimes I get the feeling that the mind and not Man per se, is the actual likeness of God, for people who believe in the concept of God or a higher being. The similarities are there; like God, the mind is intangible, invincible (most of the time, which is why you end up buying 5000 bucks shoes when you had set out to buy 1000 buck ones!!), and oh-so-powerful. It is the original creator. The body also has a physical process that helps us to create miniatures replicas of ourselves (Oh! he looks just like his dad, she has her mom's nose...), but the results are many a times flawed (talk about Six Sigma processes and all that! where are they when we need them most???), which is why the world is as it is today...

The mind, on the other hand creates incessantly, throwing up ideas up in nanoseconds. Imagine an intangible space that is the hotbed of all creation, located within a tiny space called the brain. Ideas bouncing around in that tiny space. Finding expression, sometimes profound and sometimes idiotic (Philosophy versus PJs???). It is frighteningly fascinating, actually - one small invisible entity that has been behind things such diverse as the fountain pen and the DVD player. To think that the nuclear bomb and the theory of relativity are products of that invisible space!

Going off on a tangent... Have you ever heard of a serial killer dog or a genocidal lion? I for sure haven't. Which makes me wonder ... that attribute of ours that makes us so unique...our ability to think and to differentiate... is also possibly our greatest enemy. To differentiate is to bring about the eternal dichotomy - good, bad, right, wrong, all of which come with attendant emotions - happiness, joy, sadness, selfishness, treachery, cunning reasoning, however straight or twisted... why else would you have mass murderers, schizophrenics, geniuses, saints, mad scientists, and what-have-you?

The Waiting Game

Its been a while now, and I have been playing one game that I hate playing. Its a killer, and is called the Waiting Game. The rules are simple. You play for something. The opposition, which in this Game can be anything - your impatience, pesky showroom guys, nasty conductors, cramped buses, an unwilling-to-start motorcycle, your fate - anything goes. You have different levels, different rewards/goals to wait for. And I think almost everyone will agree that it is not the best of things to do. There are many reasons why I hate to play the Waiting Game, which I will get to in a while.

This time around, I am playing for a car. The way you play the game is simple. You choose an item to play for. And having chosen it, you hope that you will win. You usually win the goal, that is not what the game is all about. The game is about how many hairs you tear, how many people you yell at, how many glass thingies you break. And its no fun because these items that you break are yours, the hair you tear is yours, and the people you yell and sceram at are also your friends.

I have booked a car. Now I am waiting for delivery. Sounds simple, doesn't it? It is, actually. Until you realize that fate seems to be working against you. First you run around to collect the documentation required. Then the showroom and finance guys get back and tell you that there area few more things that you have missed giving them, which is silly, because they never asked for those damn things in the first place.

Then they say that the model you had asked for is not available now. This after you have done all the running around. They say the standard baniya line - 'last piece, just booked and we didn't know...'. The new one is 'Sir, now you have to get the Euro III version, and we have stopped selling the Euro II', or whatever the earlier version was. Which means that you run around, and then pay extra (the Euro III is obviously more costly, because it sounds more mysterious), and then chew on your fingernails till they fucking well bleed, and then...never mind! Update: The new refrain is - the color you are looking for is out of stock ...GRRRRRRRRRR!!!!@#$@#%*@#@

I think we hate waiting around, simply because it is the one activity we indulge in most of our lives. And many times the results aren't exactly what we would have liked them to be. Think about it. All we do is wait throughout our lives. Wait to grow up when we are small. Wait for the parents to start treating us like adults. Wait to stop drinking the damn milk and start off with coffee/tea, and after about a decade or more maybe graduate to alcohol... Wait to start using the ink pens instead of the stupid childish pencils. Wait for exams to finish and holidays to come. Wait for the class bully to be beaten up by someone, anyone... Wait for the good times to come, and wait for the bad times to pass. Wait for the end-of-the-month days to pass (that is another game I am playing on the side right now...) and moolah to slide into your salary account. Wait, even though we don't like it, for death to take us away. I think you get what I mean.

What makes me hate the Waiting Game more is the unjustness of the reward system. Slog so much, wait so hard, face so many odds. For what? A fleeting moment of satisfaction, a glimpse of hells belles, a flash of happiness in our otherwise monotonous lives. And then its gone, and all we can do is plan for the next level of the game. Don't we ever get tired of playing it? I think we do. But we are like the automatons. We have been programmed to seek, seek, seek...get some...and then seek, seek again. All our lives. It is frightening, but that is what I think we are like to our pet dogs and cats and the Martians. About that, some other time...bah!

Anyways, the game is on. I am getting hammered, as is usually the case. However, I will get that fleeting glimpse of hell's belles soon...I know it, and that is what makes my life so good to me...Moral of the story: better to be stupid and fleetingly happy than to be stupid and forever sad...cheers!