Stephan C. Hmar
Many times the thought about “death” would cross my mind.
What will death be like? Which of the two—life or death—could be superior? What is really worth living for? What is really worth dying for? Of course, all these type of unexplainable thought makes me a boring chap and tend to make me the odd one even in my own world.
It is a true cliché, there is only one way to born but many ways to die. And as such, as sure as we know how, where and when we born, we are hell sure we are going to die, sooner or later. But none can tell with certain exactness the “How” “Where” or the “When” part. Death stalks us, and will break us when least expected and this is the only certainity of the future.
Every human getting born in this planet called “The Earth” is bound to die. And in between these two extremities—birth and death— we live in many ways. Some are fortunate enough to enjoy it while some are deprived like broken wings of a bird. But all born out of no choice and this is why this untamable life has its own fair share. The complexities and the explainable, the bliss and sorrow, the likes or the hatred that besieged life is beyond life’s own approval or disapproval. Without the power of approval or disapproval, try however you may, you are still a slave. Oh! I may be wrong in mentioning the word “Slave”, on second thought. Even manmade slaves could attain freedom. But when are we, the “slaves” of life itself, going to get our freedom? This might be the reason why a philosopher wrote, “All Men are born equal, but everywhere he is in chains”. Men makes slaves out of its fellow-beings, but slaves could get their independence, but the type of slavery life endowed on mankind has no freedom, knows know freedom. The grip is here to stay. And this might be the reason when every thinking man, in his most debatable murmur often says, “Life is Unfair”. But no humans, in all its power and “total-sum” can really change that.
Almost everyday, I annoyingly heard news of death. Some are the dear ones, and some are young ones and others old ones. Some people who died are those who use to know me very well, who cuddled me when I was young. Some were my class-mates, some even my childhood crush. Also, while passing by along the roads, I often come across funeral truck carrying some dead body, with smelly agarbatis and lots of drum sounds. Death has its immense tolls on the living; laughter could not be its friend. A roaring cry, painful calmness, grief, incomprehensibilities loots the near and dear.
All the death of my acquaintances inconveniences me quite alarmingly. The memories of them lingers in my brain, and I all finds them victim of “unfair death” when they have so many things to do in life. “Why does death knock them down so early? Or at odd times?” I would say to myself, in my own judgments. On the face of death, that is the only helpless judgment one can make. It is a thorny problem—you need to indulge in it, crying but you can’t change a thing.
I have had my fair share of death in my family. My father, brother and my grandma they all died during my absence. I could not be there to hold them, at least, during their last breath. But I don’t blame myself. Everyone has but only one destiny, and being unable to be there in their last moment could be my destiny. And their destiny too. As much as I could not be there, I could not set my tears much. Some sorts of mystic comforts overtook me in those times and I was rather consoled. The firm reality that death strikes when it feels it is the time, without human’s approval or disapproval, was so much acceptable to me and that soothe me quite all right.
Death is something intensely strange— a change of state from mobility to immobility. In one time, when they are human, you talked with them through phone, in other time they bless you, they pray for you, they wished you all the good things of life. When you meet them, you don’t need an introduction to get love or scold; you are the pupil of their eyes. But the next thing, death crept in and they are just there, not talking, nor moving, nor feeling and the only thing left of them is your living memories of their care, their smiles and tears when they were alive. You started to recollects all of them, but I doubt if they really miss those?
Time heals the wounds. They used to say. But the secret is time cannot not heal all wounds, especially wounds inflicts by death. Time goes by and the thought about them multiplied. But, strangely for me, I don’t miss those times when they cooked the food I like, or when they see me grow with anticipation, with all encouragements. I miss of the transition they experienced, the realm where one is free from the slavery inflicted by mortal life itself. I know they never desire to return to this planet Earth, for they rested in some abode, something life itself is yet to experience. This is one reason why of all poem, I like the below poem the dearest.
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.
This is what our life is all about. In Death.