In the stillness of the room, the faint hum of a ceiling fan feels like a heart beating against silence. Surrounded by his family, Aviral rests his head in his son’s lap, his lips trembling as he whispers, “I thought death was for others, always distant, never mine.”
His voice breaks as he continues, “But now that it’s staring at me, I feel the pain of leaving you all behind.” His eyes well up with tears and his gaze fixed on his son. He pauses and and confesses, “What pains me more than death is the guilt—of dreams left unpursued, love unexpressed, and a life without purpose. I tossed away moments like pebbles, realising too late that they were diamonds.”
“Son, hold fast to your diamonds—don’t let them slip away.” With these words, the flame of Aviral’s life flickers out. Outside, a lone bird sings, as if in reminder that birth and death are as natural to the world as singing is to her. Still, in that timeless moment, a dying father passed to his son the essence of life. Aviral’s last breath still echoes: the real sorrow is not that we die, but that we never truly lived.
Disconnected from what will truly fulfill us, or out of fear of failure, we cling to routines and safe tasks that earn applause but not meaning. Yet it is the unlived life—not the failures—that wounds us the most. Seen from the window of death, every passing minute becomes a jewel we will never hold again. Death often turns into our clearest teacher; in its gaze we suddenly see our own future—the moment every mask, every bank balance, every story we told ourselves falls away.
Unsurprisingly, unlit candles haunt us more than those that flicker, fail, or burn unevenly. Modern psychology echoes this ancient observation. Nobel laureate Daniel Kahneman’s research shows that we dwell more on missed opportunities than on triumphs.
Modern life numbs us with busyness, seducing us into mistaking movement for meaning. We scroll endlessly, achieve tirelessly, yet forget to ask if what we chase will matter when breath slows. Death, when contemplated, becomes the mirror that restores clarity.
The Katha Upanishad teaches that seeing mortality frees us. The Buddha called meditation on death “supreme”. Sufi mystics echo the same truth: “Die before you die, live fully.” Each points to the same clarity—death strips illusion and reveals life’s real priorities.
How can you let death, your guru, guide you? Imagine your regretful self whispering from the deathbed—urging you to weave these practices into your days:
• Pause often during the day. Ask if your actions mirror your deepest values. Life is too precious to live on autopilot.
• Face your death regrets head-on. Ask if you go on living the way you are and make no changes, what you would regret on your deathbed.
• Practice maranasati each evening. Lie down and imagine this is your final night. Let gratitude fill you—for breath, shelter, and every heartbeat never promised. Rise next morning as being granted one more dawn and notice how petty worries fade and ordinary moments begin to glow.
• Express love freely. Don’t wait for tomorrow to tell loved ones how much they mean to you—for words unspoken in life echo hollow in death’s shadow.
• Live authentically. Listen to your inner voice and follow what it reveals, not what earns others’ approval.
• Dare to dream boldly. Ask what you would do with your life if money, courage, time, and support were not constraints? The answer often points to your hidden purpose.
• Give more than you take: Wisdom traditions—and even research, such as John Izzo’s — remind us that life’s sanctity blossoms in what we give, not in what we gather.
• Practice 'candle vision'. See each day as a flame in death’s gentle gaze. Will you let it blaze with love, purpose, and gratitude—or fade into smoke?
Like iron, we can rust away in the idleness of half-hearted living, only to regret inconsolably when death draws near. Or we can wear out through purposeful, loving, and devoted service, gleaming with noble pride when the day comes.
To many, seeing death as a guide may seem sorrowful, yet the opposite is true. The wisdom of many ancient traditions keeps death close: monks meditate in graveyards, samurai compose poems on death, and sages keep skulls as reminders of impermanence. They do so not to bring gloom to life but to illuminate it. When we embrace death, even the mundane glows: coffee tastes richer, laughter rings clearer and a loved one’s touch feels like a borrowed miracle.
When we let death walk beside us as our guide, we learn to weigh every act and word against the backdrop of eternity. It stops us from postponing love and waiting for perfect conditions to be kind or courageous.
So, let our prayer be this:
O Death, in life’s darkness, be my light, my guru, and my guide—so I may meet you not with regrets, but with peace, fulfilment, and pride.