Two persons I knew well, and liked immensely, died recently. The first was a relative. Out for a walk, he was hit by a scooterist. The seemingly-minor injuries triggered inexplicable breathing trouble and, in less than a week, death. The other gentleman experienced a severe drop in blood sugar and blood pressure one night. His wife, the very capable proprietor of a beauty salon, swept him to hospital, where he was quickly admitted and tended to. But some things are probably just not meant to be. And the gent, who had been joshing with his wife’s clients and doing her book-keeping just the previous day, careened off to his home in the sky.
The men, both in the prime of their life, were gone, no doubt breathing happy over the clouds. But what about their families—the parents, the children and, most specially, the wives? Forget about saying goodbye, they had no time to even think of one. How were they to adjust to the sudden gap in their lives? The finality of death may be equal in all cases, but the lack of preparedness of the suddenly-bereaved is surely more tragic. With time, perhaps they can think of their lost love and console themselves that their absence has been “so long that their presence wouldn’t matter anymore”. But not yet. Not for a long, long time to come.
Which brings me to the question that’s uppermost in my mind these days. If you know tomorrow may not come, what should you do today?
I know of people who find the thought of death more freeing than frightening. They believe that the possibility that one could die tomorrow liberates them from the drudgery of today’s duties. Unencumbered thus by conscience and commitments, they live to please only themselves—travelling, spending, loving and laughing at will. Unlike children and the very old—who know no other way—this lot puts itself first by design. Unlike the heightened individualist, it’s not any explicit ideology that these people lean to. Instead, it’s their own life experiences that make them decide to steer clear of the givens of social life, reject inherited priorities and attachments, and head down an untrammelled path.
The folks on the other end of the decision wheel tread a very different track. They too appreciate the unreliability of life. But instead of immediately heading out for a great adventure, they start fretting about the death of their loved ones or worry about how their own will affect others. Because they know that they don’t know what’s in store for their friends and family, they put themselves out to make all their moments happy ones. They save and scrimp and dedicate their days to keeping those about them content. Unlike the other lot, the fact that they exist as part of a collective identity is no cold comfort. If anything, they strive to strengthen the feeling by making themselves even more accessible to the world.
Do they feel put upon? I’m sure sometimes they do. Putting others first—all the time—is not easy. But the independent individual may not be always delirious with delight, either. The heat from the pyre of other people’s pleasure can scald you even if you’re just passing by.
Maybe the secret is to be like a river—fluid and adventurous—from the very beginning. Go where you want, choose your own pace and space. Try and spring over impediments, but know when to yield. No one needs to die for us to value life more.
shampa@newindianexpress.com