I have learnt to live with death — once a year in the last few years. The latest one hit my wife.
At 48, yet to see the more beautiful things of life, death knocked her off one lovely morning in June when she had set out to execute her day’s plans.
Minutes before her life was snapped off, she had told me she was in a hurry and had a lot of people to talk to.
Since then, my dearest soul, I have been at a loss and have not been able to come to terms with life.
At times, when I am left alone, I keep on staring at you, in my mind, and you remind me not to shed tears for you are at peace. But how can I believe that you are at peace? You had planned a 100 things that we were to execute in the years to come.
You had promised that you, with me, will build a future that could give us the strength and contentment to be able to bid good-bye forever, with smile and gratitude.
You used to remind me of Shakespeare that all that live must die, passing through nature and eternity.
You used to tell me there is nothing more beautiful than life, and that the best of things are yet to unfold.
You had a dream which I can describe only in Satre’s words, “To die with eyes open is to verify the fact that one has lived with eyes open too.” As I struggle to manage life all alone, I will always be reminded of your tireless zest for life.
I’ll keep in mind your favourite words that life does not cease to be beautiful if action does not cease. I’ll turn to you when I face crises like your death.
Nobody and nothing has helped me more to realise the futility of shedding tears than your serene face I saw for the last time. It had a Corinthians’ message: “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?”
Oh dear, rest in peace, I will join you when my mission is complete, and the duties of a father are fulfilled.