In so many ways, what makes life interesting is death. That it exists, makes life scarce. And scarcity makes savouring possible. I guess if we took death out of life; life would be with one foot in the grave but not quite there yet.
With all its benefits we seldom wish death upon those we love, or hate for that matter. A man would almost never wish death upon his mother and would never wish death upon his mother-in-law, but for very different reasons.
A father would never wish death upon his daughter. An Indian mother often would – mar moya marjaneya – it is still love, and better yet it alliterates, hence doting.
It did not come as a surprise when my daughter asked me, ‘Why do men die?’
‘Women die too.’ I said.
‘Why do both we die then?’ She corrected herself. Vexed. With that interrogative stare.
Walking long the radials of Connaught Circus – with men offering branded earphones, luxury sunglasses and more luxurious shoe shines – I could not help thinking of death. Specially around me. Of people I loved. And lost.
I come from a family where people tend to die young. Disease, Cancer – for my dad and mum. My bhua managed to get close to 60. Someone murdered her in her house. Still absconding, never identified, the perpetrator must be the providence. They say life finds a way; I guess death does too. We can chalk this upto the peripatetic nature of Nature.
Death gives meaning to life. Its mere existence makes us pursue joys, happiness, thrills and excitements. And we begin to die when we start to lose adventure from our life. When we clog our mind to new ideas and thoughts. When our dogma takes hold of us and those around us suffer the consequences of that rigidity and desire for unquestioned acceptance.
The existence of such men (and women) is no longer in-sync with nature. And if we have seen a stork throwing its baby out of its nest and when stressed mother wolf will eat the runt of the litter (mar moya marjaneya), we know nature is beautiful, yet cruel and would do what it takes to retain its balance – and off a few old men and women; now and then.
Disease. Murder. Whatever it takes.
‘Or war.’ she added.
‘Sometimes war, yes.’ I nodded. Thinking of this mindless war, and deaths of children, some old men should have died already but her mind was too young to be subjected to geopolitics.
‘I think I got it,’ she said. ‘We die because we go stale.’
‘Yes love, you got it. We die because we go stale.’