By
Shevlin Sebastian
Every
day, at 6 a.m., when I sit and read the newspapers, there is one
moment when time stands still. This is the period when I look at a
page, full of obituary notices, in a vernacular newspaper. When I
stare at the faces, looking unblinkingly back at me, I feel uneasy
and nervous.
All
kinds of people – young, middle-aged, and old – are dying every
day. At times, when I look at the age, I get a shock. If I had the
same destiny, I would be dead within two, five or ten years. I feel
hopeful when a 90-year-old has passed away. That means there could be
a long life ahead of me.
There
are also moments when I feel bereft. This happens when I see the
faces of children. Why, I ask God. As always, He keeps an enigmatic
silence. Sometimes, I wonder: Does He exist? The truly shocking
moment arrives when I see a photo of a stunning young woman. What a
loss for mankind that they can no longer enjoy the sight of this
beauty? Now, she is either a few grams of ash, or six feet under the
ground. Either prospect is heart-breaking.
This
daily morning ritual is a reminder to me that time is running out.
Sometimes, a panic arises in me. There are so many things to do. Can
I do them, before destiny forces me to hit the exit button?
Who
knows? You need a lot of luck, pluck, and good health to get the life
you want. However, luck cannot hold your hand forever. It has to
cater to so many people – more than seven billion and increasing
daily. So, luck leaves you. Then darkness and despair appears on the
horizon. You pine for good fortune to return. Sometimes it does, but
most of the time it does not.
When
I have a chat with my parents, I get confirmation that
luck is sleeping a lot these days. Every now and then, they will
inform me of a death of a member of their generation.
“Thomas was a
nice person, but a man of few words,” my dad told me one evening.
My mom said, “Where did he stay?” And both of them racked their
brains to recall the address.
A
recent death of my father's friend was poignant. The wife had gone to
America to spend time with her son and his family. Her 80-year-old
husband did not go, because he was not keeping good health. On the
day, she returned, to Chennai, she was so glad to see him, from a
distance, sitting patiently, on an armchair, in a ground-floor
verandah. But when she came close, she got a shock. The eyes were
lifeless. Her husband had died, moments before, of a massive heart
attack.
Another
day, my mother tells me that I should take her to meet her friend,
Shanti. She is a childless widow, who lives in an old people’s
home. “Shanti is feeling depressed, because two of her closest
friends at the home have died,” my mother says.
I am
middle-aged now and can only watch, apprehensively, as Yama, The God
of Death, whistles past me, busy in his work.
(Published as a middle in The New Indian Express, South Indian editions)