Skip to main content

Death

Which is the most appropriate punctuation mark to put after the word Death? An exclamation mark, a full stop, a question mark or a comma? It is true that it can be any one of these for different people. It would depend on general belief. But invariably death is presented as something to be feared, something we are told would happen to us and yet we do not truly believe that it would. It is feared  for our near and dear ones and cursed on our enemies. We talk about the departed or terminally ill as people who need our sympathies. Our language about death is never positive, always sad, fearful, regretful. Places associated with death, burning pyres, cemeteries, funeral processions evoke terror and we avert our eyes. Why? Granted, it is an unknown land and all of our knowledge is based on information, and that too in metaphorical terms, mostly from scriptures but what makes us fear and dread death? All of us have to cross the threshold of death. The highest and the lowest have crossed to the other side. No one is spared.

Why cannot it be regarded as a rite of passage into another world, a world of new possibilities, discoveries?

Why could it not have been portrayed as relief- for the sick? As rejuvenation for the old and decayed bodies? As a limitless possibility, for the downtrodden and weary? A liberator for the one chained in either desires of within or without?

What is the right way to describe death?

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Fantasy or reality: Where do we want to live?

An eagle is told that it once lived in huge nests on high mountains and tall trees at high altitudes and the big bird scoffs at such a preposterous idea. How can such a big bird living in caves and hunting on rodents soar in the skies over mountain tops and oceans. Not a bad idea but quite unlikely. Seems like these humans are crazy and think of anything about other animals to hide their own embarrassment over their monkey ancestry. Pick up any great novel, Hundred Years of Solitude, Blindness, Beloved, Alchemist or any others that you have read where imagination is stretched but you flow with the narrative. You easily believe what the writer is asking of you. It seems plausible and hence possible and you like a bird open your wings and fly where the winds of possibilities take you. Marquez creates a parallel world of freedom and we camp in this world with him; Morrison brings a spirit from the dead and we unblinkingly accept her character; Saramago presents a sightless world to us ...

Captains!

Haven't written in a while and those following my blog would know by now that whenever something disturbing on the world scene happens, I stop writing. Its an irony because usually writers provide solace through their writings while I, lose all power of expression when I am disturbed. And then what is there to write? Follow any newspaper from around the world and there is only one message that you get: Pakistan is rapidly slipping into an abyss! I was born in the 70s and have grown up in the 90s, I have vague recollection of the 80s even though I was not old enough to understand what life under Zia's martial law was like but I have seen relay race of power between Benazir and Nawaz Sharif in the 90s but never in our history have we been so unsafe. Where every person big or small, significant or otherwise, powerful or weak, rich or poor is exposed equally to this invisible enemy. Call it what you might, Taliban, extremist, jihadi, Al Qaeda, seperatist, a murderer by any name is ...

Snapshots

Naseem, is a six year old girl. When I met her she was sitting on the charpoi with her mother and constantly clapping but without any mirth. Her hair was cut almost to her scalp. I was told that she was a miracle child, she had been suffering from severe acute malnutrition and her family and relatives had almost given up hope that she would survive but she had proven all stats wrong and was sitting right in front of us. Physically, she was on the mend but her mental growth had been irreversibly stunted. She did not respond to any movement, any gesture or sound, her mind was somewhere else... A little boy, hardly seven, sitting on the curbside on an otherwise busy junction but at 0100AM he seemed so out of place on that dark, deserted road. As we stopped at the traffic signal, on the road perpendicular to where he was sitting, my attention was drawn to his posture. His slumped back was towards me and as I watched, two cars stopped on the lanes furthest from him. He made an ...