The Death the only Surety of Life

Strength is followed by illness; youth must yield to old age; life gives way to death, we do not live life on years but in hope.

Standing by the side, leaning against the brick wall in cremation ground in Lanjuphakha in Thimphu, Bhutan, praying and watching how the fire engulfed Angay (grandma), 75 years old, who finally surrendered to death after a prolong illness on 11^th May 2012.

What is this life? Many around didn’t care only few relatives were with teary eyes but most others were cracking jokes, lofty laughs, without a thought that death is there for every one of us, to one of the man, it was a special date teasing and talking to some beautiful ladies around. I don’t know whether it’s good to think about it or to forget until we experience ourselves.

Angay was wrapped in thin cloth and put onto the heaps of firewood ready to be burnt, priests were performing puja for Angay’s and other six’s quick liberation from the world of suffering. 

As I have read in Bardo Thoedrol “Liberation by Hearing” and ”Tibetan Book of Living and Dying” we can only be liberated if we understand everything as the creation of our mind based on the fruition of our karmic deeds, while roaming in this intermediate state.

Fire was finally lit and flames took upon it, smokes rising high and Angay gradually disappearing from our sight. I just thought “Angay’s existence would just be a story now. 
Will she now understand and realize that every apparitions that she may encounter till her 49 days as the creation of her own mind? Will she realize and follow that light that shall bring her the swift liberation?”

Now she feels no heat, and her body idly lying on the aggressive flames, she does not have sense of love, no attachments, no to care, no shyness nor proud of her body, that was loved, cared, protected and nourished for years.

Neither her husband guarded her nor her sons were present to protect her from the hands of death, neither those sophisticated advanced technology ever helped nor the brightest heads of doctors were of any help.  Now she was fed to the fire, naked on the flames leaving everything behind, her husband, sons, daughters and grand children, beautiful house and lands.

I stood aside, as the fire fed on Angay, I prayed “O! the daughter of noble family, finally death has come to you and you are going now, understand that, whatever apparitions you encounter on your way, is just the creation of your own mind, recognize the illumination of your mind and follow it, so you’ll be liberated”. Donot cling to this earthly matters, your sons and daughter shall take care of them. Donot look back to your decaying body and cry for it, it not going to help you…. Recognize and understand all you encounter are drama of your own mind”.

The fire turned aggressive, fleshes burnt and bones to ashes, smoke rose high above as if taking Angay to the heaven up. Panic stricken, “this time is briefly borrowed, and we’ll fly away one day” I cried. Looking back, I saw her grandson just 5 to 6 years old, who turned toward me and asked “Uncle Angay nga tse besa lok hong ya?” (Uncle will grandma come back to us again?)

 

At first I was dump like a dog, but  I couldn’t answer him wrong, so shaking my head to tell him “No, now she is gone forever” I said “Pray and tell Angay safe journey”.

Having said I walked home, but that little child still not believing me remained watching the last burning fire……...

Human in the eye of GOD

This time I am inside a bus, moving towards Siliguri, a city in West Bengal India. The day was hot and bus was so packed and those on stand perhaps had not a space for the legs to keep them standing. It’s like this in India, I smiled to myself, but I have always loved Indians for their simplicity.

Sitted beside me is a man, he is a gentle man, quite talkative. In our brief conversation he told me that he was in Bhutan for a week on his business trip and even met some of the high Bhutanese officials and have memorized their names too. He had names of all the places that he have visited in Bhutan and loved visiting again

 Not ending with it, he shared with me some of the books he had read, and knowing that my interest in Philosophical volumes, he talked about some of the nicest books he had read with some quotes of His Holiness Dalai Lama, Mother Teresa, Swami Vivekkhananda and some quotes from Robin Sharma’s The Monk who Sold His Ferrari as well. 

I enjoyed his talk, not of much words from my side, but I gave him a listening ears and open heart. Tall and giant man, instead of some kind of materialistic talks as usual business man does, he shared with me all the talks that I liked as if he had already read my mind.

While I was quietly listening to him, a small boy crept  inside and stood begging beside me. Poor little creature, he wore a black shirt with hundreds holes in it and a half pant that almost leaving his waist to drop on to the floor, eyes sunken and fleshes merged inside bones and his limbs not bigger than a stick, with some words on his vibrating lips he begged.

These are some frequent scenes in India, but I am sure we cannot resist their request, they are poor, thrown in street, uncared and unloved living in poverty of love in slums.

While I took my hand to pull out my wallet to offer some penny to this poor boy, the man stopped me. 

“You see man, there are thousands such children in India, one cannot help them at all. Look he is young, his limbs are perfect, he can work to earn his bread, but people like us tend to be so kind and indirectly spoil them. Finding this, a way of easy earning they become lazy and unproductive, do not give, let him work”

I was touched hearing his words and even he started to scold him. The boy stood still now with tears rolling down his sunken cheeks.

I have expected the man would be more kind and being an Indian would love this poor son of India, and as well I couldn’t take him wrong and remembered a Chinese saying “Don’t give fish but teach him fishing”.

Joining his palms and bending to me, he cried pouring his sorrows and said, “Who shall in this earth give me a job?, I am Dallit, I am discarded, even if we are met in early morning people beat us thinking we bring them the bad luck, we are not allowed to walk the path they walk and get water from the tap from where they take theirs. We are untouchable, what can I do? I’ll die if I do not beg for living. My family were tortured and assassinated  by higher class neighbours, while I escaped from that death to suffer this fate.

Perhaps in the eye of GOD we are human so I came to beg from you and I believe one doesn’t become poor by offering a penny to a poor”.

 It was unbearable, I offered him some money and he thanked me and left quietly wiping off the tears from is checks…..

Her Identity

Its  10:00 am, I am inside a bus, Dhug Transport Service, with the beautiful background, the hills, the falls, and fluttering prayer flags at faraway distance, my bus moves softly playing with every cross and turns on the road. 

It’s a coaster bus, comfortable with sweet music from my behind, a Bhutanese song with nice background music of traditional guitar and an elderly lady on peak of her sweet voice.

Day is so beautiful with sun moving towards its western destination and with watermarked moon watching the moving sun and white clouds morphs  into different creatures like shape that decorated the heaven above us.

With relish filled inside and my mind flying high, with a kind of whisper in my heart, I sing.  I loved getting out for sometimes and wish I could plug the moon from the sky and place it near the juvenile sun, catch hold that snow like clouds and pour it on the crown of hill and make it as a show capped hills.

Sited beside me is a lady in her mid thirties, slim with luminous black hair touching her cheeks and flowing till her thigh, dressed in blue kira and a yellowish tego (Bhutanese National dress), her face fair and moist  with a small mole neatly decorated her chin.

She laid silent and almost motion less, just clearing her eyes from frequent furl  of her hair with  green nail polished fingers and she kept looking out with her eyes and face painted with some kind of sorrows and sadness. I gave her frequent glances but still she was firm with just her fingers clearing her hair and blinks on her eyes and of course her heart beating.

‘Is she speechless? But cannot be devoid of sight, she looks out and blinks, perhaps she sees everything and her eyes perfect pair. Does she really sees or she pretending”  thought occupies my mind.

I cannot be silent on such a long journey, I have my words and tale to share even if it’s a foreigner, I try but I fail it again and again, now its thrice, “what if she do not speak, or get angry, or will I not disturb her?”  thoughts hovers me.

Now I pulled in the air, exhaled it, moistened my throat turned towards her and asked  “Hi  can I speak to you?”.

She turned her head slowly and diligently pouring her hair over and on the cannel of her right ear and clearing her face, she smiled and with low tone answered “yes sir, How may I answer you?”.

She is perfect, she can speak and hear, she got a good tongue with English but often mixed it with Hindi. I was quite confused as her looks promised me as Southern Bhutanese. However she shares a soft voice and words with some lovely taste in it.

She is not always a first mover in any conversation but she speeds and opens up once other sets the track. She seems kind, compassionate, spiritual and scholarly.

But why that sadness over her face? She opened up with eyes  red and juicy, almost to drop the tears. Lips shivering on every words and nose silently running “I cannot describe this sorrows that you see in my eyes, no word equals it, only I can tell you about me is,  I am an Indian , worked with some odd jobs in Bhutan for quite few years after the death of my husband who was a construction labour.  Yesterday through some sources I was informed that our house was burnt and my 73 years old mom suffered severe burns and died in government hospital in Banarhat, in her dying bed she muttered my name and couldn’t remember my number.  I have told my mother I work in Phuntsholing and never told kind of job I do”  With regret she cried. “ I love Bhutan and love this dress’, She pulls her kira, ‘but I couldn’t make it my identity’.

We reached Phuentsholing and everybody rushing to door for exit, at the back end seat she took off her dress put it unfolded in her old bag.  With just a simple brown wrapper, a blouse, her thin slippers, and with her head down she quietly walked down to Jaigoan. I was voiceless and stayed looking till she got blurred and disappeared in air with distance………………