Death Watcher

THE STRANGE PASSENGER

 

 Despite his apparent old age, the stranger sitting across looked handsome. Rich silver hair adorned his tall lean frame gracefully. He bore striking resemblance with Jiddu Krishnamurthy, the philosopher, and his glasses gave his eyes the depth and penetration of a spiritualist. We observed the strange man deeply immersed in thoughts for most of the time. Even our constant chatter wouldn’t distract him. He never bought anything from the service boys from the train pantry. He just sat near the window, looking out at nothing in particular.

 

“Have you seen death?” His voice had the stillness of a deep lake and the ring of a temple bell. We were startled, for we never expected him to speak. The question was directed to my friend who sat opposite to the old man. We looked at each other, groping for a response. We were, in fact, talking about the death of one of our colleagues. Obviously, the stranger was listening in.

 

“I have seen people dying. I have shared the pain, trauma and joy of death with people. I know death like no other man would ever know.” We seemed had struck the most sensitive chord in the stranger. “I can share my experience of death if you are interested.” He looked at us with his piercing eyes, the glasses nestling a few inches down his angular nose. We nodded reluctantly, wondering what was it about death that the stranger found interesting to have a conversation.

 

The Dog Woman

 

It’s strange, you see. I have witnessed death since my childhood. I don’t know how many times. I must have been five or six when I met this woman. Every Tuesday and Friday, she used to come in her Fiat and stop at the end of the gully. From the boot, she took out a large vessel of cooked meat. A pack of dogs gathered around her, smelling and drooling and wagging their tails in the excitement and expectation. She took out the meat and fed the pack lovingly, the dogs falling all over her. The first time I came upon this spectacle, I stood and watched with wonder. From then on I used to be there every Tuesday and Friday. When she saw me coming regularly, she invited me to join her. I happily dug my hands into the vessel and joined her and the dogs in the feast. One day she took me home. She was young and rich and lived in a big apartment. Except for the maidservant, I could see no one in the house. She would ask about me, what I did, where I stayed and what my father did. She would give me chocolates and biscuits to eat. Soon enough, she became a part of my routine. I liked the way she carried herself, but something disturbed me, which I could not define. There was a pall of gloom around the apartment, and it came from her.

 

When she missed a Tuesday and then Friday, I felt a restlessness in me. After much internal debate, I rang the bell of her apartment. The maid told me madam was sick and in the hospital. I reached the hospital and was told that madam was seriously ill and could not speak to anyone. She was in a private room, sleeping, her breath laboured and a white sheet drawn up to her chest. I stood silently, looking at her, with a great sense of restlessness and sympathy. Except for the nurses, I could sight no one with her.

 

I would go to the hospital daily. She stayed away from consciousness for a couple of days and on the third day, she opened her eyes. I was there when it happened. She saw me and the corners of her mouth broke into a faint smile. I sat on the bed and held her hands. In a few days time, she had sufficiently recovered to talk to me about the dogs. Could I keep feeding them? I could take the car and the maid would accompany me for help.

 

I wondered about her family. Except for me, she had no one visiting her. I asked her about this but she just smiled, saying that when she had me with her she needed no one else. It was disturbing me that even after her apparent recovery, the hospital kept her in bed.

 

One evening, a week later, I saw a tall dark man in a suit talking to the doctor in her room. The lady looked sickly. The doctor was telling the man that the woman was in the final stage and there was nothing they could do to save her. The ailment, I don’t know what it was, had taken her life in its fatal grip. Soon enough a thin and pale looking lady joined the man. The doctor went off. They were talking animatedly about the sick woman. Property, will and advocates were a recurring theme in their discussion. Finally, they left. The lady on the bed was crying silently. I could see tears trickling on either side of her eyes. She was not asleep. When she opened her eyes, I stood there looking at her, and she quickly wiped the tears.

 

“Madam”, I said. “I don’t know why, but the doctor says you are going to die. But don’t worry ma’am I shall feed the dogs even when you are gone. My father says no one ever dies. They just go on to live a new life. You must meet me in your next life madam. You are very good and I really care for you.” The lady held my hands tight while she emptied herself of her emotions. When her grip loosened, I knew she was no more.

 

Sudden Death

 

Each one of us knows that we have to die. It is, however, hard to come to terms with death. It comes in so many different ways and so unpredictable! Let me tell you about another of my experiences with death. I was in Moradabad at that time, and it was wintertime. The winter that year was severe and the fog would start settling down immediately upon sunset. That evening, I was returning quite late. The smog was blinding and visibility poor.

 

At a cigarette shop on the highway, I came upon two young men. They were obviously drunk and were talking to each other loudly. Something made me stop at the shop and silently, I watched the two chattering excitedly. After ten minutes or so, the boy with a big belly and a French beard started his scooter. The other man sat behind. They had to cross the road and waited for traffic to clear. Heavy trucks sped past in both directions and getting an opportunity, the scooterist accelerated and went across the road. To their misfortune, they did not see a truck coming at great speed until it was almost upon them. Were they in their proper senses, they could have avoided the truck. I watched the scooter swerve wildly, and skid as the truck caught it on its fender and knock it down. I ran across and saw the two lying in a pool of blood, even as the truck sped off. A crowd had already gathered and I cried for someone to arrange for a vehicle to take them to the hospital. By the time we reached the hospital, one of them was dead. The man with the French beard was still conscious and he looked at me with pleading eyes. He wanted to say something. I put my ear near his mouth and could hear him telling me to inform his family. His pointed to his pocket. I took out the small diary and flipped it open for him to see. He pointed out a name and phone number. Soon thereafter he was taken in for medical help.

 

The lady who picked up the phone did not believe what I was saying. Finally, an elderly voice came on the phone and I gave the details. The family was at the hospital and I went up to them. The young wife was visibly shaken and was weeping aloud. A small girl child, some two years old, was looking bewildered. The elderly man looked anxious but composed. I told him what happened and gave him the black diary.

 

Hours later, the doctors came up and announced the man’s death. All hell broke loose and the young widow was out of emotional control. The child was still dazed. The elderly man had broken down. I couldn’t help wondering how cruel fate can be. The picture of the two men chattering happily one moment and the eyes of the man pleading to me will never fade.

 

Life fulfilled

 

It’s not always that death brings sorrow. In fact, you will be surprised to know that certain communities celebrate death, like a wedding. The funeral procession is held with bands and dancing relatives. Fortunate are those who live a full life. This man I was acquainted with was a high ranking IAS officer. He retired after completing meritorious service. I happened to stay in his neighbourhood in Lucknow. He owned palatial bungalow, half of which was sublet. Man and wife stayed in the other half with sons settled abroad and daughters happily married off. The man had a passion for gardening and used to spend hours digging and tending plants. His wife, a devout Hindu, spent time in Godly matters. My association with them was limited to the morning hours when I used to accompany them for the morning walk. Our routine was simple; walk for about an hour, return to the bungalow, sit in the verandah and read the paper, have tea. Since my friend had a problem with his eyesight, I read the paper aloud for him.

 

That day was no different. Back from the walk, I sat down on the steps while he made himself comfortable in his easy chair. The wife went in for tea. While I read the paper, he used to pass remarks, grunt, laugh as an indication that he was with me. Five minutes through the paper, I could not hear his voice. I glanced at him and found him spread in the chair, lying as if he was asleep with his eyes open. I shook him and he slumped sideways, breathless. The wife came out with the tea tray, looked at me and then at her husband. She put down the tray quietly, went up to him, gently closed his eyes, and said a prayer to God for blessing them with a good life. She then asked me to make arrangements for the cremation while she would inform all concerned.

 

Courting Death

 

You must be wondering how I get involved in such situations. Frankly, I don’t know. But let me tell you, these are just a few cases which come to my mind. There are many more that I won’t share with you. We Hindus believe that when our time is over, God sends Yama to take delivery of our souls. It’s true that God manages the universe in his own way. But I believe that God uses one amongst us as the messenger for everything that happens. Sometimes the man himself becomes his own messenger of death.

 

The couple I knew was newly married and happy. Both came from moderately rich families and had a good education. The marriage was arranged and the couple lived with the boy’s family. The father was an acquaintance of mine whom I met occasionally for astrological consultations. In fact, it was I who read the horoscopes of the boy and girl.

 

Things were fine till the girl started nagging the boy to move into a separate house. In the best Indian tradition, the boy expressed his reluctance to move out of his family fold. The tension was inevitable, and finally, the couple did move to their own apartment. My friend did mention that he saw signs of abnormal behaviour in the girl, but I put it down to normal reaction of anxious parents-in-law. Later, the girl would prevail upon her husband to allow her to take up a job. They were yet to have a child. Being out of the family, the girl used to express her feelings to me rather freely. I even frequented her new apartment occasionally.

 

On the fateful day, she called me to her place. She was looking cheerful and spoke about the job and friends she had made. Inexplicable though it may seem to you, her mood swung from cheer to depression. She started talking about her father in Pune, her husband and her in-laws. While I sat there listening to her monologue, she went into her room and locked herself up. Alarmed, I called up my friend and suggested that he come over at once. When we broke open the door, we found her hanging from the ceiling fan, tied fatally to her saree. A note dated one month earlier was found. She had been plotting her death since long and blamed everybody for her death.

 

  

THE INVITATION

 

The stories you have just read were narrated over 24 hrs of travelling in a train. When the last story was told we looked at the stranger before us and wondered why he was so much fascinated with tales of death. Our moods were dark clouds and we could think nothing else but of the characters in these stories.

 

The man sensed our gloom.

 

"You must be wondering", he said, "what sort of person I am. Strange though it may seem to you, what I told you is the truth. I realized long ago that I was designed by God to be with such people. I told you about Yama. I say once again that the Yama we imagine is fictional. Each one of us may be a Yama for someone. In a way, I feel that I am God’s representative for delivering souls of people fated to die".

 

There was a long pause, during which period the old man had his gaze fixed on me. He asked me where I lived. Then, in his ringing voice, he said “Can I drop in to meet you if I happen to pass by your area?” The import of his question sent a chill of terror and my mind started racing with numerous possibilities. Why did the stranger ask only me? My voice trembled as I said yes to him.

 

Till date, I dread the strange old man. Every knock on my door sets up the dread of expectation of the arrival of Yama.