In death’s shadow

Death has always reminded me of an old story I heard as a child. A dove sat on a tree when a passing Yamaduta noticed him, smiled, and walked away. The same thing happened the next day. By now, the dove was terrified. A kite noticed his distress and asked him what was wrong. The dove told him that a Yamaduta had smiled at him twice.

The kite offered to carry him somewhere safe and far away. The dove agreed so the kite lifted the dove and flew for two days across forests and mountains until they reached a distant cave. “You should be safe here,” the kite said before leaving. That night an earthquake shook the hills. A rock came loose from the cave ceiling and crushed the dove in his sleep.

As the dove’s soul rose, he saw the same Yamaduta approaching him. “Why did you smile at me,” the dove asked. The Yamaduta replied, “I knew the place and hour of your death. But when I first saw you sitting on that tree, you were impossibly far away from the cave where you were meant to die. I smiled because I thought you might escape death.”

I am reminded of this story every time I hear of deaths that happen far away from home. There is something unsettling about such deaths. Not just the tragedy of them, but the strange choreography. The exact delay. The exact location. The exact minute at which a machine fails or a person decides to stop for tea or take a detour home. It makes life feel like thousands of invisible threads tightening quietly around us.

When I was stuck in West Asia during war, I used to think about death constantly. Every sunrise felt final. This is the last sunrise I will see. This phone call with my family is the last time they will hear my voice. I was ready for death and terrified of it at the same time. I used to think courage was the absence of fear. I realised that courage is continuing to participate in life even when your mind is constantly bombarded with images of horrible deaths. I have read accounts of people who briefly died and came back. Many describe a strange calmness. An absence of pain. Some speak about light. Some about silence. Some simply say they felt nothing at all.

Perhaps death itself is not what frightens us most. What frightens us is interruption. A conversation cut midway. Clothes left drying on a balcony. A family waiting for someone who never returns home. A half-read book with a bookmark that will now never be finished. The dead leave suddenly but their unfinished presence remains everywhere. A toothbrush in the bathroom, a purse, their favourite chair, a saved contact nobody can delete.

Then begins the quiet dismantling of a life. Their clothes are folded into bags for relatives or donation. Spectacles are placed in drawers; medicines are thrown away. Someone asks what should be done with the shoes. Eventually their phone stops ringing. Their room slowly becomes a room again instead of their room. A human being quickly turns into belongings.

Perhaps this is mercy. Human beings cannot survive if grief remains permanently sharp. Life forces us to continue through routines. Paying bills, booking cylinders, traffic signals, office meetings, making new friends even when somebody’s entire existence has vanished from the world.

This is why the story of the dove unsettles me. Not because it says death is unavoidable. We already know that. It is the idea that life quietly carries us toward places we never intended to reach. We spend time believing we are making plans, escaping danger, and deciding our futures while flying toward the cave.

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