By Jenya Pandey
I sat helpless as I saw the light flicker and fade away from my grandmother’s eyes. Six days later, my grandfather followed her with utmost devotion, for he truly knew that life was meaningless without his companion.
They say death is cruel, but I see her as a caregiver. If she were truly cruel, she would not have waited patiently for the lover who cradled a heartbreak so deep, it consumed him. Death cannot be cruel for she carried the whispers of a promise of reunion in a realm where hearts broken by life could be whole again.
Baba spoke not of love, but it was visible. Perhaps it was the era they came from, perhaps it was his personality, yet he failed to conceal the way he trusted my grandmother to handle his medicines, failed to conceal his adoration for the woman who climbed a flight of stairs to heat up his water for him, despite having severe knee pain, failed to conceal the comfort he found in the cup of tea and the folded newspaper she handed him every day.
The couple lived alone, their children scattered across the globe, who came to brighten their house every once in a while.
Dadi passed unexpectedly due to covid, and a couple of days later, my grandfather followed her from the hospital.
There, I understood that death wore two faces—one of fear for the unprepared and another of peace for those who embrace her.
Their love turned death into a quiet promise, a reunion rather than an end. But this duality of death isn't limited to human bonds. It extends across forms of life, from the tiniest creatures to the grandest trees, where suffering begs for release, and endings hold a new adventure.
Their love was a microcosm of a greater truth: that death, for all its feared finality, can be the bridge to something eternal.
In death’s embrace, many find the promise of reunion and the quiet dignity of returning to the realm where every end becomes a beginning.
If death is merciless, let her not take the man who lies crippled in a hospital bed, his body a prison, his mind screaming for release.
Let her spare the mother who holds her son’s hand, whispering prayers for peace she knows only death can grant.
If death is remorseless, let her ignore the stray dog. It drags its hind legs through the dirt, its cries unheard, its suffering unnoticed.
Let her refuse the kitten, blind and broken, whose pain only death’s embrace can soothe.
If death is selfish, let her hoard the aged tree, gnarled and dry, that longs to fall and feed the earth.Let her ignore its pleas to nourish new life with its aged wood.
Is death merciless? Then let her walk past the child who sleeps fitfully, their tiny chest heaving under the weight of disease.
Let her deny them the rest that even the strongest warrior would crave.
If death is cruel, let her pass by the grandmother left to famish in a silent room, her stories forgotten, her days stretching endlessly without nourishment.
Let her not grant the dignity of a quiet farewell to a long life that deserves closure.
If death is pitiless, let her ignore the wildflower crushed beneath the heavy boot, its petals torn and its fragrance fading.
Let her not grant it the quiet dignity of returning to the soil it sprang from.
If death is remorseless, let her walk past the father who buries his child and stands frozen, unable to imagine another sunrise.
Let her not promise him the solace of reunion when his time finally comes.
If death is ruthless, let her abandon the ship that drifts aimlessly, its crew gone, its purpose lost.
Let her deny it the grace of sinking to rest beneath the waves, where it might become a home for life once more.
If death truly is merciless, let her ignore the lion who limps through the savannah, its roar a shadow of what it once was.
Let her not give it the final roar that echoes through eternity, proud and unbroken.
For my grandparents, Death was neither cruel nor kind. She was the gentle hand that reunited them, a passage through which their love became eternal.
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By Jenya Pandey
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