kokoroZendo

The most clichéd and boring statement I have heard during my times @ Toastmasters was “Public speaking is the most feared thing among the public, far above the fear of death or disease. “. I really don’t know the basis of that statement. Probably most of the populace may be afraid of the prospect of public humiliation, considering the fact that our collective egos may cover the distance between earth and sun.

Incidentally I was not afraid of public speaking, even before I learned to fly as a little kite there and never thought much about death till my father passed away four years back. Even when he was ushered into the operation theatre by a well known cardiothoracic surgeon in Bangalore ( who said my father had one of the lowest risk rating in the Euro score), he was very calm and collected. After some four days he was the only one left behind in that 15 bed Surgical and soon he had slipped into the unknown as graciously as he had lived leaving us all behind. For some strange reason, as I stood beside his bed, as those attendants were cleaning up his body, I did not feel bereaved nor did I cry.. Tears came back to o my eyes much later.

Soon after that, I had chanced upon a book titled “The Tibetan book of the dead” , among the piled up books,  in the no longer alive  “Premier books shop”  @  Church street corner. And it remained one of the books I did not make much progress… A few weeks back, one of my wonderful colleagues (who is really one of the rare species in the corporate jungle… a kind of Zen master or would be saint), told me it is really a nice book.. That brought that old dusty volume out of the book shelf into my reading list again… I also started jotting down the imprint I had in my mind from my readings on what else, classy deaths.. Here I am jotting down a few of them… I am retaining the original, for fear of killing the life in those wonderful lines…

The first one has to be one of the Americans I admire a lot…. Richard Feynman… When LA times, sent him an advanced copy of his obituary, he thanked the author but said, “I have decided it is not a very good idea for a man to read it ahead of time, it takes the element of surprise out of it.” He knew he was not recovering. He was 69. The cancer had relapsed. Pain had wracked one of his legs. He was exhausted. In one corner of his dusty office blackboard @ Caltech, he had written a pair of self conscious mottos and a running list under the heading “To Learn”….. He had not accumulated much: A hand knitted scarf, hanging on a peg, a photograph of Michelle with her cello, some black and white pictures of aurora borealis, a van painted with chocolate brown Feynman diagrams. On Feb 3, he had entered UCLA Medical centre again. His remaining kidney had failed. One round of dialysis was done. Feynman had refused further dialysis that might have prolonged his life for weeks or months. He told Michelle calmly, “I am going to die.”… He had anticipated his own death as he had shared with one his friends “You see, one thing is, I can live with doubt and uncertainty and not knowing. I think it is much more interesting to live not knowing than to have answers which might be wrong. I have approximate answers and possible belief. I don’t have to know an answer. I don’t feel frightened by not knowing things, by being lost in a mysterious universe without any purpose, which is the way it really is as far I can tell. It does not frighten me.”

.. He drifted towards unconsciousness. His eyes dimmed. Speech became an exertion. He drew himself together, prepared the last phrase and released it; I had hated to die twice. It is so boring… Soon he was gone…

This one I got it from the Outlook obituary of Bhimsen Joshi… Saba Naqvi writes about the death of Mallikarjun Mansur, the saintly Hindustani classical singer legend from Dharwar. “. He had lung cancer. The doctors had given up. So his daughter was instructed not to keep him away from things he loved most. The last thing he asked for was a bidi to smoke. He was humming Raaga Jogia, almost inaudibly. His daughter placed between his lips a lit bidi. And his head rolled over. He was gone. I told this story to Bhimsen Joshi. He heard the story with a distant look, smiled and a tear rolled down his cheek.”

And continues in the same story about the Abdul Karim Khan.

“Singing at platforms links up nicely with a story from Abdul Karim Khan’s life or rather his death. On his way to Puducherry at the invitation of Sri Aurobindo, Khan sahib had a premonition that his end was nearing. He left the train at an unknown railway station, spread out his prayer mat and sang his last song. He died on the railway platform. The news was carried to Sri Aurobindo by the disciples accompanying him. “

Let me end with the story of another American who was a constant presence in my life thru the last page humor column of The Hindu for many years.. Art Buchwald . He was a very popular humorist and political satirist whose work was syndicated in multiple major American newspapers including the New York Times and Washington Post. In addition to being a writer, he was also someone who apparently suffered from serious bouts of depression throughout his life. He died last Wednesday, January 17th, 2007 after a long illness and extended hospice care.Mr. Buchwald has the distinction of being the first person to pre-record his own video obituary for the New York Times. Far from being grim, this interview and documentary is quite uplifting, and I think, very much worth watching. The most important point in that videos is

Knowing that you are dying is no reason to stop living.

“You may have to alter or adjust some of your previous activities, but there is no reason to shut down completely. If you can no longer read, find some books on tape, or have a family member read to you. If you can’t type, have a person email or type for you, etc., etc. Consider reuniting with lost friends or forgiving old enemies. You don’t have to be a famous columnist to pass on a legacy. Compose a letter or videotape your own interview to share your thoughts and life experiences with future generations.

Till his very last day, Buchwald continued writing, hosted a lot of guests. “I’m having a swell time — the best time of my life” he quipped.

I hope that the rest of us don’t wait until we are dying to have such fun.