this monday is a mirror

i did not know her very well. in fact i realized to my shock that i hardly knew her at all. indhu was quiet, good natured, a sincere student, friendly with most, and a little reticent - you had to engage her, she would not engage you easily. she took her life on campus last week and the world will not be the same again for so many of us. its been an intense week this one and my thoughts have naturally been on death, and life. i have marvelled, upon reflection, at how little i really know about my students. and on further reflection, how little i know about any one actually. how little have i sought to know, how little people may have revealed, and when people did reach out, how little may i have been able to touch. the finality of death doesn't shock me so much any more. i came to know it well when my father passed away, during my own mba days. nothing, nothing i did could bring him back. i dreamt of him being alive for years afterwards. the dream world was comforting but the hands and the heart wanted much more. much that i desired, i could not hug my father again. the finality of death doesn't shock anymore but it still takes the breath away. the finality of death doesn't shock any longer but the waste of a life so young, and with so much potential, it does hurt. and deeply. we all, in our ways, failed indhu, and nothing we do can bring her back. its this finality, and the knowledge that death dances to its own beats - this breath could stop anytime, and i really cannot say when - that has haunted me ever since my father passed away. what is it that actually matters in life? how much time do i really have? what am i really doing with the time that i seem to think i have? could i be doing any better with it? and my answers to these questions have invariably returned me to the one truth i know and believe in - love. life matters, and in life, love matters - in fact life is really one loving gift. while the big ambitions in life do have their time and place, it are in the little things where life is being truly lived. as the hair disappears, the little things have begun mattering more & more :-) and love. to have cared, to have been cared for. and to have been able to express in many many little ways this caring. love is probably the only thing that transcends death (much as i have missed my father, my thoughts of him are invariably joyous, filled with our little jokes, the purity of his loving, and a deep gratitude that life gave us the time together it did.) it is this determination that love must be expressed that drove me to propose to shobhana suddenly out of the blues (that she took an year to make up her mind and give a befitting reply is a story for another day :-) . it is the same instinct that birthed the monday morning club. so many people to love,and how many ways can i find to tell them that :-) and so much love that has been returned :-) :-) this week's poem is from dylan thomas - written for his dying father. i was first introduced to it in my iim days by a dear dear friend - fruity. and the poem has stayed with me ever since. Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on that sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Dylan Thomas i rage too then, with love, against the closing of our hearts, and the wasting of this marvellous gift called life. no matter what we believe in, or do not, this particular birth, with its particular friends and families, is not going to come back. each breath bears a one way ticket. each breath carries our entire life with it. may it be a happy breath, may it be a kind breath, and may it, no matter what the circumstance, have lived and died as love's irrepressible poet :-) much much love d&s