There is nothing called the final goodbye

Often people feel that death snatches away their dear ones. This becomes one of the reasons why some people are afraid of deep emotional attachments. If being born is something natural, so is death. What is the point in mourning something that is inevitable?

Yet people cry when someone dear to them dies. I cried when my mother passed away. Once more, death made me cry when I saw my former-student, Shayaan's body in the coffin. We cry primarily because with death we lose tangible contact with the departed and we think we will not be able to share our feelings and experiences with him or her ever again. Then we cry because we feel the departed person did not get enough of this life.

Yes, it hurts to be separated by death, but I personally believe that there is a joyous reunion beyond this life. The supreme mastermind of the universe is kind; He would not play any cruel game with anyone. Thus, death is just a temporary separation between the living and the dead. If this life is unfair to a person, he gets compensation in the hereafter. Those who love always have faith and their faith manifests as reality.

(This post is dedicated to the memory of Shayaan Chowdhury who passed away on 24 May 2008. It was a cruel experience for me to see my former-student's lifeless body. The photo at the top of the post, is Shayaan's.)

(The views expressed in this post are my own and I have no intention here to propagate or denounce any school of thought on death, religious or otherwise.)

Quoting the poem, Death Be Not Proud, by John Donne:

Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,

For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.

From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,

Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,

Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.

Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,

And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,

And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?

One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.