Bodhi Kanwar

The morning breeze still carries the scent of wet earth after last night’s rain. I sit by the window, watching a crow peck at something invisible on the ledge. Funny creatures, crows. In our stories, they carry souls to the afterlife. Yet here it is, struggling with a breadcrumb. Perhaps it’s ferrying some poor soul to a modest destination.

My grandson tells me to stop talking about death. "Dadu, it’s depressing," he says, nose buried in his phone. As if death is some distant cousin who won’t visit if you stop mentioning his name. I only chuckle. Ninety-three years I’ve been here—Calcutta, India, has changed more times than I can count, and yet death remains punctual.

I remember when my friend Shyamal died, clutching his chest in the middle of a chess game. Midway through moving his bishop, he slumped over. I stared at the board for a while. His bishop was threatening my rook. Even in death, he had me cornered. I laughed so hard the nurse thought I’d gone mad. But Shyamal would’ve laughed too. He once said, “If I die before you, make sure they don’t put my photo in the paper with that horrible tie my wife bought me.” I made sure of it.

There’s humility in knowing you’ll be forgotten. Not in a sad way—like the last puff of incense smoke. It rises, swirls, and then it’s gone. But the room remembers the fragrance for a while. That’s enough.

I tell my grandson stories of gods and demons, of kings who turned into beggars, and rivers that once flowed where streets now bustle. He rolls his eyes. But someday, maybe, he’ll remember. Maybe when he’s old, if he’s lucky. Or when he watches a crow peck at nothing.

I’ve stopped fearing death. It’s like catching the last tram home. You wait, it comes, you board. Simple. I just hope I don’t drop my umbrella on the way.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll have some tea. The water’s been boiling for quite a while.