THE COMEDY OF DYING

The grand old man is dying. He is willing to die. He has had enough; seventy odd long years packed with weddings, funerals, births, famines, earth-quakes, wars abroad, in the family and in the country. Aren't these more than enough? He is willing, quite willing, even eager. Yes, he is dying to die. It is now some days since he has opened his eyes. He will not open them even to his wife's piteous entreaties.

His children, his grand children are by his bed-side. They have come rushing from practically the four corners of the world at the magic words, "He is sinking". They want to keep awake all night to smooth his pillow, to pour the last pious drops of Ganges water down his drying throat, to shed a tear or two at his death. Yet it seems they don't want him to die. A few more years of his precious life they plead to the powers above and below. At least one year more, they pray. They couldn't ask for a retrieve of less than a year, for then leave would be difficult and expenses impossible. Just a year more, they appeal to the God in his unhearing hearing. A bare twelve months, so that they might take him to Benaras in fulfillment of his oft-repeated and equally oft-unheeded wish. They plead the more devoutly, because they have heard the doctors say he can't live even one day.

Relatives are trickling in, to see him breathe his last! They are rather frank, they don't want the end to be delayed much longer; they cannot be expected to wait indefinitely. He must have the decency to wait till they come, and the gentlemanliness to die as soon as they have arrived. Gentlemen don't keep others waiting.

High time the old gentleman died. He knows it. He would not inconvenience anybody if he could help it. So perhaps, just to see whether everything is ready and everybody prepared, he opens his eyes. The gentlemen watchers at the bedside start, the ladies suppress their shrieks, the brahmins forgot their prayers, the oil lamp burning religiously and resignedly at his head suddenly blazes up and dies. And the dying gentleman (perfectly satisfied?) closes his eyes again.

Monstrous, unthinkable! So there is hope, which means that there is no hope of the old one saying his last, Good Night, Thank you. (Who will willingly say Good Night, the night being so dark, so lonely......?) Even the blood of his own blood and the flesh of his own flesh, who have spent sleepless days and nights by his bedside, forget their discretion for a moment and exclaim, 'How long, O Lord, how long!' All the wakeful days and nights taken to die will now be taken in the reverse process to live. Is there to be no end to their suffering? Some of his children are really angry and threaten to leave. Some others start drafting mentally, leave letters and medical certificates. His eldest boy, a sickly old man himself, adjourns to the neighbouring room to lie down for a while and rest. "Slow, very slow" he is murmuring. A nephew suddenly remembers that tea must be getting cold and, with other dry throats, moves to the dinning room. Another thinks it is time to take his bath and say his too long postponed prayers. One very loyal niece asks in all humility, asks if it is not wise to send for the doctor, now that there is a "change''. A few mere onlookers agree with gusto, inviting looks of annihilating contempt from true relatives. Still the doctor is sent for.

More and more of the near and dear ones are leaving his bedside. One or two remain only to yawn. A necessary, preliminary, surely, to going out to smoke.

The family doctor arriving finds the sick-room deserted and his patient dead.