The night I died

A short story by RAJ PAUL SANDHU

AND I died. I was dead.

Very, very dead.

I died exactly at the time predicted by that Mystic Oldman SadhuBaba.

And there stood the smiling Yama, the Chauffeur, sent by the Lord of Death, in his rock-star shiny red leather jacket and red shoes. I can’t remember if he was wearing a shirt. Yama smiled, looking through his dark Versace glasses, and said Yamaste, with a slight bow and hands pressed together.

“The Lord has sent for Thee”, he said, pointing towards the sporty, Black V24, Bubalus bubalis. As his laughter got throatier, his face reminded me of Bollywood’s super villain Gulshan G.

***

Something drew me to Mystic SadhuBaba. I met him while travelling in India last year. He was waking along a lonely highway, in the 48-degree heat-fest. The highway mirage was causing an illusion of oil puddle on the road. I slowed down and pulled the window down. “Would you like me to drive you to the next town”?

Baba was in his 60s, dressed in a minimum of cloth, with long beard, matted long locks twirled into a towering bun on his head. His eyes were so red, that if I took his photo, the red-eye reduction option would seem useless.

“Where are you going?” I questioned as he sat motionless on the passenger seat.

“Around the country” he replied without looking at me.”

So how do you get around the country?

He looked puzzled. “Free travel, free meals, free hashish… life is good for SadhuBaba in India”.

Closed answers were all I got for the many questions I asked him over the next hour. At the outskirts of the next town, SadhuBaba signalled me to stop. He got out and looked at me through the window.

“Son,” he said, with an other-worldly look in his eye, “You are going to die in a year’s time”. “What?” I said, dumbfounded.

“Listen to me, my boy,” he continued as if in a trance.

“When your time comes, go freely. Become free of the fear of death, and let go of all attachments to pleasure, home and family”

I could feel the colour drain from my face. “But how do you know this?” I asked hastily. “I just know. In a previous life, your parents prayed for years for a chance to have a child. Their prayers were answered, but they had to choose: they could have a gifted son, but one with a short life on earth, or a child of low intelligence but with a long life. Your father chose the former, and was blessed with you. You are destined to die at the age of 30. Your age has been set, and you will die, the day you turn 30.”

I had had enough.

“Get a life, you little hashbashing, chillumsucking Rastaman!”

I floored the accelerator and SadhuBaba disappeared behind the cloud of smoke and dust.

My eyes flashed at the thought of turning the car around and running the man down twice over.

SadhuBaba was right.

***

On Sunday night at 7.15pm, I was dead. And as soon as I was dead, the list of things that I wanted to accomplish before my death, started flashing in my mind.

Very quickly I realised that I had not written my autobiography, nor had I left that million dollars behind for the family. I had not finished researching the family tree. And most importantly, I hadn’t said “I love you, Mum”.

***

Black Bubalus bubalis was speeding towards the final destination, Vaikuntha. I looked the odometer; the digital display indicated 350. We arrived at the Gates of Vaikuntha on a foggy Monday morning. We pulled up in front of the 100 story building named Akashic Death Records. There was a continuous announcement being made on two gigantic loudspeakers: “Dear deads, your secrets are safe here; we’re an eternal custodian of significant afterlife events for the citizens of earth Under Death Registration Act, year 10235 BC. Our business is conducted with sensitivity in the knowledge that the information we record and release concerns significant personal and emotional events in people’s lives”. The sign on the gate read “Authorised personnel only. Trespassers will be prosecuted”.

Jaya and Vijaya, the two guards, were on the gates with The List in their hands. Jaya walked up to me, and after checking my ID, said, “Before you meet with the Lord, I should tell you - you really didn’t do anything particularly good or bad. We’re not sure what to do with you. Tell us some thing you did down below … that can help us make a decision as to whether you should go to hell or heaven”.

I knew this was my last chance. What should I say that would sell?

After thinking for about 12 seconds I replied, “Well, there was this once I was driving along the Princes Highway… I came upon a cow who was being chased and harassed by a gang of Bullheads. Bullheads, you know… huge creatures with bodies of men and the heads of bulls. I followed the gang to their clubhouse. There I saw a hairy guy, who was built like a brickhouse, with tattoos all over his body and rings pierced through his nose and ears. I walked up to him, looked into his eyes and ripped off the earrings. I grabbed both his testicles with my left hand and said, ‘Don’t you ever…’”

We arrived at the Gates of Vaikuntha on a foggy Monday morning. We pulled up in front of the 100 story building named Akashic Death Records

As I finished telling the guards my story, there was pin drop silence. I was hoping for some positive outcome.

“I m impressed,” Vijaya finally responded, breaking the deadly silence, “And when did this happen, Mr Dead?”

“On Sunday night at 7.15pm”, I said without thinking, and with my most innocent face. All three, Jaya, Vijaya and Yama burst into hysterical laughter.

When they stopped laughing, some six hours later, Yama sat down next to me. He looked around and said “You know, honestly, that was the funniest joke I have ever heard. Now tell me where do you want to go, son”?

I spoke before he finished “I want a chance to go back and tell to my mother I love her”. Yama asked me to extend my hand. I don’t remember whether he gave me something or not. Then I was pushed down. I was in a free fall. ***

I woke up screaming in the bed.

“Are you alright?” Mum called out from her room. And then walking in and drawing my curtains back, she said in that voice she used in my childhood, “You didn’t say the Hanuman Chalisa* last night, did you?”

“Mum,” I croaked as she sat down on my bed, “I love you”.

* A Hindu prayer

Raj Sandhu is an active member of the Australian Society of Authors

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