A Happy Death

There was an old man who used to live on the edge of the forest.

He was a strange man. Never talked. Never listened. Just dreaming in his own world.

Many people did know him. But they ignored him.

He was a gentle man though. He was seen really rarely and said things on rare occasions.

He was in his 60s.

He lived alone.

People thought he was weird, but the thing was—he was in pain. He was heartbroken.

He just went to the city for groceries.

Many empathetic people asked him if something was wrong.

But he had the same answer for everything: “I have no family now, and no one can be blamed for it but me. It is a tragic story.”

Then he would leave before the person asked what happened to his family.

He loved listening to the song of the chirping birds, loved when the wind’s mild swooshes hit his face, and when it rained and thundered, he would sit near his window with a chair and coffee or a hot tea cup in his hands and let the raindrops reach his feelings and heart.

He was weird, yet grounded.

This is how he passed his old age.

Soon he was in his 80s.

Bedridden, he was seeing the sky getting colder and colder, darker and darker. It was about to rain.

At the same time, a priest was coming out from the woods.

He was known for his wide capacity of knowledge and his mature and heartfelt stories and speeches.

He approached the hut feeling exhausted and thirsty, thinking he might get some kind of hospitality.

He reached the hut’s door and knocked.

No answer.

It had started drizzling by now.

The priest did not want to catch a cold. He knocked again—complete silence.

He pushed the door open, not seeing children studying or playing and parents working, but a hut with totally different vibes.

Sad ones.

He saw the man who was bedridden and approached him, then said,

“Hullo sir, I’m sorry for you. Don’t you have a family to take care of you in your old age?”

“No,” the bedridden man coldly replied.

“Why?”

“It’s a tragic story. No one but me can be held responsible for it!”

“Can I know what happened?”

The man did not want to talk about what happened, especially to a random stranger who just walked in.

He had no idea how to escape from the question now.

But before he could make up some excuse, the priest said,

“May I please have some water? I am really thirsty and need to quench my thirst.”

The man pointed in the direction of his kitchen.

The priest got up, walked towards the kitchen, took a glass, filled water by himself, drank it all, refilled, then emptied it again. Then he rinsed the glass with the water, kept it back, and returned to the man. He sat down and gestured for the man to start his sad story.

So, the man started…

“You see, I did have a family. A really loving one.

We were also wealthy and used to make a fortune.

But the wrong thing was the ways we made the fortune. Dad was a burglar who would sneak into other people’s houses at night, steal something valuable, and then come the next morning with those supplies. Then we would sell it to make a fortune.

My mom was a thief. A maid. She stole things while no one was looking and then came back home with them. She did get fired many times because the owners got suspicious. But she did get other jobs, as she was fired just because of suspicion.”

The man took a deep breath. His breath was now getting lighter and lighter. He was dying, but the priest asked him to continue in a soft voice.

So, the man continued,

“I was 12 when I got to know their ‘secret.’

I was furious with them, but they denied it. They kept on saying it was nothing and they did small thefts. But the thing was, they did not do petty thefts. They stole gold, ornaments, and everything that was heck valuable.

One day we had a writing competition and I wanted to participate, so I wrote down my name at the registration desk. And I won. The prize was supposed to be directly given by the President. You see, it was a big thing back then. So, I was really nervous and excited and happy and stressed at the same time.

I had this thing that if I am nervous or excited, I talked. A lot.

So, when the President kindly asked me about me and my family, I blabbered and blabbered.

And at some point, I just randomly said that I did not like the way my parents stole to make a fortune.

And then the President gestured for me to be silent.

He let me go home. But my parents were soon arrested, and I was put in foster care. While I enjoyed myself with nice people, my parents were rotting in jail because of me.

They died in the cell, and I was informed a week after their funeral.

Since then, I have regretted my words and chose to stop talking at all.”

The man was breathing really lightly now.

There was a long pause.

Then the priest suddenly said, “Why do you feel ashamed for something you did right?”

The man replied, “Because I let my family down!”

The priest continued, “Well, actually, if you see from another point of view, your parents are the ones who let you down.

They raised you in a bad environment. They are the ones who are responsible for you dying here all alone.”

These were the words the man’s heart, mind, and ears wanted to hear.

“Do you think I am wrong?” the priest continued.

The man nodded his head mildly, trying to say no, but he couldn’t because of his weakness.

The priest smiled and left the hut.

Before leaving, he said,

“I wish you have a happy afterlife.”

Saying this, he left.

The man sighed his last breath looking out of the window, letting the wind swirl past him while he was thinking about the priest’s words.

His last words were for the priest.

He mouthed, “Thank you.”

And died with a smile on his face.

By Gautami Kulkarni

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