MEN MAY COME AND MEN MAY
GO BUT LIFE GOES ON FOREVER
Life
can sometimes feel like it is forever either when things are going
very well or when they are not going all that well. A happy family
celebration can seem like it is going on interminably. Waiting for
a train that is late can make one think that life is in animated suspension.
A basic truth is that what is born usually dies, sooner or later.
Life spans vary, from the three hundred odd years of the giant tortoise
to the fleeting few hours or days of the delicate butterfly. But the
indisputable fact is that birth and death happen constantly. Life
surges ever onward, teaching us whatever lessons we are able to learn
from it.
My
own brush with mortality came when I was almost wiped off the face
of the earth in 1988. I was crossing a road in beautiful Harare, capital
of a recently independent Zimbabwe and one of the most modern cities
in the Africa of that time. We were on vacation, about to drive off
to a mountain resort in Chimanimani. A last-minute foray into a shoe
shop across the road had me waiting at a pedestrian crossing. The
lights changed to green for us to cross and I was the first off the
pavement. Suddenly, there was the fiendish roar of an engine. I did
not see what hit me but flew over the crowd's heads to land several
feet away on the edge of the kerb. A laundry pick-up truck had cut
a red light and ploughed through the zebra crossing as I stepped onto
it. I remember a wailing ambulance, blood, and wounds. Later, fractures
and subdural hematomas emerged. There is nothing pleasant about a
pedestrian having an encounter with a speeding vehicle. As I blacked
out with pain, my last thought was, "what will happen to my boys if
I die?" Luckily, I pulled through after hospitalization, endless scans
and various ministrations from a small army of doctors.
It got me thinking as to how fragile our physical ties really are
to this deceptively solid world. I was here this minute and could
have been gone the next. I also gained a deeper understanding of the
fact that nobody and nothing is indispensable. I knew my eleven and
ten year old sons would have been shattered but would have survived
somehow. They would have had their father, who had himself lost his
father very early in life and yet survived and flourished. They would
have grieved terribly and deeply but would have gone on somehow, with
time being the healer of all wounds. This shockingly brutal reminder
of my own transience affected my outlook on many things and obliterated
some of my carefree, ignorance-is-bliss attitude.
I had always been keen on seeing monuments and the boys constantly
kidded me with facetious remarks like, "Mom loves to go stare
at monoliths and stone piles that some long-dead guy has built."
I did not share their opinion that only science museums were worth
visiting or that taking gadgets and gewgaws apart and reassembling
them was a form of quality entertainment.
Fortunately, my husband's far-ranging job has taken me to many countries
and places of great historical interest and he has fully indulged
my monument-gazing yearnings. After the near-death accident, the most
interesting of these was to see Egypt's wonders. The massively geometric
pyramids took my breath away and going into the Great Pyramid of Khufu
to the innermost burial chamber was arduous, yet mystically exciting.
The Cairo Museum was fantastic beyond imagination, with unbelievable
treasures like Tutankhamun's splendid mask of eleven kilos of pure
gold, superlative statuary and priceless examples of ancient Egyptian
artifacts.
But the climax was the purpose built, atmosphere-controlled, high
security Hall of the Mummies. It was awe-inspiring to see the famous
Ramses mummy among many others there. This was the man himself and
not a glossy picture in the National Geographic magazine or TV show.
The mighty king lay there, desiccated and somewhat shrunken. Though
long dead, his physical body was preserved so well that the henna
on his hair, and fingernails was clearly visible. So was the white
stubble on his chin that probably grew a little, even as the skillful
embalmers worked on his body. I have read somewhere that hair keeps
"growing" for a few hours after death.
In the present day, the great Pharaoh Ramses and the boy-king Tutankhamun
were mere curiosities laid out for the public to gawk at in wonder.
The power and magnificence, pomp and glory were all in the past of
thousands of years ago. Yet, outside the stone walls of the Cairo
Museum, life swirled as frenetically as ever, all over the huge city.
Egyptians of all levels were born, living, laughing, crying, building,
demolishing, failing, succeeding and dying all around.
New pharaohs have risen in modern Egypt and all over the world, in
government, business and many other walks of life. After their span
is over they will go too, through the point of no return. With the
certainty and finality of this departure perpetually hanging above,
man hopes to leave some indelible footprints in the sands of time,
in small or big ways, from the fundamental stroke of passing on one's
DNA to more material and tangible symbols of our existence. Whether
we build a Taj Mahal or a Khufu Pyramid or provide the wisdom and
guidance necessary for a child to succeed in life, we can become eternal
in some way and to somebody. I believe that the footprint in the sands
of time is not to be measured only by how massively or visibly the
impression has been made. Most importantly, it should be a lasting
one and become a part of the continuing fabric of the history of this
great human race.
