The Water That Dissolved the Last Knot

I can feel the January cold on my skin. The cold never used to bother me, but now even the breeze feels heavy. Outside, cars arrive one after another, rolling over the broken village road and throwing up dust. Too many cars, too many people, too many hushed voices. They have come for me. Even without opening my eyes, I know.

It has been three months on this bed. Three months of being carried, cleaned and shifted like a fragile pot. There is a constant pain in my shoulder, a sharp one in my chest, and a strange heaviness in my legs. It feels like my body is not mine anymore. My body no longer obeys me. But my mind is awake. Very awake.

Amit sits near me. I feel his hand around mine, too tight at times. The boy grew up with a logical mind and a softer heart. He is not willing to admit that this is not a logical problem. He keeps searching for answers through doctors, Google and machines. Whenever he thinks I am asleep, he argues in whispers about shifting me to a bigger hospital. He does not understand that I am not a project. You cannot fix me. I must admit, I was also not able to give up on my parents easily when they were going. Probably one of the toughest things for any child is accepting that their parents must die one day. Everyone knows this but hardly accepts it. Amit must accept his father’s time has come. I wish I could speak and tell him to rest his mind. But speech has left me.

Kavita moves around the house like she used to when she was young, always busy, always helping. I can smell cardamom from the tea she prepares for the visitors. Every now and then she comes near my bed and touches my feet lightly. She tries not to cry in front of me. I hear her crying in the other room though.

A daughter never grows out of wanting her father to stay.

Her children run in and sit beside me. Their soft fingers touch my arm. I cannot lift my hand to hold them, but their presence makes the pain behave for a while. They talk in whispers, as if I am sitting in meditation.

Amit and Kavita are my prized possessions, the priceless gifts I received from my life. Mandakini raised them very well while I was busy with the business and social work. My anchor. My quiet river. I hear her walking in the garden now. She thinks I do not know, but I can sense her from anywhere in this house. She stands near the mango tree we planted when Kavita was born. I know she is crying. That is how she cries, quietly, with trees as her witness. She has always been stronger than me. She has accepted that my time has come. She saw the truth before I did.

Pain rises suddenly, sharp enough to make me gasp, though no sound comes out. My breaths are shorter now. My chest feels like a crowded room. It fades slowly, leaving me exhausted. Each time the pain leaves, I wonder if this is the last time it will return.

And then Anirudh arrives. Even before he steps inside, I recognise his voice at the gate. The boy I taught, the boy I pushed, the boy I believed in more than he believed in himself. He became more than a student. Almost a son. Anirudh and his wife walk in quietly and sit near my feet. I hear him exhale, a long breath that carries both respect and fear. He places his hand on my ankle and stays that way, saying nothing. I feel a kind of peace in his silence. I always did. The world may see him as a successful man now, but to me he is the boy who stayed back after class to ask questions no one else asked. He owed me nothing. Yet he kept coming back. Even today.

People keep coming. Some tell stories of things I did long ago. Helping with admissions. Fighting corruption. Teaching without fees. Starting the rice mill. Guiding someone during a crisis. Some of it I remember clearly, some of it I have forgotten. Politicians like Subas Mishra narrate stories that never happened just to get some limelight. They will talk about me for some time, then everyone will forget me. Memory is a strange thing. Reputation is even stranger.

And suddenly, in the middle of all this noise, I feel my mother around me. A warmth I have not felt in decades. It has been thirty years since she passed away, yet the memory of her hand on my forehead is still alive somewhere deep inside me. She used to sit beside me when I had fever and stroke my hair until I slept. I had forgotten that feeling. Life keeps pushing you forward so hard that you forget the softness you came from.

I do not know if this feeling is real or something my dying mind is creating. But it is comforting. It makes me wonder what comes after this. Will I meet her again. Will she hold my face in her palm and say my name like she used to. Will I meet the almighty. Will I be thrown into another birth. I do not want another birth. I do not want to start again, helpless, naked, crying into a world that keeps spinning in the same patterns.

But if someone offered to take me back in time and let me live this same life again, I would take it without thought. I would relive every mistake, every fight, every victory, every loss. I would wait for Amit and Kavita to be born again. I would plant the same mango tree with Mandakini. I would teach the same students. I would fight the same battles.

My life was not perfect, but it was mine. And I loved it.

The murmurs outside shift suddenly. Someone steps into the house with a presence that settles the air. The rhythm of the footsteps is familiar, measured, steady. Acharya Dharmapriya enters the room without a sound, yet the air changes the moment he steps in. Even with my eyes half closed, I recognise his presence. He has always carried a calm that settles people before he speaks. He comes close, places his hand on my forehead and stands quietly beside me. No chanting, no theatrics, only a stillness that feels like truth. He has been my friend for many years, the one man who never hid behind ritual or pretence. Even now, as my breath grows shorter, his presence feels steady, like a lamp that does not flicker in the wind.

Amit stands up immediately. He touches Acharya’s feet. His voice trembles when he speaks, but the words do not reach me clearly. Only the ache does. Acharya lifts him gently by the shoulder. Then, in a calm tone, he says, “Give him some Ganga jal. Kavita, start reading the Bhagavad Gita.”

A coldness runs through my spine. I have known for a while that my time is close, but no one had spoken it aloud until now. It feels as if they are preparing me for my last journey. I do not know whether I should feel curious about what comes next, or sorrow for what and whom I am leaving behind. Before every new chapter in life, there is always this confusion. Even death seems to follow the same rule.

While I lie caught between these thoughts and the waves of pain that rise and fall inside me, Subas Mishra suddenly begins crying loudly, as if this moment belongs to him. He steps closer to the bed, loudly saying how much he respected me, how much the village owes me, how irreplaceable I am. The words feel empty. I know this man well enough to understand which tears are real and which ones are for the camera. Subas continues, raising his voice. “A man like him should not go. You must do something, Acharya ji. You cannot let him leave us. You are God’s man. You have powers. You must save him.”

Acharya turns his head slightly toward him. He does not scold him. He does not even frown. He simply looks at him with a kind of tired patience, the way a teacher looks at a student who has repeated the same mistake for the hundredth time. Acharya finally speaks, his tone steady. “There is a law in this universe that no one has ever broken. Anyone who comes to this world must leave it one day. Even the avatars of God could not escape their final moment. Birth and death are part of the same order. They are neither rewards nor punishment. They are the rhythm of existence. No ritual, no prayer, no power can change that truth.”

But Subas does not stop. “No, no, you can do something. I have seen miracles happen. Extend his life. People need him. I need him. This village needs him.”

I almost smile inside. The man has not visited once in months, and today he talks as if we shared every meal.

Acharya looks at him with irritation. His voice remains calm, but there is a firmness underneath. “Okay fine.” Acharya takes a glass of water from the table with both hands, closes his eyes and begins chanting softly. The room holds its breath. After a few minutes he opens his eyes. He continues, “I cannot change the law of the universe. That law does not bend for anyone, not even for the greatest souls. But with God’s grace, I can shift it slightly. The balance of the universe must remain intact. If he is to live for ten more years, then someone here must offer ten years from their own life. Whoever drinks this water will lose ten years, and those years will flow to him.”

For a moment, no one speaks. Acharya looks at Subas Mishra. His fake crying stops so suddenly that even a child would notice. His throat tightens, and he takes a small step back, as if the water in Acharya’s hand has turned into fire. He mutters something about his age, about his responsibilities, about the people who depend on him.

Acharya just smiles and looks at me, then scans the entire room.

Amit freezes where he stands, holding the Ganga jal. The idea hits him harder than anyone else. For a second, I feel him consider it. My son, who always tries to fix everything. But then I feel the weight of reality settle over him. I hear the soft catch in his breath. He has a family. A future. Responsibilities I raised him to carry. His silence is not lack of love. It is acceptance of truth.

Kavita lowers the Gita slowly. She is shaking. Her tears fall on the book, but she does not speak. She knows her own limits too well.

Anirudh’s fingers tense on my ankle. I feel his breath change, but not out of fear. He is thinking. I can sense it. But before any thought turns into a decision, his wife grips his arm tightly. Her message is clear. I hear her whisper, “Do not even think of it.”

Acharya’s eyes move to the grandchildren. Mandakini pulls them close and says, “Enough. Stop this, Acharya.” I know her thoughts even without hearing them. She would never trade years of anyone’s life. She knows death is a gate we all must walk through. She will not interrupt the natural order. She has always been wiser than me.

The room is silent except for the soft breathing of frightened people. A few visitors shift uncomfortably. None of them meet Acharya’s eyes. They came to offer prayers. Not years. Respect is easy. Sacrifice is not. Acharya looks around the room slowly. His face does not show disappointment. Only understanding.

I lie there, listening, feeling no anger, no sadness. Only clarity.

Love remains love even when it refuses what it cannot give.

Acharya looks around the room once more. Then, without hesitation, he lifts the glass, brings it to his lips and drinks the water himself. A ripple of shock moves through the room. Someone gasps. Someone murmurs his name. Subas Mishra’s mouth falls open, and for once, no sound comes out of him.

Acharya places the empty glass down gently and wipes his hands, as if the moment required nothing more than basic courtesy. Then he speaks, his voice calm but firm.

“There was nothing in this water,” he says. “No magic. No transfer of years. No bending of the cosmic order. I drank it so all of you would see the truth clearly. The universe does not change its rules because we fear loss. Death is not a punishment. It is the completion of a journey.”

His eyes move slowly across the room.

“You were afraid to give your years, and there is no shame in that. Love is not measured by years offered. Love is measured by the way you hold someone when the time comes. All of you have been here. That is enough. That is all any man deserves. Let him go with dignity. Let him go the way he lived. With clarity. With courage. Do not tie him to this world with your tears.”

And in the quiet that follows, I feel something inside me loosen. The final knot. The last thread. My entire life, every emotion, every choice, every good deed and every mistake begins flashing through my mind like a film running in fast forward. I loved and I was loved. I taught, I fought, I helped, I failed, I learned. I touched lives. That feels complete.

Life was never a blessing or a curse. It was simply a journey, and the destination has always been the same for every traveller. Death. Yet we live as if we will never reach it. And maybe that is how it should be. If we spend our days staring at the destination, we forget to walk the path. The beauty is in the walking, not in the arrival.

A sudden short breath shakes me. My chest tightens. I look around the room as much as my fading vision allows. I see outline, shapes, colours. My people. My world. I do not know what the universe thinks of me, but this room tells me I lived my life well.

Another breath slips away from me. Then another. A thin line between the living and the leaving.

I cannot breathe anymore.