Now I understand; there is nothing much to a birth, even if by a baby’s birth you become a father. Just like how unimportant is the birth of some grey wolf pup in a remote Russian forest; every human birth too deserves little attention. Every birth is nothing more than a leaf turned upside down in some deserted pavement in a Lahore suburb.
If there is anything else we are attributing to a birth, it is nothing but the despicable megalomania of mankind.
Every death too is like that. Nothing more than the same wolf dying of a mortal wound it suffered while preying. Every death is one more turn of the same leaf before it is run over by a truck that is being driven to Multan with handmade carpets.
If there is anything else to death, it is only our pitiable narcissism.
Sreeranjini, the one named after the raaga, died on the 14th of March, 1997. I don’t remember what day it was.
