Every few days, another headline catches my eye.
A 30-year-old collapses after a marathon.
A young executive dies of a cardiac arrest.
A fitness enthusiast suffers a fatal heart attack in the gym.
More recently, there have been reports of schoolchildren in their teens and army cadets in their twenties collapsing during training.
We read these stories with disbelief. We shake our heads, wonder what is happening to the world, speculate about stress, lifestyle, post-COVID complications, pollution, genetics or the relentless pace of modern life. Everyone has a theory. No one has a definitive answer.
Then we fold the newspaper, finish our morning tea and move on.
Until one day, the headline acquires a face.
A face you know.
A face you love.
A few days ago, it happened to us.
She was only fifty-three.
How do you describe someone larger than life? Vivacious. Warm. The life of every gathering. A respected school educator. Fifteen years ago, she brought together our little kitty group, and over time we became much more than women meeting once a month. We celebrated birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, grandchildren and countless moments that quietly became the fabric of our friendship.
I had known her for almost twenty years.
Just the previous week, she had attended another friend’s daughter’s wedding. There was laughter, music, cake-cutting, photographs and endless conversations. She was exactly as she had always been—radiating warmth, smiling effortlessly and making everyone around her smile.
She had mastered the art of not postponing joy.
Deeply religious, she lived her faith quietly every day. She cared for both her parents and her in-laws with extraordinary love, respect and devotion. She delighted in shopping, celebrated every occasion wholeheartedly and believed life was meant to be enjoyed. These days, she often spoke excitedly about finding the right life partner for her son and looked forward with great anticipation to the next joyful chapter in her family’s life.
Perhaps it was no coincidence that Nishta means steadfast devotion. Those who knew her will understand why that word now carries even greater meaning.
The wedding photographs were still on our phones. The following morning, on Ekadashi, she woke with sudden breathlessness. There had been no lingering illness, no warning signs and not even the slightest discomfort the previous night. In fact, a recent health check-up had given her a clean bill of health. Her husband was by her side. Medical help was sought immediately. Every possible effort was made. Family members rushed with hope in their hearts.
But some moments are beyond human control.
The shock still refuses to settle.
Ironically, many people said, “This is the best way to go.”
Perhaps they were comparing it with what so many families are witnessing today. Elderly parents and in-laws in their late eighties and nineties, some even approaching a hundred, confined to beds, struggling with failing bodies and dependent on others for the smallest needs. Many openly say they are ready to leave. They pray for release.
Yet life holds on to them.
Meanwhile, someone in the prime of life, making plans for tomorrow, disappears without warning.
There is no logic that satisfies the human mind. We search for patterns because uncertainty frightens us. Perhaps medicine will one day provide clearer answers. Until then, all we have are questions.
What these sudden departures have done is quietly alter our relationship with tomorrow.
We keep hearing the phrase, Live in the present.
It has become so familiar that it almost sounds like a motivational slogan.
But when someone your own age leaves without notice, those words stop sounding philosophical. They become deeply personal.
How many dreams are waiting for “after retirement,” “after the children settle,” or simply “when life becomes less busy”?
What if tomorrow never arrives? This doesn’t mean we stop planning for the future. It means we stop sacrificing today for a tomorrow that is never guaranteed.
It also makes one question our endless race to accumulate. Bigger homes. Larger bank balances. More investments. More possessions. We spend years building lives, yet often postpone the very living. Somewhere along the way, achievements quietly begin replacing relationships, and possessions start competing with precious moments. In the end, none of them accompany us. What remains are the memories people carry of us, the kindness we offered, the laughter we shared, the relationships we nurtured and the love we left behind.
The scriptures speak of shamshan vairagya—the temporary detachment that follows a funeral. We return from the cremation ground convinced that life is fleeting. For a few days we promise ourselves that we will slow down, love more, worry less and live differently.
Then routine quietly resumes. Until another headline appears.
Maybe the lesson is not to wait for the next one.
Before holding on to a grudge, ask yourself one question: If this were the last conversation we ever had, would this still matter? More often than not, the answer will be no.
The next time you are tempted to prolong an argument, complain endlessly, criticise someone or postpone forgiveness, pause for a moment. We assume there will always be another opportunity to make peace, another chance to apologise, another tomorrow.
Life doesn’t always offer that luxury.
None of us knows whether we have fifty years left, five years or five minutes. That uncertainty isn’t meant to frighten us; it is meant to awaken us.
Love a little more generously. Forgive a little sooner. Call your parents, visit your friends — stop postponing joy. Because in the end, life is remembered not by how long we lived, but by how deeply we loved and how fully we lived.
She was planning tomorrow.
Tomorrow had other plans.
Perhaps tomorrow was never promised to any of us.
And as I write this, one face keeps returning to my mind.
Rest in peace, my dear friend. Your final lesson may well be the most enduring one you ever taught us.
Iti Mattoo, retired after 30 years in the IT industry, now enjoying her creative pursuits.
