An explosion. Flames spread. The earth trembled. His body was thrown through the air and landed far away. A sharp, unbearable pain surged through him, and then—everything became nothingness.
But it was not complete nothingness. And then, just then— Within the darkness, he felt that he was not falling. He was drifting. As though his body had been left behind.
When Yogesh first experienced that horrifying, bone-chilling realization that his consciousness was still alive, it was not like the hazy, indistinct sensation of a dream. In dreams, logic breaks down, images scatter, and memories become jumbled. But here, everything was present with unbearable clarity—so clear that he felt as though reality itself had forced its way into his eyes to show him his own helplessness. He had always believed death would come like a violent jolt, and then everything would end—the pain, the exhaustion, the questions, the ego, the desires, the struggle. Like a lamp snuffed out in an instant, leaving nothing but darkness. But the lamp had not gone out here. Only its flame had been separated from its vessel.
No. This was impossible. A broken voice echoed through his consciousness. It did not leave him or ripple through the air. It kept circling within him, striking against the walls, like the sound of a bell lingering in an empty temple.
He looked down—and his being shuddered. His own body lay on the ground, wrapped in white cloth. A neatly folded cloth rested over his chest, a sandalwood mark adorned his forehead, and cotton had been placed near his nostrils. His eyes were closed—strangely peaceful, as if he were deep in sleep. There was no crease on his lips, no tension in his brow. The face that had been filled with thoughts, curiosity, and stubbornness all his life now lay utterly expressionless.
I’m here. Then who is that? The question flashed through him like lightning.
He bent down beside his own body. He felt that he could reach out, touch his chest, shake him awake, and say, “Wake up!” But his hand—or whatever his being was now—passed straight through the body. It found no resistance, no sensation. Only emptiness.
Get up, Yogesh. Breathe. He commanded himself inwardly, just as he brought himself under discipline during his spiritual practice every morning. You were never someone who would give up so easily.
But the body continued to lie there. Its chest did not rise, and its eyelids did not tremble. And then— A sharp panic enveloped him. He began wandering from corner to corner of the room. He saw his cabinet of medicinal herbs, the earthen vessels, the scent of dried leaves, the amulets he gave to spiritual practitioners. Everything was just as it had always been. Only he himself was separate from it all.
Footsteps sounded at the door. Two villagers entered.
“He looks peaceful. As though he’s sitting in meditation,” one of them said softly.
The other took a deep breath. “May God grant his soul peace.”
Yogesh writhed in anguish.
I’m right here! Look at me!
He stood in front of them. He waved his hands, called out, and screamed. But their eyes passed straight through him. They sat beside his body and stroked his forehead.
An elderly woman—who had known him since childhood—burst into tears.
“Son, you said there was still so much work left to do. How could you leave us like this?”
A stab of pain rose within his consciousness.
I haven’t gone anywhere. I’m really not gone.
But his words could not take shape in the air. They only echoed within him.
Gradually, people began gathering. Some spoke of his simplicity, others of his knowledge. Some faces were wet with genuine grief, while others bore the marks of formal mourning. Yogesh heard everything. Every word touched him—sometimes like affection, sometimes like a sting.
A young man who had been his disciple wiped away his tears and said, “Master used to say that death isn’t the end. But now I don’t understand. If it isn’t the end, then what is this?”
Yogesh’s being seemed to tremble.
Yes. I used to say that. But I didn’t know it myself either.
Suddenly, he understood the irony of his own words. All his life, he had spoken of the elements, the soul, and the chakras. But now that he stood at that very boundary himself, even his knowledge seemed incomplete to him.
When they carried him to the cremation ground, the scents of damp earth and smoke mingled in the air. The sun was about to set. Crimson and gray blended together across the sky. They laid him on the pyre. The sound of chanting rose—deep, slow, and flowing like waves.