As time passes and someone dear slips quietly into the beyond, something subtle shifts within those left behind. It’s not just grief settling in; it’s an awakening—a gentle, profound realization of how fragile this thread of life truly is, and how vast the space feels between “here” and whatever comes after.
Our traditions, tender as they are wise, don’t ask us to fixate on the mysteries beyond. Instead, they invite us to honor those we’ve lost by living the present with clearer eyes, fuller hearts, and deeper care. They teach us that preparing the soul happens through the quality of our living.
The Gītā puts this plainly, without flourish or fear:
जातस्य हि ध्रुवो मृत्युर्ध्रुवं जन्म मृतस्य च ।
तस्मादपरिहार्येऽर्थे न त्वं शोचितुमर्हसि ॥ (2.27)
What is born will certainly die; what dies will certainly come again—so do not collapse under what is unavoidable.
To me, this isn’t cold philosophy. It’s a kind of gentle strength. It doesn’t say, “Don’t feel.” It says, “Feel fully—but don’t lose yourself in the helplessness.”
Because those ancient texts also remind us of something tender and true: the essence of who we are is not tied down by the body.
न जायते म्रियते वा विपश्चित्…
अजो नित्यः शाश्वतोऽयं पुराणो न हन्यते हन्यमाने शरीरे ॥ (Kaṭha Upaniṣad 1.2.18)
The Self is not born, does not die—unborn, eternal, ancient; it is not slain when the body is slain.
That line carries a quiet courage. It doesn’t erase the ache of separation, but it softens the terror behind it. It reminds us that love doesn’t lose its meaning just because a form has changed.
Still, our lives unfold in this body, in this time, among these relationships and responsibilities. Grief comes like the weather—sometimes warm, sometimes biting, sometimes sweet, sometimes shocking.
मात्रास्पर्शास्तु कौन्तेय शीतोष्णसुखदुःखदाः ।
आगमापायिनोऽनित्यास्तांस्तितिक्षस्व भारत ॥ (Gītā 2.14)
These experiences come and go; they are not permanent—endure them.
This isn’t a call to harden or shut down. It’s an invitation to become steady, rooted in the rhythm of life, no matter how stormy or calm.
And here’s the most practical truth of all, especially when the mind feels overwhelmed and scattered:
कर्मण्येवाधिकारस्ते मा फलेषु कदाचन… (Gītā 2.47)
You have the right to action—never to the fruits alone.
When someone we love leaves, we see clearly how little is within our control. The remedy isn’t control—it’s focusing on right action: living honestly, speaking kindly, doing what needs doing, and leaving the rest in the hands of the Divine.
Because time is relentless. The Mahābhārata speaks plainly, a truth elders have passed down gently a hundred ways:
काळः सर्वाणि भूतानि पचति…
Time “cooks” all beings—everything moves forward by kāla.
This is precisely why the present moment—the “here”—is so precious. If time carries us forward anyway, let it carry us awake, not asleep.
And if the quiet worry creeps in—“Have I done enough? Have I lived well enough, ready for when my turn comes?”—the Gītā offers a rare tenderness:
न हि कल्याणकृत्कश्चिद्दुर्गतिं तात गच्छति ॥ (Gītā 6.40)
No sincere step toward the good is ever wasted.
That’s a balm to the soul. It says: you don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be sincere. Keep walking.
When elders say “Focus on the living,” what they really mean (without fancy words) is to protect us from two traps: getting stuck in fear of what lies beyond, and forgetting that the soul is shaped right here, right now, by how we live.
So their quiet wisdom often boils down to this:
Say what you need to say now—don’t wait to show tenderness.
Hold on to your daily routines—grief is heavier when structure falls away.
Be gentle with your words—loss makes us all raw.
Do one small good deed each day, quietly—it lightens sorrow.
Keep your faith simple—not as debate, but as shelter.
If your heart is restless, find quiet. If numb, bring in prayer and service.
And when words fail, the tradition offers us prayers that don’t ask for thinking, but for direction—guiding the mind gently toward light:
ॐ असतो मा सद्गमय । तमसो मा ज्योतिर्गमय । मृत्योर्मा अमृतं गमय ।
Lead me from untruth to truth, from darkness to light, from mortality to immortality.
And the universal blessing that feels like every grandparent’s voice:
ॐ सर्वे भवन्तु सुखिनः… मा कश्चिद्दुःखभाग्भवेत् ।
May all be well; may none be burdened by sorrow.
These aren’t just pretty words to dress up grief. They’re tools to steady the swirling inner world.
“Preparing the soul” needn’t be heavy or dramatic. The wiser way—true to the lived Indian wisdom—is daily readiness:
Keep a small, sustainable practice: a few quiet breaths, a simple chant, a moment of stillness.
Make peace where you can. Forgiveness isn’t weakness—it’s clearing space in the heart.
Do your duties with care. Dharma is a spiritual practice with work clothes on.
Give regularly—time, attention, kindness. Charity softens the ego’s hard edges.
Remember those who’ve gone by living their best values, not by endlessly mourning their absence.
This is how the “here” prepares the soul—not through obsession with death but through a life growing lighter, truer, and more loving.
And yes—let the heart breathe through music.
Our old songs carry truth in a melody, so it doesn’t crush us. Sometimes a simple line says more than a long lecture.
From Anand’s gentle question:
“Zindagi kaisi hai paheli”
Life is a riddle—sometimes laughter, sometimes tears.
From his evening image:
“Kahin door jab din dhal jaye”
When the day slowly folds into dusk…
These aren’t just lyrics; they’re permission to feel the heart’s contradictions.
From Anarkali, a line remembered with a soft smile:
“Yeh zindagi usi ki hai”
Life belongs to the one who truly belongs—to love, to meaning.
And from old Telugu cinema, the timeless refrain:
“Jagame Māyā”
The world is māyā—so hold it lightly, love it deeply, and don’t be fooled by permanence.
These lines don’t erase grief. They loosen its grip just enough for breath to return.
So yes—the thread feels fragile now, and the beyond vast and unknowable. But our work remains here.
To live well. To love cleanly. To do what is ours without bitterness or delay. To keep the soul luminous through prayer, service, and steadiness. To carry those we’ve lost not as wounds only, but as quiet guides.
And when words run out, we return simply to the light:
ॐ असतो मा सद्गमय…
ॐ शान्तिः शान्तिः शान्तिः।
On the passing of my dear father-in-law
As time passes and someone dear slips quietly into the beyond, something subtle shifts within those left behind. It’s not just grief settling in; it’s an awakening—a gentle, profound realization of how fragile this thread of life truly is, and how vast the space feels between “here” and whatever comes after.
Our traditions, tender as they are wise, don’t ask us to fixate on the mysteries beyond. Instead, they invite us to honor those we’ve lost by living the present with clearer eyes, fuller hearts, and deeper care. They teach us that preparing the soul happens through the quality of our living.
The Gītā puts this plainly, without flourish or fear:
जातस्य हि ध्रुवो मृत्युर्ध्रुवं जन्म मृतस्य च ।
तस्मादपरिहार्येऽर्थे न त्वं शोचितुमर्हसि ॥ (2.27)
What is born will certainly die; what dies will certainly come again—so do not collapse under what is unavoidable.
To me, this isn’t cold philosophy. It’s a kind of gentle strength. It doesn’t say, “Don’t feel.” It says, “Feel fully—but don’t lose yourself in the helplessness.”
Because those ancient texts also remind us of something tender and true: the essence of who we are is not tied down by the body.
न जायते म्रियते वा विपश्चित्…
अजो नित्यः शाश्वतोऽयं पुराणो न हन्यते हन्यमाने शरीरे ॥ (Kaṭha Upaniṣad 1.2.18)
The Self is not born, does not die—unborn, eternal, ancient; it is not slain when the body is slain.
That line carries a quiet courage. It doesn’t erase the ache of separation, but it softens the terror behind it. It reminds us that love doesn’t lose its meaning just because a form has changed.
Still, our lives unfold in this body, in this time, among these relationships and responsibilities. Grief comes like the weather—sometimes warm, sometimes biting, sometimes sweet, sometimes shocking.
मात्रास्पर्शास्तु कौन्तेय शीतोष्णसुखदुःखदाः ।
आगमापायिनोऽनित्यास्तांस्तितिक्षस्व भारत ॥ (Gītā 2.14)
These experiences come and go; they are not permanent—endure them.
This isn’t a call to harden or shut down. It’s an invitation to become steady, rooted in the rhythm of life, no matter how stormy or calm.
And here’s the most practical truth of all, especially when the mind feels overwhelmed and scattered:
कर्मण्येवाधिकारस्ते मा फलेषु कदाचन… (Gītā 2.47)
You have the right to action—never to the fruits alone.
When someone we love leaves, we see clearly how little is within our control. The remedy isn’t control—it’s focusing on right action: living honestly, speaking kindly, doing what needs doing, and leaving the rest in the hands of the Divine.
Because time is relentless. The Mahābhārata speaks plainly, a truth elders have passed down gently a hundred ways:
काळः सर्वाणि भूतानि पचति…
Time “cooks” all beings—everything moves forward by kāla.
This is precisely why the present moment—the “here”—is so precious. If time carries us forward anyway, let it carry us awake, not asleep.
And if the quiet worry creeps in—“Have I done enough? Have I lived well enough, ready for when my turn comes?”—the Gītā offers a rare tenderness:
न हि कल्याणकृत्कश्चिद्दुर्गतिं तात गच्छति ॥ (Gītā 6.40)
No sincere step toward the good is ever wasted.
That’s a balm to the soul. It says: you don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be sincere. Keep walking.
When elders say “Focus on the living,” what they really mean (without fancy words) is to protect us from two traps: getting stuck in fear of what lies beyond, and forgetting that the soul is shaped right here, right now, by how we live.
So their quiet wisdom often boils down to this:
Say what you need to say now—don’t wait to show tenderness.
Hold on to your daily routines—grief is heavier when structure falls away.
Be gentle with your words—loss makes us all raw.
Do one small good deed each day, quietly—it lightens sorrow.
Keep your faith simple—not as debate, but as shelter.
If your heart is restless, find quiet. If numb, bring in prayer and service.
And when words fail, the tradition offers us prayers that don’t ask for thinking, but for direction—guiding the mind gently toward light:
ॐ असतो मा सद्गमय । तमसो मा ज्योतिर्गमय । मृत्योर्मा अमृतं गमय ।
Lead me from untruth to truth, from darkness to light, from mortality to immortality.
And the universal blessing that feels like every grandparent’s voice:
ॐ सर्वे भवन्तु सुखिनः… मा कश्चिद्दुःखभाग्भवेत् ।
May all be well; may none be burdened by sorrow.
These aren’t just pretty words to dress up grief. They’re tools to steady the swirling inner world.
“Preparing the soul” needn’t be heavy or dramatic. The wiser way—true to the lived Indian wisdom—is daily readiness:
Keep a small, sustainable practice: a few quiet breaths, a simple chant, a moment of stillness.
Make peace where you can. Forgiveness isn’t weakness—it’s clearing space in the heart.
Do your duties with care. Dharma is a spiritual practice with work clothes on.
Give regularly—time, attention, kindness. Charity softens the ego’s hard edges.
Remember those who’ve gone by living their best values, not by endlessly mourning their absence.
This is how the “here” prepares the soul—not through obsession with death but through a life growing lighter, truer, and more loving.
And yes—let the heart breathe through music.
Our old songs carry truth in a melody, so it doesn’t crush us. Sometimes a simple line says more than a long lecture.
From Anand’s gentle question:
“Zindagi kaisi hai paheli”
Life is a riddle—sometimes laughter, sometimes tears.
From his evening image:
“Kahin door jab din dhal jaye”
When the day slowly folds into dusk…
These aren’t just lyrics; they’re permission to feel the heart’s contradictions.
From Anarkali, a line remembered with a soft smile:
“Yeh zindagi usi ki hai”
Life belongs to the one who truly belongs—to love, to meaning.
And from old Telugu cinema, the timeless refrain:
“Jagame Māyā”
The world is māyā—so hold it lightly, love it deeply, and don’t be fooled by permanence.
These lines don’t erase grief. They loosen its grip just enough for breath to return.
So yes—the thread feels fragile now, and the beyond vast and unknowable. But our work remains here.
To live well. To love cleanly. To do what is ours without bitterness or delay. To keep the soul luminous through prayer, service, and steadiness. To carry those we’ve lost not as wounds only, but as quiet guides.
And when words run out, we return simply to the light:
ॐ असतो मा सद्गमय…
ॐ शान्तिः शान्तिः शान्तिः।