One of the better things I’ve done as an avid photographer was recording a couple of short videos of my dad, just hours before he passed away — exactly two years ago, by the lunar calendar. Some may argue it’s wrong to hold on to memories that could stir grief, but to me, it felt important — a way to preserve something profoundly real. I may have deleted one of the two in a moment of discomfort, but lucky to have retained at least one which prompted me to write this now.
Even though it was hard to watch, I recently came across one of those short videos while organizing my digital photo collection. Dad was awake, but not truly present — not listening to the consoling words I spoke, as his final moments drew near. He didn’t even seem to notice my hand resting on his shoulder. Filming so close, I wasn’t looking at the screen much, but when I later saw the footage, I realized I’d captured something raw — his emotions in their purest form.
What struck me most were his eyes. They were wide open, as though he was seeing something the rest of us couldn’t. His gaze was so focused that he seemed unaware of anything else — not the room around him, not even his dear granddaughter who had come to see him. Looking back now, I can see a very clear fear in his eyes. Whatever he was seeing — or sensing — had deeply unsettled him.
My father had never been someone easily frightened. This was a man who had boldly stood up to his superiors at work, even defying direct orders when he believed they were wrong. He would say, resolutely, that he would follow only the rulebook. I had never seen him afraid of anything — except, perhaps, when my mother was hospitalized. Even then, that fear came from love and concern, not weakness.
So, what was happening in that moment? What did he see that filled him with such fear? Was he witnessing something beyond this world — Yama’s messengers coming to take him? If Yama’s messengers truly exist to collect souls, do they appear for everyone, or only for some? Do they visit separately according to different faiths and deities? If so, how do gods of various religions coexist in that realm — or do they never cross paths at all?
Perhaps these are fanciful thoughts, but I’ve always struggled to imagine different gods for different people. It’s hard for me to believe there’s one Yama for Hindus and someone else for the rest. Maybe Dad was seeing Yama’s messengers — or maybe he wasn’t.
Our perceptions are deeply subjective. We don’t always see what’s actually there; our minds often shape reality according to what we expect or believe. My father may have sensed death’s nearness — not through vision, but through the quiet signals of his fading body and mind. Perhaps he was seeing the embodiment of his beliefs, or maybe his dying brain, in its final bursts of imagination, was conjuring familiar forms to make sense of what was happening.
Whatever it was, it didn’t have to be real. The mind can play strange tricks, especially at the edge of life.
For me, the takeaway wasn’t about what he saw — but about the fear itself. The fear of death. No living being seems truly capable of facing the moment of letting go — the complete surrender of life.
P.S. Or can one train oneself to receive death as calmly as sleep?
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