How I died, briefly, and felt more alive than ever

This is the story of my death.

It occurred when one of my cousins, AK Nongkynrih, known to everybody as Kyrham, passed away.

Kyrham was a fine figure of a man, tall for a Khasi, about five foot ten, and quite handsome. We from the Nongkynrih clan were very proud of him. He was a well-known sociologist. People spoke admiringly of him, critics commended his scholarly books very highly, and the government and sundry organisations frequently sought his expertise.

He went to deliver lectures everywhere, and everywhere he went, he mesmerised his audience. We were so proud that he belonged to the clan – one of the leading personalities of the state, and he was ours, a son of the clan. He was our achiever, our treasure.

When I heard about his sudden passing, I went into deep gloom. He was only in his early 50s – too young to die. “What a loss!” I said to myself. “Imagine the things he could still have contributed to the state and the country! Imagine the books he still could have written!”

I was personally affected because, although we both taught at the North-Eastern Hill University, we hardly met. Why didn’t I fraternise with him more frequently? I remember how he regaled...

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