We Who Stayed Behind: In the Company of Death

Because I could not stop for Death—He kindly stopped for me—The Carriage held but just Ourselves— And Immortality.

The last of my surviving granduncles passed away this weekend. We visited him once a year. As a child, he’d ask me what I was interested in at school, and as we left, he would bless me, slipping a bit of cash into my hand. That cash would usually find its way into my piggy bank. Later, at the toy store, I’d empty it gleefully to buy a yo-yo. On some occasions, my mother intercepted it before it reached the piggy bank. She'd promised to return it to me later—but I never saw that money again.

As I grew older, the cash stopped. In its place came counsel—sharp, sincere, and intellectual. The last conversation we had in person was about diversifying my investment portfolio. He spoke of how he hoped to witness my wedding and urged me, with some urgency, to find a man.

When I got the call that he had passed, my mind flipped into logistics mode: What can I do? It took me a whole day to pause long enough to shed a few quiet tears before I carried on. For a moment, I judged myself for not grieving longer—for not being visibly undone by the death of a man who, in his way, had marked my life. His passing also marked the end of an era—men in my family who carried such layered history, such profound intelligence.

And so I thought about death. About how it arrives, again and again. I’ve witnessed it often, and have come close to it myself.

The first death I remember was my father’s youngest brother. He died of cancer when I was maybe three. My eidetic memory conjures a vague but vivid image: my mother holding me while I asked her why they were bathing him. I remember people around us, but no one crying. Just conversations. Muted, strange.

When I was six-ish - seven, my maternal uncle passed away—my mother’s youngest brother. He lived with us. I was close to him. He taught me music. We watched Friends on the couch, arguing over the remote. He owned a brown guitar, collected die-cast model cars, taught me chess, and bought me my first Rubik’s cube. He taught me to draw and helped me build a wooden dinosaur. He was an extraordinary artist and musician—my first role model. Two decades later, I can still hear his laugh, but not his voice. The sound of it has evaporated.

I remember returning from school that day. Our house was full—unusual for a weekday. Normally, our governess greeted me. But that day, everyone was home. I thought maybe we were going on holiday.

My father told me to call my grandmother. He was sending a car to bring her over. Our house was four storeys tall. The kitchen was a floor below the living room, the stairs framed by the back of a couch and a flight leading upward. I remember running down to the kitchen phone—landlines still held their ground then. I made the call. Meanwhile, everyone upstairs was murmuring, pacing, worrying.

I stayed in my school uniform—refusing to change, afraid I’d miss something. My grandfather, whom I adored, wasn’t paying me any attention. He wore khakis and a white half-sleeved shirt. He was surrounded by friends. Normally, I was his little sun. That day, I was invisible. I even tried showing off to his friend, Uncle Patrick—told him I could name every country in the world. He didn’t listen either.

Finally, my mother pulled me aside near the staircase and told me to change out of my uniform—something had happened to my uncle. I asked questions. She shooed me away. I changed quickly, with the help of a maid who dressed me like a doll, as usual. But this time, I hurried her. I needed to return.

By the time I was back, the house had filled up even more. The maid dragged me to the dining room to eat, and as I asked her for information, I corrected her grammar instead. When I returned, my grandmother had arrived. She sat on the couch near the stairs, flanked by her daughters. All three were crying inconsolably. The couch began to shake. I was scared it would tip. I clung to it like Superman. When the governess asked me what I was doing, I whispered that I was holding it steady.

More people. More grief. My grandfather cried. My favourite cousin was there—but empty-handed, which was unusual. Then, suddenly, my brother and I were shepherded into a car. A convoy followed. My mother's cousin CJ instructed me to stay inside. I peeked through the rear window. I saw my grandmother, wailing, wrapped around a mummy-like figure. I tried to run out. CJ grabbed me, repeating, “I told you to stay in the car.” He stood outside like a sentinel.

The chauffeur had gone toward the body too. I was furious. No one told me anything. My brother was on his Gameboy, indifferent. I sulked all the way home.

Back home, the house was still full. I played alone—dolls and toy cars. My mother came to see me. She told me my uncle had died. He wasn’t coming back. My first question: “Was he angry with me?” The night before, I had cut our phone call short. She said no. “Was it because we had to send Debbie and Marcus away?”—our Labradors. She said no again. For some reason, I equated people leaving or dying with them being angry at me. I don’t know why.

She asked me if I would miss him. I nodded. Then she was pulled away again. The next day, more relatives arrived. The wailing resumed. Girls from the neighbouring house—older than me, not quite friends, but familiar—took me outside. They sat me on a bench and told me different theories. That my uncle’s death was an accident. That it was on purpose. They made me pinky promise I wouldn’t tell my mother. One said they found his kidney outside his body. I had just learned what kidneys were.

One said if I prayed hard enough, he’d come back.

That was the death that changed me.

I stopped asking questions and started helping. I brought water. Tried to feed my grandmother. Told her I was still here—and then realised that only made her cry more.

After the funeral, everything changed. My mother laughed less. Her smile dimmed. It’s easy to slip into a saviour complex—especially after a loss. Even when the pain wasn’t our doing, we start seeking people to rescue, throwing ourselves into their needs as if redemption lies there. My family and I became those people. We didn’t always trust the help offered to us, but when it came to helping others, we went above and beyond. It felt noble. But unchecked, it’s dangerous. It breeds exhaustion, quiet resentment, and a slow erasure of self.

There’s a quiet PTSD that lingers. Words said in grief—unmeant, unfiltered—cling to young, impressionable minds. If you’re not careful, the children who witness death too closely end up growing up too soon. When celebration halts, life slips into a grey monotony. Because death is rarely clean. The aftermath is chaotic, and its echoes stretch long into the future. There’s no neat resolution. Coping mechanisms soothe, but never cure. Still, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: find humour in the tragedy. It doesn’t erase the pain, but it makes the weight a little lighter to carry.

What Death Teaches Us

The death toll in my life has been large—from dogs we had to put down, to the deaths of two maternal uncles, grandparents, friends, neighbours, and even near-death brushes with my father and other close relatives. Each loss carved something. Each taught me something.

When my granduncle passed this weekend, I called my family. We all seemed to approach the event the same way: What’s next? Solution-oriented. Pragmatic. But I’ve seen so many deaths, so closely, and here’s what I’ve learned:

Lesson 1: Not everyone grieves the same—give people grace.

My grandmother wailed in a room full of people when her first son died. My grandfather cried alone, quietly, when he thought no one was watching. Grief is not uniform. It doesn’t look the same for everyone.

• My father became more emotionally withdrawn with each loss, choosing to make himself useful instead. I followed that path—we grieve in the shadows.

• My mother cried openly when her first brother died, but after that, never again in public. Only in front of her closest friend would she break down.

• Some grieve days or even weeks later when the crowd disperses and silence arrives.

• Some don’t grieve at all. Just because you knew someone doesn't mean you mourn them. And that's okay too.

• Some grieve more for their pets than for the humans in their lives

Lesson 2: One person’s nectar is another person’s poison.

Someone can be wonderful to us and terrible to someone else. We don’t say “sorry for your loss” in my family. It feels dishonest, especially when the person who died wasn’t universally loved. There was a man we adored—but he was awful to his own wife. His death wasn’t a loss for her. We don’t pretend otherwise. Some people feel relief when someone dies.

For some death is a friend.

Don't judge.

Lesson 3: Don’t assume the depth of someone else’s relationship.

Just because someone is weeping loudly doesn’t mean they were close to the deceased. Sometimes the most devastated people are the quietest. Funerals are complicated—filled with genuine mourners, opportunists, and those who show up to break or forge bonds. Wealth doesn't protect you from that dynamic, nor does poverty.

Lesson 4: Presence matters more than words.

When my grandfather died—the man who raised me—my world collapsed. A friend simply came over and ate my after-school snack with me. No grand gestures, no forced conversation. Just presence. Now, when friends lose someone, I try to do the same. I sit with them, scroll TikTok, and send cake every Friday if I’m far away. Grief doesn’t need commentary. It needs companionship.

Lesson 5: Neither normalcy nor special treatment is enough. Adapt.

If your grieving friend says, “Treat me normal,” don’t take it at face value. Normalcy may feel like denial. Special attention can feel suffocating. Adapt. Some days they want dark humour. Some days they want silence. Meet them where they are, and be flexible enough to change as they do. This is for yourself too. Sometimes you need normalcy, sometimes you need special treatment.

Lesson 6: Greed reveals itself around death.

Death brings out greed. When the wealthy die, people circle like vultures. When the poor die, they fight over scraps. Even when someone dies with nothing, bitterness can erupt—over property, pride, or unpaid debts. Don’t be shocked. Prepare for it. But don’t let it taint your grief.

Lesson 7: Leave something—but don’t leave debt. Prepare.

A friend’s father died and left behind mountains of debt. That friend has never fully recovered. When my maternal uncle passed, my father told me: “The house has a mortgage, but don’t worry. There are assets to cover it.” He showed me the directives. My mother, who hated such talks, still wrote everything down in a book—just in case. Prepare your children. Write things down. Don’t leave them lost or scrambling.

Lesson 8: Ditch the clichés—share a memory instead.

“RIP” and “Sorry for your loss” feel hollow. Share a memory instead.“I remember when your dad...” or “What can I do?” goes a long way. If you were close, show up. If you weren’t, offer something real. Grief deserves better than empty phrases.

Lesson 9: Don’t speak ill of the dead—but don’t turn them into saints.

When my grandfather died, someone in the family who disliked him wouldn’t stop talking about his flaws. It ruined those final hours of mourning for me. But I also turned him into a saint in my mind. For years, my mother and I would begin every complaint with “If he were alive…”Eventually, I realised—he was human. He couldn’t fix everything. Remember them wholly. Honour their humanity.

Lesson 10: Grieve your way. Let others grieve theirs.

I have Catholic, Hindu, Muslim, Jewish, Zoroastrian, Evangelical, and atheist friends. Everyone has their way. Pray. Sit Shiva. Toast them. Plant a tree. Light a lamp. Or do nothing at all. Just don’t force your ritual onto others. Respect the difference.

What Death Taught Me About Life

Through all this, I’ve found that grief isn’t just about endings—it reshapes how you live. Here’s what I’ve learned:

1. Even if you believe in reincarnation, you only remember this life once. Don’t live stuck in the past or obsessed with the future. (I struggle with this.)

2. It’s okay to miss someone—or forget them. You’re allowed to keep living.

3. Ask for help. I’ve seen what suicide does to survivors. It shatters entire worlds. Don’t suffer in silence.

4. Appreciate who you have. Your job won’t come to your funeral. Make time for your people.

5. Live a little. Save—but also go on that trip, eat that meal, enjoy your body and your breath.

6. Build community. Give to it. Let it give to you.

7. Life is too short. And too long. Don’t hold grudges. Practice indifference instead.

8. Don’t chase happiness. Let yourself feel—whatever that is.

9. Give grace. To others. To yourself.

10. Make mistakes. You’re allowed to. You’re here to live, not perform perfection.

I’ve lost a lot. But what I’ve gained through that loss is perspective. These lessons don’t make death easier. But they make life fuller. If you’ve lost someone, I’m not going to say “sorry for your loss.”Instead, I’ll say: Tell me about them. Or don’t. I’m here either way.

Disclaimer: I know nothing.

P.S. Being a part of the 'I lost someone close' club sucks. It's inevitable. It sucks.

P.P.S. A list of songs, movies, and books that have helped me through death and grief lately.

Movies:

1. Marley & me

2. The Hollars

3. The Judge

4. This is where I leave you

5. P.S. I love you

6. Funny People

7. My Girl

8. The Descendants

9. Bridge to Terabithia

10. People Like Us

Books or poems:

1. Because I could not stop for Death - Emily Dickinson

2. A Grief Observed - CS Lewis

3. The Denial of Death - Ernest Becker

4. Beloved - Toni Morrison

5. Meditations - M. Aurelius

6. O Captain! My Captain - Walt Whitman

7. As I Lay Dying - William Faulkner

8. The Five People You Meet in Heaven - Albom

9. Our Souls at Night - K. Haruf

10. Crossing the Bar - Tennyson

Songs:

1. Euphoria Season 1 album by Labrinth

2. The Angel and the Fool - Broken Bells

3. God must be doing cocaine - Charlotte Lawrence

4. I feel like I'm drowning - Two Feet

5. April Come She Will - Simon and Garfunkel

6. Tennessee Whiskey - Chris Stapleton

7. Feels like the end - Shane Alexander

8. Death with Dignity - Sufjan Stevens

9. Sonnet - Faces on Film

10. Close to you - Carpenters