The monsoon rain lashed gently against the windows of Arun's small house in the Himalayan foothills. The room smelled faintly of incense and sandalwood. Around the bed sat his family—his wife, Meera, holding his fading hand, and his children, silently weeping.
Arun's breaths had grown shallow. Each inhalation was an effort, each exhalation a surrender. The doctor had said it was only a matter of hours.
But within Arun, another awareness stirred. As his chest rose and fell, he felt as though he were standing on the edge of a great river. On one side lay the familiar world—his family, his memories, his desires. On the other side was something unknown, something vast, and yet strangely peaceful.
A verse from the Bhagavad Gita rose in his mind:
"The soul is never born, nor does it ever die.
It is eternal and everlasting.
It is not slain when the body is slain."
Arun's lips trembled. He wanted to comfort his wife, but his tongue no longer obeyed.
A heaviness settled over his chest. With one final exhalation, the bonds snapped.
He opened his eyes—and found himself standing at the foot of his own bed. His family wept around the lifeless body that lay there, pale and motionless.
That body was his.
A shock ran through him. But then a wave of calmness whispered: You are not the body. You never were.
In the corner of the room, a faint glow shimmered like a doorway of moonlight. A current pulled him forward. He turned once more to his family, whispered silently, "I will come back. Our love is never lost."
And then he crossed the threshold.
The journey beyond death had begun.