Death.
Everyone knows it—an unshakable, universal truth. Yet everyone fears it. And they have every right to. No one truly wants to die. Even thinking about it makes people anxious, staring into an uncertain future they can't control.
I understand them. I really do. Because I feel the same. My family depends on me—their lives, their hopes, their futures. My children's faces are etched into my mind whenever I think of the word death. Who will guide them if I'm gone? Who will protect them? It's natural to care about these things. Especially where I come from—India.
Even now, in 2025, more than forty-five percent of Indian households rely on a single earning member. Just imagine the weight on that person's shoulders. Coming from a family like mine—where for generations, the men went to work and the women kept the home—the pressure was inevitable. It shaped me, molded me into the person I became.
But forgive me; I'm wandering.
This isn't about economics or culture. This is about death.
My name is Sam. I'm twenty-seven years old, married, and father to two children. My son, ten years old, full of energy. My daughter, seven, with eyes that always sparkle with curiosity. Professionally, things were going well. I'd just been promoted to Assistant Manager with an impressive hike. We'd bought a new house in the city. My children were healthy. My wife was smiling again.
Life was good.
But as they say—good times never last.
It happened during a routine trip to another city. The crash came without warning. Metal shrieked, glass shattered, and the world spun. In the blink of an eye, I was on the edge of death.
Time slowed. My life unfurled before me—flashes of joy, pain, sacrifice, and love. I realized, with cold clarity, that I was about to die. Panic rose in my chest as images of my
children, my wife, my parents flooded my mind. Helplessness gripped me. I could do nothing.
And then, I let go.
I embraced death.
I was curious, in a strange way, about what would happen next. Being born into a Sanatan Dharma family, I'd grown up hearing of karma, heaven, and hell. Surely someone would come to guide me—Yamraj, an angel, a light, something.
But there was nothing.
The light faded from my eyes. My body grew distant. And then—I was simply there. Floating in a void without light, without sound. No sky, no ground. Only existence. I waited. Minutes? Hours? Years? Time meant nothing. No one came. No heaven. No hell. Only limbo.
I began to lose myself to the waiting. Madness threatened. And then—suddenly—there was light.
A strange pressure encased me. My body felt cramped, curled into a space too small. I tried to move, to stretch, but my limbs would not respond.
Time passed again, though I couldn't measure it. Then, a sound—muffled crying. The pressure increased, squeezing me, pushing me. For the first time, I realized I was hearing something. Something alive.
More pressure. More movement. My body shifted not by my will, but by some external force. And then, it stopped. I felt lightness. I felt air. My body existed, though I still couldn't control it. My eyes remained closed.
Then—impact. A sharp sting at my bottom. Pain.
And in that instant, I understood.
I had been born again.