My alchemist master taught me the elements: earth, representing solidity; water, fluidity; fire, heat; and wind, the movement of consciousness. 

Today, after crossing the icy mountains to attend to Tashi Def, I realized my master seemed like an extraordinarily knowledgeable Mantra Guru for the dead.

In my little brain, though, I wondered how his knowledge would help with anything at all—with life, with death, with everything we exist amidst. 

I reckoned that we are all made up of these elements. 

Yet the hard part was understanding how solidity, feeling, thinking, and acting are intertwined with them. 

Even if I understood, how would they matter to Tashi Def? 

Or to my beloved deceased father? To my surviving mother, grandmother, and siblings? I should have been mindful: “Not to be self-absorbed.” But then… what about me?

Me, a third-grade dropout who didn’t even know how to pose proper questions? Questions I should have mastered by now. 

Can you understand why this felt like a re-enactment of something greater? If not, let me tell you the paradoxical truth: dead men tell the best tales.

Yeah, we had walked for hours when we found Tashi Def, already in rigor mortis. 

“Probably not rigor, Master?” I said. I had no medical training, traditional or otherwise. 

Not at my age—a third-grade dropout. Still, Tashi Def triggered the memory of my father’s death.  

Back then, I was too young to question much. My mother and grandmother held the handles of their Sutra Scrolls, mumbling prayers to our goddess in a solid, deliberate rhythm to ensure every breath contributed to the count of their chants. 

“Om Mani Padme Hum”—likely Avalokiteshvara, the compassionate one who hears the cries for liberation.

But what lingered most in my memory was the odor of putrefaction and the discoloration of flesh.

The same was happening to Tashi now. 

He had been severely injured, his limbs broken and hanging by bloody flesh, after falling from high ground while traveling to sell his handmade crafts on the other side of the mountains. That much I knew.

It left an impression on me. My peers never asked such questions, but I… I wondered. 

“Why was I never allowed to see anything else, Master?” I leaped softly over stones as we walked. “Why?”

Without telling me anything, my master and I approached the broken hut in the Himalayas, where snow blew through gaps in the walls, some melting onto the orthodox bonfire indoors. 

My master briskly ascended the stone stairs, his breath steady, while mine faltered. 

Eerily, I heard another—the labored breathing of Tashi’s 90-year-old father. He came to the front stairs to support my master by the elbow.

The gurgling sound of his murmuring breaths grew louder as we approached, carrying with it an odor I could hardly stand. But the family gathered by Tashi’s bedside seemed too consumed by their sorrow to notice. They cried softly, mumbling chants or perhaps just words to express their grief. His wife was the most inconsolable.

The father sat silently. His face, deeply lined with wrinkles, bore a distant expression, as though his mind was slipping away. 

The candlelight flickered in the room, the air heavy with the scent of wax. Candles were placed in the three corners, casting a soft glow across the stone house, their light dancing on the white blanket draped over Tashi’s body.

The blanket, white as death itself, seemed to echo the grief in the room.

In that moment, I thought I could hear the silent sobs of his father’s mind, flipping like a reel of memories. It reminded me of the last time I saw my own father—a moment etched deeply in my heart.

Eventually, the father wiped his eyes while others continued to sob. My master stood tall, raising his hands in a commanding gesture. 

“Do not cry,” he said firmly yet his voice was soft. “It will not help. Tears will only confuse his mind and soul as they transition.”

My master, stout and wrapped in his reddish-brown robe, looked almost surreal. His tone and posture were noble, even regal. 

The father and mother glanced at him briefly. The father’s eyes lifted just for a second before lowering again, his focus on the rosary he held tightly. He chanted softly, the beads clicking rhythmically in his fingers.

The wife’s sobbing slowed as she opened her eyes wide, the weight of the moment silencing her. 

The children, their faces streaked with tears, convulsed in grief. 

Their tears fell like beads of sesame-pearls of a rosary breaking loose from its thread, scattering across the room, each drop a reflection of their heartbreak.

“Has he ever learned any of the Prayers for the Dying?” The master faced him and nodded; his tall hat, resembling that of a sorcerer, was brown instead of black.

“I’m afraid not… Tashi has a big family to feed.”

“I understand…”

Now I began to grasp how Grandma must have felt when a silver-haired elder had to bury a young, dark-haired son. A sudden, sharp tang in my nose overwhelmed me with sorrow, seemingly out of nowhere.

The master turned to Tashi Def, read his pulse, and placed his hand down with a slight shake of his head. “There’s nothing we can do with the procedure now. I can try to speak to him before he stops breathing.”

I handed him a tiny bronze statue of the Sleeping Buddha. The Buddha lay not on his back but on his right side, palm supporting his chin and head, ready for his final departure into Nirvana—another expression for transitioning into the ultimate state beyond the living realms.

I suppose you’ve heard of it.

The master showed the statue to the family.

“You see, we must help Tashi turn his body this way so that cool air can seep through his skin and bring him peace.” The room fell silent, serene. Together, we positioned Tashi as instructed, gently tucking him into the posture.

“And now,” the master said, “I can only guide his soul with the Instructions to Transcend the State Between Life and Death. Remember, he can still hear us until his final breath.”

What remains etched in my memory are fragments of the master’s words to Tashi Def. His tone was hoarse yet warm, measured perfectly in volume and cadence.

I watched as the master, holding a page of the Pipal leaf sutra, approached Tashi’s bedside. His voice, like a whisper, filled the stillness.

Tashi Def, you must listen very attentively. Tashi Def, you must listen very attentively. Tashi Def, you must listen very attentively.

Do not be afraid. Now, your consciousness will gradually fade. Your body will begin to dissolve into the elements. It will feel as though you are being crushed under a great weight. That moment will come swiftly.

(The master paused to check his pulse, then shook his head.)

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

It’s time now. It’s time for you to truly know yourself.

(And then, Tashi Def passed away.)

Tashi Def, you must listen very attentively. Death has arrived. Do not feel lonely—this is a journey every being must undertake. No one escapes it.

You will encounter voices, sounds, and lights, but do not cling to them. Do not hold on to this world—there is no staying here. Those sights and sounds are illusions, nothing more…

(At that moment, it seemed as if Tashi’s soul was flung outward, his mind casting it free. Layers of film-like images unfolded, one atop the other, as though the essence of his being was slipping beyond. The master’s instructions became too intricate for me to follow further.)

For the first time, tears nearly overwhelmed me.

For the first time, I felt as though I had glimpsed the secrets of a soul departing this wondrous world—of tales that had ended, of lives that had come and gone. Including those of the masters before me… and my father.

Alas!

I have still missed out one important aspect of the instructions after I heard three longest inhaling and exhaling. And the last exhaling took his life away. Tashi eventually had passed away. 

I remember my master told us that, after their demise, they wouldn’t  know they had already died. 

They could see their family members, but they could not see him, and his film like state of being changed rapidly to many expressions filled with emotions, sad, confused and surprise when either lights or dark forces suddenly appeared, approached; and the forceful darkness would feel like excruciatingly fearful attacking. 

You could see you family members crying, you come to you bed side, but you do not have to lie there anymore, you could only see a corpse, you can see family and relatives cried for you name, but, no matter how hard you try to touch them, no one can ever feel you. That is the moment that you feel sad.

……”Then you see lights……”

“As such, you should immerse onto the bright light. The light has no color nor smell; but pure, void, yet filled with joy. 

“That is a river of spirit that will lead you to transcend the life and death. To liberation. That is the  shining moment of souls.”

I cannot go into any more details. That was all I could remember and relate. Perhaps later, when I grow older. 

Anyway, this is most important, when my master raised his eyebrows, opened his eyes widely and suddenly raised his voice rather sternly: 

“No! Tashi Def, you do not enter the forest! It’s a passage to the soul lives of animal.    

“No! Not the dark hole too. Pull yourself away, now! That would be the worst!”

Eventually, the Master concluded the session. The family, witnessing the outcome, approved with quiet reverence. They believed that Tashi Def’s soul—or consciousness—had gained the necessary insight to guide his own rebirth to a more auspicious place.

“Master,” I said, as if I had suddenly grown wiser, answering my own initial question before we had crossed the mountains to find Tashi Def. “I feel that life isn’t something to cheer for.”

The Master regarded me with an expression of quiet awe.

“I’ve often said that death does not truly bring sorrow, just as life does not truly bring joy.”

The words struck me. No sorrow in death? No joy in life? And, I supposed, no joy in birth either.

I tilted my chin, blinking at the thought.

“Then, Master, why did my mother, grandmother, and siblings mourn for forty-nine days? Why did they sit on the floor against the mud walls of our stone kitchen, surrounded by huge cooking utensils and smoky fireplaces?”

Without waiting for his answer, I declared, “Oh, I know, Master. It’s because they never heard you teach this.”

The Master nodded. “Yes, my dear novice. You are becoming wiser. But the question you should ask is: how can we understand the meaning of death and life?”

At first, the words seemed like a well-worn cliché, but coming from the Master, they resonated deeply.

“So, Master,” I ventured, “is it true that there’s no meaning in life or death?”

The Master’s lips curved into a slight smile. “It’s not ‘life and death.’ It’s ‘death and life.’”

I should have been confused, but instead, I felt it might be a question for another time.

From the corner of the hills came laughter, growing louder as a procession appeared. The Master paused, his smile broadening.

A bride, radiant with joy, rode a donkey toward her bridegroom’s abode. Perhaps this marked the start of a new life, possibly one involving children—though the extent of this new beginning would depend on the enforcement of the local one-child policy and the whims of corrupt officials.

The bridegroom stood waiting, his elderly father leaning on a walking stick beside him, flanked by drunken best men.

The scene felt fluid, like a shifting play reflecting the nature of life itself.

The Master’s smile deepened, though I wondered: was it for the procession, the marriage, or something more?

I was only in the third grade—or at least, I should have been. Instead, I stood with my Master in a snowy field so white it resembled a paddock beneath a dome of midday blue. Blue as thoughts.

The Master had many tales—far more than just one. And Tashi Def? He lay gasping for breath, surrounded by his loved ones. Funny how appropriate it felt to ask about tales, given the journey I was on.

Why did my father have to die so young? I was only an infant. The Master once said, “Coffins are not just for the old. They’re for the young too. You must understand this.” Still, I wanted answers. Maybe someday, when I was older, I’d have the capacity to understand better. For now, I accepted that I was just a third-grade dropout.

The Master broke my thoughts. “My dear novice, to truly understand, we must grasp the consciousness that transcends death and life—that conquers and surpasses them. Do you understand?” I nodded. “Only when we reach this understanding can we begin to see meaning in life,” he continued. “So we’ll talk about the ‘why’ and ‘how’ later?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. “But you’ve already witnessed enough to sense the answers.” “Yes, Master.” “To elaborate,” the Master said, “before this practice, life is merely a meaningless accumulation.” I tried to repeat what I’d learned. “Master, we know nothing when we’re born. But now, I’m starting to understand what life really is.” The Master smiled, perhaps seeing through the people who would need time to comprehend.

“Master, as you know, I cried when I felt lonely, and you told me that everyone cries when their mother gives birth to them—while the world rejoices. And when you die, they cry and mourn. And you emphasized this: please remember, my dear novice, that at that moment, your heart, indeed, your heart, will instead be filled with joy when you take your last breath. Remember this: life is nothing but birth upon birth, and death upon death.”

As we walked the way home, it was as if we were walking on a map of the majestic field of snow. The horizon shimmered with untold mysteries—as if spring’s approach carried a poem witnessing an unfathomed sea of water element hanging with fire. Coupled with earth, water, wind, and snow—elements bound together yet distinct, much like the lives and deaths they encapsulated. In a map. The map seemed as delicate as Tashi Def’s sparse, blond hair. Life and death, husbands and wives, beginnings and ends—all woven into the fabric of this majestic field.