Gold Award: Queen’s Commonwealth Essay Competition 2024; Rough draft.

Prompt: "At the heart of Samoan way of life is 'aiga', meaning 'family' values including selflessness, hospitality, co-operation, respect, and dignity. What core values and ideas from your culture can be used to enhance co-operation and community in the Commonwealth.

Death knocks on my door and when I open it, I greet him like an old friend. He hangs his coat by the door, leaves his shoes outside and quietly follows me into the kitchen. The countertop is meticulously arranged with ingredients, housed in transparent glass bowls.

"I have come to take you," he murmurs softly, looking up to reveal his eyes. Green. A subdued shade of green.

"I am aware," I reply, and he nods, tucking his hands into his pockets, a distant expression on his face. Grandma used to say that Death mourned when claiming the virtuous. I had always assumed he grew indifferent. He clears his throat. A sharp look in his eyes. I am proved right. 

“Would you give me just one hour? One hour of time?”

“I am not kind,” He admits and then looks at my fridge littered with magnets and sheets of paper, “But you have been. So if you can keep my mind consumed while you spend your one hour doing whatever it is you intend to, I will allow it.”

"Do the souls of good people appear different to you?" I inquire as he takes a seat. He shrugs.

"I no longer distinguish. My duty is to ferry them away."

"But do they appear different?" I press, "Do I appear different?"

He nods.

“I will show you how I was made.”

A smile plays on his lips.

“I already know how souls are made.”

“I am different, you said so yourself,” I say and then grab at the big bowl, draining the sifted flour into it, “First, there is Guru-Shishya.” 

At five in the morning, you make me understand how to produce a good argument. 

‘There are always people who will choose the other side.’

Today you teach me about law and once, a time decades ago, you taught me how to speak. 

‘What is an octopus?’ I ask you, using the very words you taught me. I am eight. That is all the fingers of one hand and three of the other. 

‘A eight tentacled creature that lives under the water.’

‘Do they really have three hearts?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it because they have more love to give?’

I know now why you did not speak. There is too much violence around, so many deaths but there is also a father indulgently teaching his daughter something a Youtube video could as well. 

'Can love exist without hate?' I seek your wisdom.

'No,' you assert. 'I will forever detest those bullies who robbed you of joy at fifteen. Your pain pierced my heart.'

'How does your hatred make me feel so cherished?' 

You offer a smile. 'Yet, you must never act on hate, my dear. Your actions must always stem from love.'

You continue to be my teacher. Delayed for a hearing due to the demands of your first-born, miles away and snug beneath her own covers.

His green eyes remain on mine as I smile. 

“Knowledge, guidance, and wisdom given by the teacher to the student. It includes lessons, principles, and practices to help you grow intellectually, morally, and spiritually. You learn to innovate, you grow and become wise. Wise enough to take the world forward and to do so as a community.”

He nods. 

“Then you add Nishkama Karma,” I pour in the sugar, white and brown, “Enough not to self-sabotage yet enough to make sure it is most decidedly present.”

'Colleges expect Community Service.'

'You could just fake it.'

Young and innocent, clutching my mother's hand tightly, I stepped into the orphanage, its walls tinged with shadows, its corridors echoing with the laughter of countless children. I could lie. I could lie. Yes, I could. But there was a child there, fluent in English, whose face lit up with every correct answer in class. What of him, patiently tutoring his younger siblings and friends? I could fabricate the hours, but what about those genuine smiles and contagious laughter? What about the tales they shared, teaching me more about empathy than any college curriculum ever could? How could I betray that?

‘I mean, what will you get in return if you spend hours wasting your time like this?’

‘There is nothing I need.’

 “It is to act without desire. You focus on the action, not the consequence. Being selfless takes away the competition and fosters collaboration because you do not think of anything but the deed. Be kind because you can be.”

“What next?” He asks.

“Vishwa Bandhutva,” I add the baking powder. 

'What's Rakhee?' A mispronunciation. Ra-Khee. I chuckle.

'A sister ties it to her brother, it's a promise of his protection.'

Wide eyes. Small smile. A hint of sadness in my blond roommate's expression.

'I don't have a sister.'

A moment of quiet. A knot tied around his wrist, followed by an even quieter murmur,

'There, now you do.'

A bashful grin and the warmth only a hug can provide soon follow. 

‘You have to protect me now.’

‘Always.’

If we were the leaders of our countries, this simple act could halt wars.

“Universal Brotherhood. Countries do not matter, religions are not barriers. By acknowledging those around you like you do your family you learn to empathise and co-operate. You learn to make peace.”

“Am I your brother then?”

“Would you like to be?” I ask as I crack the eggs. He watches, fascinated. I continue, “Dharma.”

At six years old, tears cloud our vision on the playground as we desperately try to halt the scuffle between two teenage boys with fists clenched. At sixteen, I stand before a raised hand.

'Don't interfere,' he growls.

'He's only fourteen, let him go.'  Courage surges within, but my heart aches. Fortunately, my face remains unscathed as he retreats.

'How many can you save? Suffering doesn't diminish,' a voice whispers.

I do not know and you do not know. If we try, perhaps we can find out.

“Duty. You must stand for what is right. It builds a sense of accountability, collective well being, trust and mutual respect which help to develop a strong community.”

I whisk the batter. Death watches.Who knew that Death could be patient?

“Then goes Anukampa,” I pour one mixture into the other, “The very thing that makes humans homo-sapiens in my eyes.”

“Wise men,” He scoffs, “I remember thinking your kind was simply a defiant act of art and creation in all their glory.”

I do not understand your pain but I will not mock it. I understand that hatred is corrosive and that it has wounded you deeply. I see the disdain you harbour for those spared from the scars. I understand there's animosity towards me as well. I'll brew you some chai; though I can't guarantee understanding will dissolve your hatred, I believe it can at least smooth the rough edges. After those gruelling months of service, cousin, you deserve some tenderness. I do not fully understand your pain but I can try my best.

“Empathy. It is what makes a community. Without compassion and friendship, there is no community and little growth.”

“Anukampa?”
“Yes,” I reply, “The binding agent of it all.”

I check the timer on the oven before grabbing a pen to leave a note, my last as it seems.

“Is that all?” Death asks, chair scraping as he stands up.

“Almost,” I smile.

“Shok,” I say as he helps me into the coat that still has the lingering scent that I adored as a child, a mere five year old clutching her grandfather’s hand, “It means grief.”

I sit on your bed. I bury my face in your garments when the memories threaten to slip away—the sound of your voice, the brush of your fingers. Tears flow, grief weighs heavy, pain lingers. Yet, there's Anukampa in those who surround me. They understand. Grief is as universal a language as death and love. They often come hand in hand. When my shoulders quiver and tears dampen my cheeks, their embrace envelops me in warmth. Strong arms. Soothing whispers. A hush settles over the room. Come back, I beg you but you do not. Come take me, I beg death but it never appears. I lay there and I cry and so people offer me morsels of love that I swallow so fast it makes me want to choke.

“I bring grief.”

“It was always there,” I tell him softly, “Grief is just leftover love.”

We do not speak after that but his hand grips mine more gently than I would have thought capable and my breath grows cold. 

I look at the note.

Beloved(s),

In a world burdened with pain and heartache, strive to be a beacon of kindness and empathy. Embrace the principles that bind us — mentorship, selflessness, brotherhood, duty, empathy, and grief. Share knowledge, lend aid, stand for truth, and nurture genuine connections. Collaborate, co-operate so you may innovate and grow. For in love and empathy lies the essence of our existence.

Yours,

— — — — — —.

“Can you bake strawberry shortcake?” Death asks.

“I literally just died!”

Two laughs and a nod. For the first time the entire night, Death truly smiles.