A Real World

A man died last week.

I did not know him.

Yet his death has disturbed all the Indian families living in the PDO Camp.

.....

A few months ago, a nice lady and her two teenage daughters came to my house and gave me bags full of clothes to be donated to a local charity. That was the last time I saw them.

When I sorted all the things that were donated, I found carefully ironed and folded men’s shirts and trousers in one of the bags that she had given.

This is such a generous and kind family, I thought.

.....

At a coffee morning last week, a friend rushed in to announce that the husband of this nice lady had suffered a stroke and was in the hospital.

The coffee lost its sweetness.

.....

The night after, at the pantomime rehearsals, another lady told me that the man had passed away.

Our hearts ached for his family.

.....

The next day, a neighbour of the family spoke about the man as her eyes watered. She said it happened too quickly. The family was preparing to take the body to India for the funeral.

I remembered the neatly folded clothes of the man in the charity bag.

.....

“As expats in Muscat, we live in a world that is not real” a fellow teacher had announced one day in the staffroom. We all agreed with her. We come here to seek our fortunes, there are happy families all around, and not many people die. It is like living in an unreal bubble of perpetual bliss.

But when a tragedy such as this strikes, we question our existence. We identify ourselves with the bereaved family.

Nature forces us to think of a Plan B.

Acceptance of the certainty of death brings peace and life goes on.