Reflections on Loss and Living
Today, I lost my childhood friend. He was just 48 years old. A sudden heart attack took him away, striking him down at home while his children were at school. The news hit me hard—he was gone in an instant, leaving behind a life that seemed so steady, so fulfilled. He was a man content with what he had: a government job, a working wife, a modest circle of friends and relatives, and a house he’d built a few years ago. To many, his was a satisfied life, quietly lived.
We were friends until Class 10, tethered by memories of simpler days. And now, he’s gone. I find myself grappling for words to write his obituary, not because there’s little to say, but because the weight of this loss leaves me speechless.
His death brings two stark thoughts to mind. First, the alarming rise in heart attacks demands our attention. How many more lives will be snatched away before we address this silent epidemic? It’s a question we can’t ignore—science, society, and each of us must look for answers. Second, if life is so fragile, so fleeting, why do we carry so much anger, so much lust for more? My friend lived simply, and perhaps there’s a lesson there. A limited life doesn’t need to be a lesser one.
I’m left thinking about my own small world—how I can clear the clutter, the grudges, the noise. If I start there, maybe others will follow. Maybe we can make this world a little better, a little kinder, for all of us. My friend’s death is a jolt, a reminder to live with purpose, not just to exist. I have no grand words to sum up his life, only this: he was here, he was my friend, and now he’s gone too soon.
