DEATH IS A LEVELER
The boast of heraldry, the pump of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth ever gave,
Awaits alike the inevitable hour
The path of glory lead but to the grave.
There is none as democratic as death. ‘Yamaraj’ does not distinguish between the rich and the poor. Alexander may boast that he conquered the earth, Nadir shah may devastate Delhi and enact a dance of the devil, A Mussolini, a Hitler or a Tojo may have the dreams of diving the world among themselves a Changez khan may bring a havoc to the whole of Asia. But their destiny is the same. Death awaits all of them. The fate is similar to that of a poor farmer, a rustic, a landless labourer. As soon as their stay in the inn of the world is over they are all one with the dust in the grave or reduced to ashes at the cremation ground.
The world Mourus is the death of great men. A Gandhi is revered even after his death. A Vivekananda, a Ram Krishna Paramhans, a Subhash Chandra Bose, the saints around the world live in the annals of history as long as the culture of a country stays. But even their mortal remains meet the fate of the mortal remains of the vilest of men the smuggler or the dacoit. The earthly form all good or bad, beautiful or ugly, saintly or devilish, theist or atheist is a dish at the dining table of Death that does not distinguish between them enjoys all equally.