6 Feet Under: A Journey Through Memory and Mortality

Author: Vishy (Viswanathan) Sankara

As Ernest Hemingway wrote in his response to Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace, titled For Whom the Bell Tolls, “Every man's life ends the same way; it is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguishes one man from another.”

My eyes welled up, my mind went blank. I stood there, gripping an ancient, rusted iron gate, locked with a heavy chain and padlock as if to keep the dead and buried from crossing back into this world. As the great Moroccan traveller Ibn Battuta observed, 'Traveling at first leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller.' Travelling at the speed of light through the mountains and valleys of our minds is no different.

I was trying to locate the spot where my late father, Sankara, was laid to rest. Typically, in Kerala, backyards become dense jungles after the monsoon, and people work diligently to clear the foliage to keep snakes and wild animals at bay.

Besides my father, Sankara, my uncle, their cousins, grandparents, great-grandparents, other blood relatives, and generations of our ancestors share that sacred space. It's over an acre of land bordering the evergreen Kunthipuzha River, which originates in the Silent Valley and flows into the Arabian Sea. This serene and peaceful spot is the ultimate resting place for the departed.

Graves aren't marked here, as it's a communal burial ground for the Kannadigas of Mannarkkad. Only the living draw boundaries and cling to possessions. After death and before birth, all things belong to all. Another common thread among our ancestors is their deep love for the river. During the monsoon, it swells, carrying everything from elephants to humans to the Arabian Sea. Then, in the post-rainy season, it calms down. I believe they don't mind the river's lullabies as they rest.

In the densely populated state of Kerala, an acre of such land is a precious commodity. It's a luxury that the small Kannadiga community of Mannarkkad, once consisting of about ten households (known as "Athatti" in Kannada), was able to maintain its own burial ground. Now, only two or three households remain.

My father, Sankara, fought against a powerful local figure who, with the help of a distant relative, attempted to seize the land. A lifelong, committed member of the Communist Party of India (CPI), Sankara had connections with Left ministers and leaders. I was filled with pride and joy when they received him with such warmth and respect. When K.E. Ismail was the Revenue Minister of Kerala, he instructed the local Collector to issue a land title deed within a day. Perhaps this was my father's way of ensuring that greedy individuals wouldn't disturb his eternal rest.

I emotionally detached myself from that place the moment my dear father was laid to rest. It was only recently that I returned to Mannarkkad, after an 18-year gap, to attend the diamond jubilee celebrations of my high school, KTMHS, which was also my father, Sankara's alma mater.

As I planned to leave home for a Zen monastery, I felt compelled to talk to my father and seek his blessings, even though 18 years had passed and his physical remains had returned to the earth. The phrase "six feet under" struck me. It's a euphemism for burial, a gentle way to describe the final resting place.

Hemingway's observation that every man's life ends differently holds true. People are buried, cremated, sky-buried, donated to medical science, or buried at sea. The Parsis, once known for sky burial, now opt for cremation or traditional burial due to declining vulture populations. Osama bin Laden's body was cast into the sea to prevent his grave from becoming a shrine. King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia was buried in an unmarked grave for the same reason. Mughal emperors, on the other hand, built elaborate tombs to mark their place in history. Akbar's tomb is a testament to his class and vision, while Shah Jahan's Taj Mahal, though a magnificent structure, was built at great human and economic cost.

Perhaps the way people choose to dispose of their mortal remains reflects their approach to life. Some, like birds, live lightly and fearlessly. Others, like tyrants, live heavy-handedly and fearfully. It seems they lived their lives six feet above their concerns about death and the afterlife.

Since the dawn of humanity, the daily struggles of survival have consumed the majority of human thought. However, the fear of death and the unknown has profoundly influenced human behaviour and belief systems. It's possible that philosophy and religion emerged from this fear more than any other source.

Even Jiddu Krishnamurti, a renowned spiritual teacher who spoke extensively about the conditioning of the mind, was not entirely free from it, in my view. During his final days in Ojai, as his impending death became apparent, he sought guidance from Hindu priests in Varanasi about the appropriate cremation rites for an enlightened being. Ironically, he then instructed his trustees to thoroughly clean the electric crematorium chamber before placing his body inside, indicating a desire to avoid contamination from other human remains.

During a past interaction with some trustees of the Krishnamurti Foundation India (KFI) about the conditioning of the mind, I shared an anecdote with enthusiasm. However, a brilliant trustee who had attended KFI school after graduating from the Indian Institute of Mass Communication (IIMC) gently corrected me, pointing out that the story was unfounded and that he was present at Ojai at the time. I remained silent for a moment, then returned home, researched biographies by May Lutyens and others, and emailed him the relevant passages and references. He graciously acknowledged his mistake and apologized.

The purpose of sharing this anecdote is to highlight the fact that even a great philosopher like Krishnamurti struggled with conditioned thoughts about death. While I was grappling with Koan 14 from the Mumonkan (The Gateless Gate), "Nansen Kills the Cat," Fr. A.M.A. Samy offered the insight, "I die and I don't die. I don't die so that I can die." Accepting death and living as if one is dying is the answer to this koan. As Joshu might have responded to his Zen master Nansen, "Master, you can kill, but can you give life?”

In Zen, life and death are seen as part of a continuous cycle, rather than distinct states. They are considered one and the same, without a clear dividing line. From a Zen perspective, the self is not a static entity but an ongoing process. By letting go of this illusory sense of self, one can overcome the fear of death. The key to understanding life is to be fully present in the moment, as the present moment is the only gateway.

Life, death, and everything in between shape our journey of self-discovery. At Coacharya, we believe in diving deep beneath the surface to explore what truly drives human transformation. Ready to embark on your own journey of profound understanding? Our ICF-accredited coach training programs help you navigate the depths of human experience and emerge as a guide for others. Join our next cohort and transform your perspective on life, purpose, and human potential. For any questions, write to us at support@coacharya.com to schedule a free consultation with a team member.

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About the Author

Vishy (Viswanathan) Sankara is a  Management Consultant specializing in Organizational Change and Transformation and a Life Coach. Beyond his professional role, Vishy is a  Zen instructor/coach at Little Flower Zendo and a dedicated student of Zen Master AMA Samy.

As a certified coach from Coacharya, Vishy brings a unique perspective to his work. He’s passionate about applying Zen principles to drive positive change in organizations and individuals. Vishy’s writing style is refreshingly unconventional, reflecting his love for Zen and his ability to share complex ideas in a relatable way. When Vishy isn’t guiding transformations, he’s writing insightful blog posts. Check out his latest musings on Zen and motivation at Vishy’s Website. We’re sure you’ll find them thought-provoking!