The Liberating Art of Dying Daily

There is a popular Marathi saying: "Roz mare tyala kon rade." It means: if someone dies every day, who will cry for them? It calls to mind the English fable of the shepherd boy who cried “wolf!” too many times for fun—when the real wolf came, no one came to help. Both sayings convey the same truth: if you raise an alarm too often for trivial reasons, you cheapen it. When something truly important happens, no one listens.

But what if we could use this principle not to devalue something false, but to disarm something truly feared? What if, by confronting the ultimate alarm—death—daily, we could strip it of its terror and live more fully?

We give immense importance to life, but even greater importance to death. How do we know? We do everything possible to avoid it. We pursue health to avoid sickness and dying. We invest and secure our finances to prevent them from “dying.” We fear the ultimate physical end, and all the “small deaths” along the way: the loss of wealth, the passing of loved ones, the erosion of our abilities through age or illness. Death, in all its forms, is the shadow we flee.

Cellular death happens daily. Minutes burn into hours, days into weeks, everything constantly passing away. Yet the death we truly fear is the one where we lose our “self”—our identity, our continuity—and venture into the unknown. We avoid thinking about it, focusing instead on the project of staying alive.

But what if we could defang death? What if we could make it so familiar that its sting vanishes?

I found a simple way: to die on a daily basis. If we face our own end every day—not just talk about it, but seriously ask, “Am I prepared?”—the fear dissipates. It’s not that we begin to want to die, but we cease to be paralyzed by the thought. When the time truly comes, having practiced the art of dying might make the transition easier, and life beforehand much richer.

This practice crystallized for me in an unexpected way. I was speaking with a young girl, Shresta, who had lost her grandfather. Her family, wanting to protect her, had kept the news secret. During a conversation, I inadvertently mentioned his passing. She was shocked. So, I spoke to her openly about death. I explained it as a natural, daily occurrence. I told her, “Even I, this Das uncle, might not be here tomorrow morning.”

From that, we invented a game. At bedtime, I’d say, “Can you give me a kiss now? I might not be here tomorrow. I might die tonight.” She would then kiss my cheek or forehead, hug me, and say goodnight. The next morning, I’d announce: “That old Das uncle you kissed last night? He’s dead. He’s gone. I’m a new Das uncle today. Can I get my share of affection? He took his and left.”

Through this playful ritual, a profound thought took root: Isn’t life essentially made of memories? If I die tonight, and tomorrow someone wakes up in this body with all my memories, wouldn’t they believe they had lived my entire life? Is it possible that “I” die every night as the brain slips into deep sleep, liberating me, and a new consciousness, armed with yesterday’s memories, awakens in the morning?

The answer felt like a quiet “yes.” Our sense of continuous self hinges on memory. If those memories were wiped, there would be chaos—no sense of who I am or why I exist. Memory gives life meaning. Therefore, it is remotely possible that today is my last day—not my body’s necessarily, but mine as the conscious entity residing within it.

This shifted everything. My nightly pursuit became: Have I wrapped up my day? Have I been true to myself and my loved ones? Has today been wonderful? Can I die now in peace as I sleep?

With this thought, I “die” each night. Each morning, I wake up as the “new me,” grateful to yesterday’s tenant for the memories, knowing I have one precious day to use them well. I remind myself "By tonight, I should be ready, with my "experience bags" packed, to move on while the body is sleeping.

What began as a game to comfort a child became my daily practice of liberation. Over months and years, I realized the sting of death was gone. The fear that it could hurt me had dissolved.

This was tested unexpectedly when I once fell from about 15 feet. I suffered multiple fractures and a concussion, hitting my head hard. As my family urged me to go to the hospital, I found myself calm. I thought: There are only two outcomes. Either I’ll recover, or I’ll pass on. Both are fine. I trusted in my capacity for self-healing if I survived; if not, it was okay. I chose to stay home and tend to my recovery. This wasn't recklessness, but a deep-seated absence of panic. In retrospect, some may call it foolish, but it revealed a fundamental shift: death had lost its grip on me.

The beautiful consequence is that I can now live more fully. If I am not worried about the ultimate death, I am not worried about the small deaths either. I am not paralyzed by the fear of financial loss, because I trust in community and resilience. I do not fear the death of my knowledge, because I share it freely—it becomes part of a collective memory that outlives me.

This newfound confidence sprang from an innocent conversation and that old Marathi proverb: "Roz mare tyala kon rade." If you die every day, who will cry?

With practice, I realized the proverb is spot on. If you die every day, even you won’t have to cry for your losses or tremble at your own end. You simply learn to live, completely, in the one day you are certain to have: today.

Will you try dying tonight?