The morning light wakes me into a world without you, UG.
I am in great discomfort. A throbbing headache. A dryness in my mouth. But more than anything, a vast emptiness throbs inside me like a second heart.
I try to stay in bed. To lie still. To let the silence numb me. But the momentum that has carried me through the past eight days won’t let me rest. It pushes me out of bed. Down the staircase.
Susan is already in the kitchen. She’s had a bad night. We talk—fragments, broken thoughts, loose threads. Coffee. A piece of dry bread. But underneath it all, a silence dense with knowing.
The old man, UG, is lying dead in the next room.
We both know the men from the funeral parlour will arrive at exactly 2:30 p.m. It’s the rule: they must wait twenty-four hours. A doctor will come. Check the body. Ensure there was no foul play.
Then they will lift his body into a plain coffin. And carry it outside, where a hearse is waiting—its side adorned with an ornate image of Jesus, arms outstretched.
I remember gently patting the coffin. Looking up. ‘Goodbye, UG.’
The car pulled away, its wheels crunching gravel. And the emptiness inside me deepened.
But I am not the only one to have stood at the edge of such a goodbye.
Kushinagar. 483 BCE.
Under the sala trees, the Buddha’s final breath faded into silence. Ananda, his cousin, his companion in the long dark, collapsed beside him.
He had given his life to the Buddha’s presence. But not even that could prepare him for the silence of his absence. ‘I am still a learner,’ he sobbed.
What does it mean to be left behind with no more teachings, no more voice? He wasn’t ready. Whoever is? He wept not for himself, but for the unbearable weight of carrying on.
And yet, when the First Council convened, it was Ananda who spoke. He did not become the Buddha. He became the wound that remembered.
Jerusalem. 30 CE.
Jesus ascends. Peter is left with the stench of his own failure. He had denied the man he loved three times. The cock had crowed. And guilt became his shadow.
He wasn’t a rock. He was dust. And yet—he stood.
He didn’t become Christ. He became the scar that spoke. And from that scar, the Church was born.
Medina. 632 CE.
Muhammad was gone. The people broke. Some claimed he could not die. But Abu Bakr rose, his voice shaking.
He had walked with Muhammad. Bled with him. Believed. And now, he stood over his friend’s lifeless body.
‘If you worshipped Muhammad, know that he is dead. But if you worship Allah, he lives.’
He didn’t proclaim himself a prophet. He didn’t offer revelation.
He simply bore the unbearable. And became the thread that held the fabric together.
Kolkata. 1886.
Ramakrishna, silenced by cancer. His tongue, the flame of his being, cut by disease.
Vivekananda—Narendranath then—was unmoored. The man who had seen his soul was fading, wordless. No final sermon.
No closure.
He wanted to die with him. But grief sharpened into resolve.
He rose, not to replace the Master, but to carry the invisible.
He became the voice Ramakrishna could no longer speak.
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And then, Vallecrosia. 2007.
There is no light left. No scripture. Only UG—cold, still, gone. And me—Mahesh Bhatt. Not a prophet. Not a disciple. Just a man on fire.
It began in rage. I had walked to his house at two in the morning. Drunk. Shattered. Furious. I rang the bell.
He opened the door.
‘Why did I ever meet a man like you?’ I shouted. ‘I was in a spiritual coma—why did you wake me up? I want to kill you!’
He said nothing of consequence. Just looked at me and offered, ‘Why don’t you sleep, Mahesh? There’s a sofa. A blanket. If you still want to kill me, do it in the morning—when people will be around. You can make a ritual of it.’
Such was his seeing. He knew I was a house on fire.
I lay down. Minutes later, I rose. Walked to him. Took his hand. Kissed it. ‘UG, I love you.’
That night, a one-way love story began.
He often said to me, ‘You are the only one I have a right over.’ And I obeyed. Because I was never in conflict with him. His words were the voice of the universe. And I was always too eager to comply.
In the last week of his life, he turned everyone else away. Called me from Mumbai. ‘Help me,’ he said. ‘Pack me off.’
And so I came. Sat by him. Held vigil with Larry and Susan. But when the moment came, even they left the room. And I was alone.
The man I had once come to kill now lay dying, silent beside me.
But here’s the difference: unlike Ananda, Peter, Abu Bakr, or Vivekananda, UG left me with nothing.
No faith. No creed. No transmission. No form. There is no gospel to preach. No institution to build. No movement to ignite.
He left me nothing but the presence of his absence. A silence so total, it cannot be translated. A gaze that burned everything false and left no residue.
As I have said and will keep saying, there is nothing to be transformed.
No enlightenment. No destination. Only this: a man who burns. Not for truth. Not for others. Not for legacy.
Just fire.
As he once said, ‘He’ll just burn with fire, without any purpose.’
This excerpt from ‘The Ashes Are Warm’ by Mahesh Bhatt, as told to Sunita Pant Bansal, has been published with permission from Rupa Publications.