I met Rajiv Gandhi the other day. The venue? At a posh five star hotel in the centre of New Delhi- one of a number of swanky hotels that have sprung up since the onset of liberalization.

I recognized him at once – the same youthful demeanor, the same flashy smile, the same pair of trademark dark glasses. I was taken aback (astonished would be the right word), and too stunned to speak. He was the first to break the ice, “Fancy meeting you here” he said, “I thought you did not frequent five star hotels…”

I did not extend to him the courtesy of a reply (I had gone there in connection with some pressing business). I could not restrain myself any longer, “But I thought you were dead”, I protested.

He looked at me with a wistful expression, almost as if to say – there you go again.

He sighed, “I am here, but it is true that in your world I am dead”. “In the world of newspapers and news channels, I am very much dead”. “In the minds of those who had seen (me) cremated by fire, I am certainly dead.” “Not everybody can see me, he added by way of explanation”, “But I eke out an existence at the margins of society, between being and non-being, between life and death.”

But this is wonderful news, I said. You family surely will be pleased to hear about it. But as soon as I said it, I regretted it, for a shadow had crossed his cheerful countenance. Not that it had not been done before – Jayaprakash Narayan was brought back from the dead, when a few more hours of disbelief might have killed him. The heart of the tragedy was that – like everybody else – his family members also believed him to be dead.

Life is like that. Though it has its perks, life on the other side can be tough. And the longer you stay away, the more difficult it gets to return. Far too many people had read the obituary. And the gentlemen of the press rarely admit to their errors, for they can be an unforgiving lot!