Prepaid Death: A Story Every Busy Son and Daughter Must Read

In Byatarayanapura, Bengaluru, lived a 70-year-old retired bus conductor named Narayanappa. His wife Lakshmi had passed away five years earlier. He had two children — his son Ramesh, a software engineer in America, and his daughter Suma, a nurse in Dubai.

Narayanappa lived alone. A pension of ₹18,000 arrived each month. Of it, ₹8,000 went to rent, and the remaining ₹10,000 barely covered his medicines, food and electricity bills.

Every Sunday he made a video call to his children. "How are you, Dad?" he would ask — and their answer was always the same…

"Busy, Dad… we'll talk later."

If only my life had a recharge

For two years Narayanappa had suffered kidney trouble. Twice a week he needed dialysis — about ₹2,000 each time, ₹16,000 a month.

One day the doctor told him: "Narayanappa-garu, a kidney transplant could give you a chance to live. The cost is about ₹10 lakh."

Narayanappa smiled and replied: "Doctor, my son earns ₹5 lakh a month. But he has no time to talk to me for even five minutes. So where will he find ₹10 lakh to spend on me?"

From that day, he made a decision. He stopped his dialysis. He told his children nothing.

The diary named "Prepaid Death"

Then he bought a diary and gave it a name — "Prepaid Death." On the very first page he wrote:

"Just like Jio and Airtel, my life too needs a recharge. But no one will do it. So I am paying for my own death, in advance."

Every day he completed one task and wrote beside it — "PAID."

• He got his photograph framed — PAID
• He chose his spot in the cremation ground and paid the advance — PAID
• He bought the firewood for his last rites — PAID
• He kept ready the dakshina envelopes for the 13th-day rituals — PAID
• He wrote the final letter to his children — PAID

The last 48 hours

Twenty days later his health collapsed. His neighbour Papanna admitted him to hospital.

The doctor phoned Ramesh: "Your father has only 48 hours. Come at once."

Ramesh: "Doctor, I'm in the middle of a project delivery. It will take three weeks. Please just do a video call."

The doctor was stunned. He called Suma. She said: "The ticket will cost a lakh rupees. I can't come right now. I'll send money."

Narayanappa heard all of this and only smiled. He opened the last page of his diary. On it was written:

Dialysis — stopped. PAID. Hopes upon my children — zero. PAID. Life — ends tomorrow. Paid in advance.

And below it, one more line:

"I recharged my own death. There is no one even to give me a missed call. So I have used up all my talk-time myself."

That very night, Narayanappa closed his eyes in peace.

Two letters

Three weeks later the children arrived. Papanna handed them two envelopes.

To Ramesh:

"My son, it costs a lakh rupees to come from America, doesn't it? Don't spend so much just to look at my dead body. Here is ₹500 for the bus fare. Stand at my grave for two minutes and then go. I have already PAID for your time, in advance. — Your Prepaid Appa"

To Suma:

"My daughter, you serve hundreds of people. But you could not come when your own father was on dialysis. It's all right. With this ₹500, buy a garland and lay it on my grave. I will not wait. I have already PAID and gone. — Your Prepaid Appa"

The last page

On the final page of the diary, in red letters, was written:

"Children… your love is like Incoming Calls — Free. But you did not give even one Missed Call. So I became Outgoing. Balance Zero. Validity Over. Number Not Reachable — Forever."

The lesson

Parents are like a prepaid SIM. If you do not give them the recharge of time, love and care, one day they go "Not Reachable." After that — no matter how much you grieve, how much money you spend, how many tears you shed — nothing will help.

"Busy" is not a reason.

Call your parents today. Show your love while they are still here. Because once they are gone, the only reply that remains is: "The number you are trying to reach is not available."

To serve one's mother and father is the greatest punya of all. 🙏