The Day Death Came to Dinner

Every family has a sister like Yamuna.

She keeps calling. She keeps saying, come home, I’ll cook. And her brother keeps saying soon, soon, work is very busy just now.

His work, in this case, is death.

Yama and Yamuna are twins in many tellings, children of Surya, the Sun. He became the lord of the dead, the first mortal to walk that road and the one who now keeps the gate at the end of it. She became a river. Nobody in the three worlds looks forward to a visit from Yama, and so, you might say, nobody had ever invited him anywhere.

Except her.

The invitation

Year after year she asked. Year after year he had souls to judge and ledgers to check. Then one year, on the second day of the bright fortnight of Kartika, just after the lamps of Diwali had burned down, he came.

Stop and picture that doorway for a second. The one guest everyone dreads, standing there looking a little awkward, because no one has been glad to see him in a very long time.

Yamuna was glad. She bathed him, marked his forehead with tilak, sat him down and fed him everything she had made. There’s no trick to this story. No demon, no curse, no clever bargain. She was simply happy that her brother came.

And Yama, who had heard every kind of plea and had granted almost none of them, was moved. He told her to ask for anything.

She didn’t ask for wealth or for a longer life. She asked that he come back on this day every year. And she asked that any brother who visits his sister on this day, and eats from her hand, be spared the fear of him.

He agreed.

Why it stays with us

This is why the day is also called Yama Dwitiya, and why Bhai Dooj, Bhau Beej, Bhai Phonta and Bhai Tika look so alike from Maharashtra to Bengal to Nepal. The details change from house to house. The sister marks the forehead, she feeds him, she prays for his long life, and he gives her something in return.

Tellings differ too. Some say Yama’s visit came first, and others tie the day to Krishna and his sister Subhadra after he killed Narakasura. Your grandmother’s version wins. It always does.

What I love about it is how small it is. The festival season has just given us Rama’s return, a slain demon and a lifted mountain. Then, at the very end, comes a story about a man who finally showed up for dinner.

Every one of us knows Yama will arrive eventually. The story’s quiet suggestion is that the thing that softens him isn’t a mantra. It’s a plate of food, and someone who has been waiting to see you.

So call your sister. Or your brother. It’s been a while, and you know it.

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