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June 29, 2008 I knew it was coming. Of late signs were multiplying. For one, I had started having frequent nightmares, more as hallucinations. My dead wife frequently appeared in my reveries beckoning me to join her in heavens! My doctor told me though politely that I had reached the precipice; after all I was past seventy-five and had undergone two bypass surgeries. Though masquerading to be in good health, my will to live was collapsing. My lawyer told me that I should wind up my financial and legal affairs forthwith. Panditjee (the priest) was emphatic that it was time for me to read the Holy Scriptures to retrieve whatever little I could for my next birth from the hugely wicked life I had led, particularly in the last ten years, ogling at pretty women, after the demise of my wife. The news of my proverbial kicking the bucket asap, spread like wild fire. My two middle-aged sons were on cloud ten (above the ninth). Their long cherished dream of becoming ‘independent’ of the leech of a father, who they presumed would rather donate his wealth to charity than giving it to them, was about to be realized. They wanted me to hand them their pound of flesh forthwith lest they should slug it out in the courts for years. Generally daggers drawn with me on petty issues, today their words dripped honey when they said that they would perform my pind-daan (a post death ritual among Hindus in India) at Haridwar (a town sacred to Hindus) and feed 31 pandits (priests) for the peace of my soul. The ones who feigned deafness at my shouts for a glass of water would feed 31 pandits for my sake! They even promised that since I had lived up to a ‘ripe old age’, they would arrange a band-baaja (orchestra) at my funeral. But the twinkle in their eyes betrayed that they and their wives would actually celebrate their pind-chhod (good riddance) by me the moment I divided my property between them. They clamored for their 15 August (independence day) without a moment’s delay. Knowing that I would not be around at his next birthday, my ten year old grandson wanted his birthday gift right now though his ‘happy b’day’ was still a good ten months away. He was emphatic that since this was going to be his ‘last gift’ from me, I should not act miserly. Despite my protestations, he instantly made me poorer by two thousand rupees saying that a pair of Levi’s jeans cost as much. Indeed all my near and dear ones wanted to squeeze the last drop of juice from the stale lemon, they called their own, to enjoy their own kinds of lemonades. To me, their pranks gave such pleasure as I had experienced never before. How grand and beautiful was going to be my departure! It was my old bosom friend Labh Singh who wizened me to the machinations of my scheming sons. When we sat in the evening for our customary sundowner, he suggested that a man who had risen from the scratch and had always prided himself to be self-dependent, should not depend on others even in his death. So it was decided that I should perform my own pind-daan by donating my body (dead, of course) to some hospital for the benefit of others. But I was doubtful how my ogl-ed eyes, almost deaf ears, rotten teeth and filthy heart could benefit anybody. Labh Singh assured me that it is only the good and healthy organs like kidneys, liver, cornea etc. that are made use of. Then, what would happen to the rest of my body, I asked. Don’t worry that would be hacked into small pieces and fed to the eagles, he chuckled. Nothing left for my sons to do. This way I would rob them of the sadistic pleasure they planned to derive by throwing my ashes into some dirty nullah (a filthy little stream carrying sewage), said Labh Singh. Wow, what a brilliant solution. I wondered at Labh Singh’s wisdom and thanked him profusely. Now I could die in peace. But one thing that still troubled my mind was: how will my friends, relatives and the public at large come to know about my exit from the stage of life? My friend had an easy solution to that too. An obituary with my photo (taken about twenty years back to make me look younger) would be inserted in the newspaper. Lo and behold, all those who did not even know that someone with my name ever existed on this earth would come to know at least about my grand departure. Adequately soaked by now, Labh Singh volunteered to draft the ad – mark of a true friend indeed. After an hour’s deliberation and with a high of three pegs each, the obituary ad read something like this: Mr Mohinder Krishan Bhatnagar, M.A.LL.B (and many other degrees), former bank manager, tax man, academic, advocate, editor, writer, et al; a loving father, a devoted husband, a doting grandfather, a faithful friend, etc. etc., left for his heavenly abode to join his beloved wife on 8th May. He was a beacon of light and a friend and a philosopher to all his family members, friends and the world at large. The void left by his death can never be filled. We will miss you, Papa. As per his wish, his body has been donated to ABC Hospital ; hence there will be no funeral and the consequent cremation. A prayer meeting will however be held at 4 pm on 9th May at so-and-so address (Actual dates and address to be inserted later). Labh Singh appeared to have a knack for writing obituaries. I approved of his masterpiece as he sucked on ice cubes having finished his drink. I called my elder son to read it (the younger one had gone out with his family to watch Amitabh’s latest movie Bhootnath in a multiplex in anticipation of his dad’s death). My son dutifully came and gave a look over to the ad. His forehead creased. “You know every word in the ad costs a packet. This 200-word ad will cost at least Rs. 50,000/- with color photo. Why write full name when just M.K. Bhatnagar would do? What use are academic degrees to a dead man? Who will believe that you had been in more than six unrelated professions? You mistakenly think it goes to your credit. People will on the contrary make fun and consider that you were a rolling stone and good at nothing. Now, words like a ‘loving father,’ ‘devoted husband’, ‘doting grandfather’, ‘faithful friend’, ‘beacon of light’, ‘friend and philosopher’, etc have become clichés and sound hollow. Why to mention that the body has been donated to a hospital or that there would be no cremation? You want to tell the world that you considered your sons so worthless that they would not even perform your cremation. You are no doubt free to donate your body; we don’t need it anyway. But it need not be mentioned in the ad. Then, this thing about heavenly abode; do you really think you would be taken into heaven when you indulge in a drinking binge just before your impending death? You have been a non-believer all your life and you want a prayer meeting to be held, that too after your death! What crap?” Admonishing Labh Singh, he said, “Uncle, at least you should have given him some sane counsel. After all, you are also round the bend and you too can be on call any time now.” He was right, no argument about that. To hide his embarrassment, Labh Singh had fully inverted the empty glass on to his lips and was waiting for the non-existing drop to land on his protruding tongue while I munched chips noisily. Fully chastened, both of us threw up our hands and asked the son to do the honors himself. He did it in a jiffy: “Public Notice - M.K. Bhatnagar dead.” (In place of ‘Public’, he could have as well mentioned ‘Tender’). Small is beautiful he said and mind you, no photo. A teetotaler and allergic to alcoholic fumes, he went back hurriedly leaving two of us looking at each other in disbelief. There was silence for a little while before Labh Singh broke it by saying, “Leave it, friend. As it is, the ad will not serve any purpose. How many friends are you left with now - Manmohan in Canada , Grewal in America and Swaran Singh in Ludhiana ? The ones abroad will not be able to read the ad. That leaves only Swaran Singh. I will inform him over the phone. Okay?” Labh Singh had simple solutions for seemingly complex problems. I nodded my head. It was time to round off with a Patiala Peg (large peg). Cheers! Laughing and coughing violently, Labh Singh almost fell off his chair.. He started humming his favorite doggerel: Khao Pio karo anand… (eat, drink and be merry…). It was my friend who was truly and unabashedly celebrating my impending death as he did not need to make any lemonade. ------------ About the author: Mohinder Bhatnagar from India is a prolific writer and has been writing since the age of twenty. Having been in varied careers like academics, taxman, banker, lawyer, editor, writer et al, he has seen life in its varied hues. Currently located in New Delhi (India) and working as an editor and writer, he has widely traveled to UK, US and Canada. Email: mkbhatnagar2000@yahoo.co.in Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com. Please link to this article rather than copying and pasting it onto your site (which would be unauthorized and illegal). |
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