Thursday, November 27, 2014

Emopotamus and Cererbral Potato join hands.

So I have this killjoy of a friend (Arjun Krishnan) that turned 27 about four years ago. I wished the guy on his birthday and all he had to say was “Ah, It’s just another day, shorter of breath one day closer to death.” Back then, birthdays were all, yay whoohoo for me, you see? And I didn’t, for a moment, think it’d be any different. But the killjoy cursed me. “When you reach the ripe old age of 27, you’ll see.”

Guess what, weirdo. I do see. And thank you for the heads up. Really. Sincerely.

Besides spending this year oscillating between being Emopotamus and The Cerebral Potato - and today the two of them became one - I also had a lot to think about. I’m turning 27 and here’s what I have to show for it:
  • -          I’m not a cat lady. Yet.
  • -          I don’t think I’ll ever be a cat lady because cats are scary.
  • -          I should stop talking about being a cat lady.
  • -          I have my Master’s Degree. I am a certified hippie and have a certificate that proves it.
  • -          I have too many pages to administer on Facebook. Which is great, because I can now claim to have enough knowledge of Social Media to actually own those jobs that I’ve been holding down for a while.
  • -          I am watching too much of Mindy Kaling.
  • -          I love lists.

Anyway. Speaking of lists. And this whole one-day-closer-to-death doom, I am sharing with you what I *want* for a funeral. Remember, just because I’d be dead, doesn’t mean that I won’t know. I’ll be around watching. Hindu Mythology says that the soul blinks around for 48 hours not knowing it died. Someone signed me up for that brand of religion when I was sent out into the world, so I guess that’d be pretty much what comes to mind after I’m gone.

Friends of mine, take notes. Copious notes. Who’s to say that my blog may not just self-destruct at the precise moment when my soul takes flight – like that weird guy in some 1000-Awesome-Facts-Book I read at 10, whose unopenable-super-safe-safe flew open the exact moment he died?

Number 1: My stuff and my people after I'm gone. I’m pretty sure that I won’t have too much stuff to my name except all my books. And these books go to Ashay Abbhi, Sashankh Kale, Deepti Menon, Neeti Jaychander, Judy Balan and Natasha Jolly. Natasha isn’t in India, so the books need to be shipped to her. Not that I will die in India necessarily – I could be dead in space in a rocket when I’m flying to find the next new planet that the world must inhabit (Interstellar, yes, I saw it), and the spaceship runs out of fuel and I can’t really compensate with that much gas though I do talk a lot of it - but my books would mostly be in India. Anyway. Back on track. Don’t make her pay for the shipping charges, because, well, she’s already devastated that I died – you don’t want to make her bank balance mourn too. Because that’s just rude. And really, really insensitive. And also maybe Ashay might need the books shipped to him, too, but again, don't make him pay for the shipping charges. Oh and I forgot. I also have these little vials of soil from all over the world. That goes to Kaavya Pillai. She will definitely be devastated that I'm dead, but don't hug her because hugging does to her what chocolate does to me. She can also take the books she wants, if she wants any. Plus, don't for a minute let her touch my pink turtle. She does things to it and they're just not right. Judy Balan is likely to be found crying in a corner, be very nice to her and get her a chocolate milkshake from Sangeetha's. She will cry even more if you do that, but it's a nice kind of I-remember-Kirthi-crying. Just make sure you have a sullen looking Russian guy attending the funeral, and let his name end with Vrski. When she cries, make him walk up to her and say "Oooh I am kazjdhgorynvglg-VRSKI." She'll smile and clap. There will be two people looking particularly zen-like: Sashankh Kale and Akshay Sharma. Just let them stare into space as they mostly always do. They'll be just fine. Sashankh might write a very depressing novel with all that inspiration. Well, good on you buddy. You might just also find a sad looking child in the corner with a Chota Bheem doll in hand. Anushree Warrier is what it will respond to - just don't let her near any chicken - it tires her, because, it's like a bird. 

Number 2: Me. So obviously, I’ve just died. Don’t potter around at my funeral talking about the next Rajiv Gandhi Yojna or why Angelina Jolie’s seventh adopted child should not be adopting more Hispanic children and focus on Indian children instead (because, I mean, if I’m dead, Angelina Jolie is long gone. Unless I die young. Which could happen. But whatever). Talk about me. You can say all the nice things you think of - and if you can't think of any, make up something for all I care. Don't say a word about how I bit my dentist's hand a number of times and how I called my surgeon a bum - loudly - for not giving me anesthesia to remove a corn (see, I can't be tempting karma when I'm at heaven/hell's door, okay?). Just don’t feel super sad that I’m dead and all that, because I’m in your hearts and all that crap (So please stop stuffing your face, if you plug your arteries, idiot, you're killing me again). Anyway. Whatever works, man.

Number 3: My picture. If my most unflattering picture finds its way up there, smiling at all of you with all heinous hideousness, I will find you and I will kill you. Even from the afterworld. And I will make that phone call to tell you that I will find you and kill you (India even has a cool cell phone network for the afterworld. It’s called BSNL. Bulk Subscribers Non-Living. Just kidding, Telecom Authority of India, I get that naming things is not really your thing. Or even running an efficient telecom service. But, whatever.) You’re not allowed to Photoshop (or whatever other awesomely hideous photo-manipulating thingamajig exists by then) a thing on my picture. And yet, it has to be a flattering picture of me. Good luck, I said.

Number 4: My Music: I’d like you to play Celine Dion’s “I’m alive” and the Rembrandts’ “I’ll be there for you.” And then if you all get super weepy at the irony of it all, I’d like you all to play Regina Spektor’s “No need to say goodbye.” That’s my very gentle way of letting you know that you’re not too far away from where I am at that precise moment. Yeah, I’m a true friend like that. You can count on me. I think.

Number 5: The ambiance. There will be no ugly white flowers from Pondy Bazaar like my dear friend Judy Balan said, for herself. Nor will there be those hideous yellow flowers from Pondy Bazaar. If you haven’t read my book Stories of Hope (What? Someone said <insert blatant self-promotion line here> and I just wrote it! God!), do make sure to BUY (I never said subliminal messaging and subtlety was my thing. I don't even have a thing. I mean, not that thing, I mean a thing thing. Whatever) it and read the story called Flowers for Frank Andromanque. If you get the flowers wrong at my funeral, that might happen to you. The funeral should be all nice and white. It should be outdoors, because, well, I’m sure that my soul will also walk right into walls, instead of through them. Play Four Seasons by Vivaldi when everyone’s walking in and taking their places.

Number 6: My Eulogies. No soppy crap, please. I want all the fun people to speak at my funeral. You can, of course, say nice things like how much I made you laugh and all of that. Of course, I’m sure all you best friends of mine may not be able to speak, being chokingly sad and all that – so be nice to them okay? Make sure to call my carpenter, plumber, electrician and fruit-seller as well, because they’ve been incredibly kind to me at different points of time. Get Deepti Menon to do the honours, she'll be teary eyed, but she always says the nicest things. My soul's heart will swell and be all happy. 

Number 7: The food. NO CHOCOLATE. Unless you want to see a corpse sneezing. Which, actually, is quite cool – and will make for a really awesome viral Youtube Video. Yeah well, go ahead. The food should be delicious, but not so irreparably delicious that I’m forgotten. I know I can’t eat all that, so I’m counting on all you guests to eat for me as well.

Number 8: The things I inspire. I know there will be this brilliant movie producer sitting in the crowd, and when the moment comes, he will pipe up and ask to make a movie of my life. Give him the rights, he’ll do a good job of it – he has my blessing, of course. My role should be played by either Jennifer Lawrence or Jennifer Garner. I’ve been told I am as mad as the former and smile like the latter. If you so much as think of Deepika Padukone as a potential me, you don’t know me at all. Plus, she is at risk from Anushree Warrier, who will, tsk tsk. Never mind. Anyway. Besides all this, here are the things I want to inspire:

  • Ashay's poem
  • Deepti's poem
  • Dipankar Mukherjee's next anthology of short stories
  • Christopher Nolan's next movie
  • Mindy Kaling's next Project.

Okay... I have to run now because this post was a piece I wrote during a break while trying to figure out what my supervisor on Skype last said in her very foreign accent. It sounded remarkably like Nagaraj has rotis in his colon, which is weird because we don't know any Nagaraj.  Oh dear, I have a long day ahead of me.