Skip to main content

The Bucket List


 

Stupid Mayans holding us all in suspense. For all we know, it was some loony prehistoric guy who simply got bored midway through his calendar making and decided to leave it at that. Or a sadist, maybe, who thought it would be creepily hilarious to leave his descendents awaiting the ultimate apocalypse—eyes shut, fists clenched, sighing, and all okay bye-byes done and settled, only to find they still had college at 8:59:59 the next day.

If its true, though, what a waste of a brilliant life would that be, a December 2012 end would mean I’d have spent all my (conscious) life slogging it off at some padhai centre or the other. Sad. Calls for immediate salvage attempts, running to a four month deadline.

1.       Background Clearance.

In the little time that I have on earth, and before the next set of inhabitants arrive, it is essential to wipe off all traces of embarrassing pictures of yours truly, and other textual details. Thus, all the diaries, the letters, the break-up analyses, the evidences of bitching, the nagging, the gushing must now be crumpled into balls and set on fire. We cannot risk the bins. All photographic proof that I was once upon a time dressed up in the most brilliantly fluorescent clothes accessorised with long bead strings and flowery hairclips must be meticulously wiped clean with a particularly toxic mix of Vanish and Colin. I don’t want to come across as a butterfly with legs the next time someone sees my pictures. Even if its 20,000 years later.

 

2.       Future Insurance.

Considering there’s going to be quite a deluge of recently dead people at heaven’s gates on ‘THE’ day, these four months must be judiciously, efficiently and smartly utilised to build up a fair amount of credentials to be offered a priority entry through the Pearly Gates. The plan is a genius in its simplicity, even if I say so myself. A temple to Lord Yamraj needs to be built quick and fast. Milk abhisheks twice a day, lavish feasts, a Hagger horned helmet, and a fat black bull are essential. I wish I could grow royal moustaches in support of Yamraj’s, but that (unfortunately) is slightly hard. I could probably rent one, though. What’s a little buttering if it lands you a nice Jacuzzi suite in heaven?

 

3.       Aah, Sweet Revenge.

Even though I like to believe I’ve lived a happy, content, fun life (no, really!), there’s no denying I have a ‘stab-before-I-die’ list of my own. And while stabbing may adversely affect my chances of landing that Jacuzzi suite up there, I’m sure a little harassment would still be in order. A late night prank call or two to that crazy high school teacher, a bit of punching that annoying classmate, some sly hair snipping, an occasional anonymous letter to their parents, a little sabotaging—all to make up for the peaceful, enduring face I’ve put up all these years. For what’s life without a little payback?

 

4.       Carefree Gluttony.

And finally, as the past, present and future concerns have now duly been taken into account, I move to indulge in my favourite sin. If I’ve got to face death anyway, I might as well face it a healthy, plump girl. So I’ll just order in some seekh kababs, mutton biryani, chilly garlic noodles, drumsticks, pav bhaji, chhole bhatoore, galauti kababs, bournville, lindt, and a Belgian dark chocolate waffle sundae, and settle down in peace to wait.

Note to self: If India TV maintains its record of unshackled insanity, and the world really doesn’t end in December 2012, I’ll be left to face an angry mother, a lot of furious enemies, a bewildered fat bull, a Yamraj temple, unpaid milk bills, and an obese persona to handle it all.

Ah well.

Worth the gamble, I’d say.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Picture Perfect

When you begin work on a painting, you set out on a long difficult journey to the end. Begin by thinking, sketching out on the canvas a rough figure of what you want. It’s an easy task, you've barely begun—you can always erase, redraw, alter, or even start over. Then comes the time for colours. And while there are hundreds and thousands of them to choose from, there are just a few, at times just one, that will be a perfect fit. Choices are tough to make—some may be right, others may go horribly wrong. Yet there’s no choice but to choose. After long toil and much sweat, you come up with the final piece. Some paintings will inspire. They’ll be so beautiful that they’ll leave a mark in your heart and mind for ages to come. Some will be soothing, others will make you smile. And then there will be those that will make you feel simply wasted. Pictures that will only speak to you of your incompetence and inability to make the right choices. Surprisingly, sometimes these may be the p...
6 comments
Read more

Alarming Tones

Every time I watch a cliché romantic Bollywood flick, I find myself wishing I could be one of those diligent, sound-sensitive, got-no-time-to-waste NRI people they always end up showing. The ones who wake up bang in sync with the alarm clock’s first bell, get right on their feet and robotically rush into the bathroom. Get dressed, do their morning pooja with long wet hair neatly pulled over one shoulder and eyes brimming with shraddha, and then slip into the busy streets on New York, striding happily, with a Starbucks Coffee to complete the look.   And even after all the morning propaganda manage to be one of the earliest people to reach the office and gain a promotion. I wish, I wish! However, over all these years of my being, I’ve only managed to figure out that I have some sort of an inbuilt anti-alarm mechanism in me—and as much as I may try, alarms are never very successful in shaking me out of my sleep. Consequently, I’m more of the ‘oh shit phir late!’ people than the ‘perfe...
5 comments
Read more

Nostalgia

The past one year was dotted with moments of depression. Wave after wave of panic, fear and anxiety hit us, as we realised that this was it. Our last few days together. That in a matter of mere months we were to step out of the place we’d called home for the past 14 years, out into that big, bad world of college admissions and jobs and incessant slogging. Hysterical laughter led to tears, then depression, then desperation and sad sighs. Crazy games, never touched after class IV, came back with a bang, and suddenly 12th standard students were running around playing ‘vish-amrit’ and fighting over whether ‘bhaalu’ was an acceptable animal in ‘Name-Place-Animal-Thing’. Songs were sung and dedicated to each other. Every lunch eaten in the second period became more special, every bit relished with an increasing sense of satisfaction. The one trip to Corbett as enjoyed as if everyone was facing a life-sentence back in Delhi. Every party became crazier, every dance more uncontrollable. I lo...
5 comments
Read more