The Death Day Celebration

[This is a story that I started writing a while back, but never got around to finishing. Right now, I'm not sure what it is: a stand-alone piece, or a work in progress. Either way, a friend suggested I should consider sharing it, so here it is.]

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“Why do people wait until after someone is dead to write a eulogy?”

Shefali looked up from her book at her friend, only to find her staring into space. “Because,” she replied, confused, “…that’s the definition of a eulogy.”

Riya looked unconvinced. “But think about it – what’s the point of getting together and saying all the good things about me after I am dead? It’s not like I can hear you.”

“So you’re saying we should have eulogies for people while they’re alive?”

“Why not?! That way, at least we know what are the good things others see in us. Imagine how nice that’ll make the person feel!”

Scribbling something quickly in her notebook, Shefali ripped out a small part of the paper and handed it over. “Fine, here’s my eulogy for you.”

“‘Riya, you’re weird’?!” she read from the paper. “I said good things!”

Shefali just shrugged and continued with her work. After a few minutes, she looked up. 

“So, if we wrote eulogies before your death, what would we do after you died?”

“I don’t know…think of all the good times we shared, laugh at all the weird moments, drink in my memory, and then move on with your life I guess.”

“Sounds more like a celebration.”

“Exactly.”

*********

“…was a dear student, and her presence is going to be sorely missed. A natural leader, she always took initiative in…” his voice droned on. Shefali couldn’t bring herself to even look at the university representative as he spoke, his words sounding hollow and meaningless. You didn’t know her. Just stop talking. She closed her eyes in an attempt to stop more tears from falling out, but it was a useless attempt.

“I’d now like to invite some of her close friends to come up here and say a few words about her.” The words seemed too far away to register in her mind. Flashes of the two of them sitting at the canteen interspersed with the sight of her blood-stained body on the hospital bed. Her breathing grew heavier, and she felt a fresh round of tears starting to form.

“Shefali. Shefali!” Joe whispered loudly next to her, nudging her in an attempt to get her attention. Opening her eyes, she saw that everyone was staring right at her, expressions reflecting understanding, sorrow and unease. Turning to face Joe, she looked at him questioningly, not bothering to wipe the tears.

“It’s your turn,” he said, nodding towards the stage.

She heard him, but couldn’t find it in herself to process the words. Slowly, she turned towards the stage, finding the university rep looking at her in impatience. Clenching her hands in an effort to control her emotions, she got up from her chair and walked towards him, refusing to look at the faces of all the students sitting in the large hall. With every step, the desire to run away from that room grew stronger, but she managed to make her way to the stage and took her place at the podium.

Looking up, the first thing she noticed was white. White shirts, white kurtas, white t-shirts, an occasional white sari. Those who could not manage to find white attire were trying subtly to blend in with beige and cream-coloured clothing. Riya loved blue, the thought came unbidden to her mind. Pull yourself out of it, she told herself. This isn’t a party. And the next second, another thought crept in…Riya would have loved a party.

‘Just say a few words about her’ they had told her. Few words…how on earth am I supposed to describe her in a few words? ‘Anything nice that you would have wanted her to know.’

“I met Riya during the first week of college,” she said softly, but the mic carried her voice to every corner of the room. “At first, I thought she was really dull and boring.” There were a few hesitant chuckles in the crowd, overshadowed by the silence. What am I doing here?! She screamed internally. Who are these people?! Most of them didn’t even know her. Why are they here?!

Just get through with it, and then you can leave. Shefali ploughed on. “As it turned out, she was neither of the two. She was caring, and helpful. She was always there for anyone who needed her. She was…” her voice faded out, as a memory that had been lingering in the edges of her mind became more prominent. For a few seconds, she stared at the crowd, seeing only the face of her best friend sitting on the canteen steps, reading a note on a paper and scrunching her face in mock-annoyance. The crowd shifted in their seats, unsure whether to interrupt or wait patiently.

“You know what? It doesn’t matter what she was like, because she can’t hear me right now,” Shefali said, her voice clearer than it had been for the last few minutes. “There’s no point in me standing here and talking about what a nice person she was. Those of you who knew her, you already know it. And those of you who didn’t, well, you missed out. That’s all there is to it. She’s gone. She can’t hear me. And this is the last thing she would have wanted.”

With that, Shefali walked off the stage quickly and strode towards the exit. No one stopped her. No one even knew how to respond. But it didn’t matter to her. For the first time in days, she could feel a sense of purpose returning to her.

**********

To: students, faculty, friends

Subject: Death day Celebration

Dear everyone

This email is with regards to Riya Sharma, who was a student at our university and who died in a car accident last week. For those of you who didn’t know her, please feel free to ignore the remainder of this mail.

I’ve spent the last one week being shocked, depressed, lost, crying my eyes out, cursing fate, questioning why, being angry, and mainly just missing my best friend. In short, I’ve been mourning.

But standing on that stage at the condolence meeting, I realized that Riya and mourning don’t go together. Riya was happiness, joy, laughter. She loved life, and the last thing she would have wanted is for us to stop loving ours on her account. She once said to me, “I want to be remembered in such a way, that every time someone thinks about me, it brings a smile to their face.”

We need to bring those smiles back, because what we owe her is our laughter, not our tears. And so, I’d like to invite all of you to Riya’s death day celebration. It’ll be an evening filled with her memories, a space to share your best moments with her, and of course, an occasion to drink to her wackiness (because let’s face it, any party according to her was incomplete without alcohol).

Dress code: preferably informal (since Riya hated formal wear), and bright colours. Go wild.

This Saturday, James Hall, Room 307.

Let’s send Riya off in style.

Shefali

************

The walls were decked in balloons. As she put up the last bunch of them up, Shefali wondered if she was overdoing it. After all, Riya hated balloons. She’d spend hours with her ears covered just in case there was a chance one of them might burst. Well, too bad for her. If she didn’t want them here, she should have been here herself to say it, she thought. Feeling the beginnings of anger and gloom, she shook her head and put up the last bunch. Maybe I’ll add a balloon bursting game just to piss her off.

As she looked around the hall, and some of her friends trying to pull it into a proper shape, she couldn’t stop the smile from creeping up her face. One wall was filled with pictures of Riya with friends and family. At another part of the wall, were random memories that they had jotted down, with space for many more. The music they had stolen from her own playlist – a random collection of old Bollywood classics and ridiculous catchy new tracks. And of course, an entire corner of the hall was filled with more than enough drinks to satisfy even Riya. Looking upwards, Shefali sent a little message to Riya. Bitch, you better enjoy this. You’re getting more bhav today than ever. 

Respect Your Elders

“I’ve never really understood this whole “respect your elders” thing. Personally, I think we should respect everyone unless they give us a reason not to, regardless of their age.”

Respect your elders

It’s what we were always told

Respect your elders

No matter what they do

Respect your elders

Even if they are wrong

Respect your elders

Even when they hurt you

Respect your elders

Even when they disrespect you

Respect your elders

Why?

Because they are your elders

So?

Respect them

Huh?

They know more

They’ve experienced more

They are right

Even when they are wrong

But doesn’t respect have to be earned?

No, they are your elders

But shouldn’t respect be deserved?

Doesn’t matter, they are your elders

What about people younger than - ?

Stop it. Just respect your elders

What does age have to do with - ?

It does. Respect them

So by surviving, they’ve earned my respect?

Stop asking, start respecting

Respect your elders

It’s what we were always told

Respect your elders

No matter what they do

Respect your elders

Even if they are wrong

Respect your elders

Even when they hurt you

Respect your elders

Even when they disrespect you

Respect your elders

Because they are your elders.

The Cord

Hey there little bro

Happy birthday!

Although, I suppose

Big bro would be more apt

You were, after all,

Born a few seconds before

I remember how eager

You were to get out

To take that first

Breath of fresh air

And as you left

That cord

The one that held us together

Snapped

And blood

Oh my god

So much blood

It spilled everywhere

Yours

Mine

All intermingling

All wasting

All flowing out

And as the blood overwhelmed me

Blinded me

You began to look different

No longer the companion

I had known all this time

I remember screaming

Asking you to stop

But somewhere

I couldn’t stop myself

And in that moment

I knew things had changed

Several decades have passed, brother

And you’ve hurt me

More than I could have imagined

Though if truth be told

I’m sure I’ve done the same

No sooner than we had taken our new breaths

Than we were fighting over the same toys

Crying new battle cries

All the while

Rubbing the scar on our sides

The one that got ripped

When you pulled apart

Or was it I

Who pushed you out

The scar that still bleeds

From time to time

Sometimes

I look back to the days

Before we were born

When we were one

Playing

Laughing

Dreaming

For a future

That had looked a bit different

Because this future

The one that’s become our past

And our present

This wasn’t what we had dreamed of

It’s been far too long

Living in this hatred

And I’ll admit

I never understood

That ripping us apart

Was actually

Your first breath on your own

A breath I resented

I was angry at you for leaving

Since you tore me in half

Angry at myself

For not being able to stop you

But it’s been 68 years, little bro

68 years

You realize how long it’s been

Since we played together

Laughed together

Dreamt together

Of a future

That’s different from our past

And our present

But I get it

Too much has changed

The hurt is too deep

I don’t ask for love

I don’t ask for the old days

But perhaps

An end of the hatred

An end of the hurt

And a moment

Where both of us

Can wish ourselves

A happy birthday

And actually mean it.

We, the Racists

You told me stories

Of Dark forces and Dark Lords

And all the while I thought

But…

You told them to avoid the sun

For fear of becoming dark

And all the while I thought

But…

You sang songs

Praising the fair skin of women

And all the while I thought

But…

You came to me for marriage

And looking at my skin, turned away

And all the while I thought

But…

You said fair is beautiful

You said fair is lovely

And all the while I thought

But…

You told me they were racists

Enslaving those of darker skins

And all the while I thought

But…

We, the Racists

I’ve been trying to think of a more creative and subtle title for this post, but, really, nothing seemed to sum up my opinion as well as this phrase. In case it’s still not clear enough though, I’m just going to come out and say it directly:

I think Indians are the most racist group of people I know.

The last time I mentioned this in a class discussion, I was met by some horrified, angry remarks. I get that they’re not easy to digest, but before you lash out in retaliation, take a few minutes to process the words.

No, I’m not saying Indians are the only racist people in the world. I grew up on stories from the west of the dark evil queens and the fair innocent princesses. Even some of my favourite sagas have built their entire plots on the basis of the dark side of the force and the dark lord (though, to be fair, Harry Potter does also have an extremely evil character that prefers pink and frills).

But Indians take this obsession with fairness to such a great level that it’s ridiculous.

From the moment we’re born, we’re judged on the basis of our skin colour (amongst various other things). We’re told again and again to ensure that we either don’t become darker, or else do everything within our power (and often beyond) to lighten the skin. We spend half our lives watching celebrities sell us fairness creams, and the other half applying said creams.

Why? Because fair is lovely.

And this doesn’t end in childhood. In their long list of “wanted qualities” in marriage advertisements, the need for a “fair girl” will surely be in the top three requirements – possibly competing with a particular caste and an intact hymen. People who come to the wedding will often congratulate the groom’s family for getting “a beautiful and fair bride.”

Why? Because fair is lovely.

One argument that these advertisers and fairness cream manufacturers make is that they’re not creating the racist attitude – it already exists. They’re just responding to the need of the masses and helping out the people who need such products.

It’s not like they have the power to affect or shape minds.

It’s not like people will care when their favourite celebrities endorse fairness as a better way of life.

It’s not like anyone will ever make the subtle connection from “fair and lovely” to “dark and…?”

On the brighter side, it's not just "fair and lovely" anymore. Thanks to our extremely sensitive and considerate media and manufacturers, we now also have a ""fair and handsome"! After all, "mard ho toh mardon wali cream lagao!" [a whole other issue that I'll stay out of for now].

Granted, we don’t exactly put people into slavery for having darker skin, but that doesn't mean we're not guilty of racism. Were just less overt about it. In India, the racist sentiments have been so subtly (and often not-so-subtly) embedded in our minds since birth that we don’t even feel the need to question them. It becomes a way of life, such that we can comfortably watch advertisements on how using a fairness cream will ensure that everything falls into place in our lives, while we condemn and criticize “those racist American bastards” for their oppression of the blacks.

Hypocrisy, anyone?

It’s amazing how far we can go to convince ourselves that “we” are such a great nation who are above  all that.

We, the people.

We, the Indians.

We, the racists.

Would You Care?

If the world was ending today

Would you care

If the person standing next to you

Was dark or fair

Or fat or thin

Or tall or short

Or had a curved or a straight nose

Was a he or a she

Or somewhere in between.

If you found out

That these were the last few moments left

Would you care

If the hand holding yours

Was born within different borders

Danced in a different manner

Spoke a different tongue

Prayed a different way

Or didn’t pray at all.

If your fearful eyes found solace

In another offering warmth

Would you care if those eyes

Had seen different things

Cried on different occasions

Smiled at different worlds

Had had different hopes

Or if those eyes

Couldn’t see at all.

If these moments were the last

Would you carry banners

Denouncing those of a different race

Or region

Or country

Or religion

Or skin

Or sexuality

Or customs

Or clothes

Or weight

Or height

Or hair

Or nose

Or eyes

Or the shape of that speck of dirt on their cheek?

Or would you

Grab the first hand

Hold on to it tightly

Comfort and be comforted

And savour your last breath?

*

*

*

*

*

Would you care?

On Shit

Yes yes, you read the title correctly, and it isn’t a typo either. It does, in fact, say ‘on shit’ and not ‘oh shit’, because this post is neither a result of momentary fear nor an ode. It’s more of…a pondering, you might say, on the lovely topic of shit. So for those queasy readers, I’d suggest stopping here.

How did I come about this topic? Well, it really comes down to a conversation with a cousin of mine last night, an extremely understanding one who called me to check up on his poor sister who had been having four days of constant and extreme diarrhoea. When he got time between his maniacal laughter, he asked me why I had stopped blogging, and I told him that I didn’t have anything to blog about. His response: “blog about shit”. And being the oh-so-ever obedient person that I am, I decided to follow his suggestion after he assured me that he for one would definitely want to read this post. And so we reach here.

Let’s begin with the philosophy of shit. No, I don’t mean a ponderous curiosity on “what is shit?” If you do want to begin there, Wikipedia has an extremely detailed and explicit article answering that question, along with several others. Neither do I wish to adopt a Descartes-like stance and blurt statements like “I shit, therefore I am.” Though it might actually be true, but four days of doing only that might definitely make you question the reason of your existence rather than validate it.

But really, the question I am more interested is – why does the subject of shit make us so squeamish? Dogs shit all over the place without a care for who is looking. Fine, so for humans it’s a private act, but why is it such a taboo subject? We all do it [revert to the Descartes-inspired-phrase above]. How come we can talk about bloody gory murders and whatnot but not about shit? How come every time one of my little kids would run up to me asking permission to go to the toilet for this, I would cringe thinking “too much information.” On a side note, I have often wondered what is the socially respectable way of saying shit? Take a dump? Crap? Do number 2 [I really want to know who came up with this one]? Excrete faeces?

See, the reason I find this topic quite fascinating is that for all the squeamishness surrounding it, I have bonded with a lot of friends over this subject. Whether it’s empathizing with each other over “loosies” or discussing with utmost reverence the importance of shit in our lives, and with even more reverence debating the “toilet paper versus mugga” issue – it’s all been done. And what I recall from all those conversations is not flinching and awkwardness, but rather, a sense of comfort that automatically dumps itself on you when you know you can have such conversations. It’s like crossing a barrier – a rather shitty one.

As much as I would love to go on about the subject, I am afraid diarrhoea calls, and I must go validate my existence, again.

May the force be with you [not applicable to those having loose motions].

The Green Sofa

It first caught our attention several years ago, seeming a little out of place in its environment. It sat there, royally, ignorant to all the hustle-bustle around it. The green was not bright enough to be flashy, yet its dullness was somewhat dimmed by the largely duller surroundings. Its seat looked really soft; the kind that tempted you to want to jump down heavily on it. Of course, we didn’t know at the time that the sofa was a mascot for the ‘appearances can be deceiving’ slogan. It was one of those things you had to find out for yourself, apparently, as you massaged your rather disappointed behind.

Okay, I don’t know why I’m talking like this. I mean, let me say it straight up – I hate this green sofa. It’s a sofa situated in the departure terminal of Kuwait’s airport, and is the sofa that my family tends to sit on and have a last chat before the final farewell. What started as a pleasant surprise soon turned into a tradition, and I found myself, with every departure, grudgingly making my way to this sofa. Why grudgingly? That’s a little hard to explain. I think it has something with not liking those final conversations; there’s an air of the looming departure hanging over your head, so ever little bit of talk seems really forced. It’s as though you are suddenly sitting there to have a few more minutes with each other, but the price of those few minutes is awkward conversation. I’m not a big fan of long drawn-out goodbyes, so I found myself hating that particular sofa with a vengeance.

That green sofa is long gone from the airport, and here I am, sitting by myself at my departure gate in Kuwait for the last time, writing what sounds to me almost an ode to that bloody sofa. Who would have thunk?

It’s weird. Kuwait’s not my home. It stopped being my home 9 years ago. The country is alien to me. Every time I visited, I was much happier inside the house than outside. If anything, that house where my parents live, where I used to live, is my home. And I’ve just spent the last few days packing up every little piece of that house as my parents prepared to leave. Yesterday, we were staring at a house filled with cartons packed to the brim. Today, it was nothing but empty walls (and the stuff that wouldn’t fit in the container). That’s 13 years’ worth of our lives stuffed into a container, or dispersed around. 13 years. That’s more than half my life. See, now that is what I should be writing an ode to. The house. My home. That sense of belonging.

But no. Instead, all I can write about right now is a bloody green sofa. No, I don’t miss it. I don’t even like it. But I can’t stop thinking about it. Maybe because the last 9 years, every time I have come to Kuwait, it was with a sense that I would soon be leaving it. And every time I sat on that sofa, it was with a sense that I would soon be back. But this time, there’s no going back. That’s a weird thought. It’s not happy or sad. It’s just different. Weird.

I tell you, these departure lounges have a weird effect on me. They make me introspective in a way similar to sunsets and all that. Of course, by the time I post this, I would be too far away from this gate to actually care, so I thought it would be best that I wrote this while the sofa was still hovering around my mind.

Adios Kuwait.