Friday the 13th

On this supposedly inauspicious day this piece is more of a product of the paranoia that comes with the entire ‘its-gone-to-the-dogs’ syndrome than anything else. Even this difficulty I am having in getting started is freaking me out to a great extent. But tonight was to be different with stuff like the Nile crocodile, childhood theories on contemporary political structures and some peasant satire on the agenda. But in a household obsessed with death moods tend to fluctuate without a moment’s notice and normal small talk can take sudden turns toward morbidity. It all started when they told on TV that the eyes in Anne Boleyn’s decapitated head continued to shift around till some seconds after the beheading as if trying to come to terms with what had happened and how her ghost still haunts the Tower of London. And then the regular, everyday conversation on food and obesity and missed opportunities rapidly degenerated into conjecturing on what goes on in a man’s head in the space between when the realization of the end strikes him and the actual moment of demise, in his final moments when he actually feels his soul being torn away from his body, when he is locked in that ultimate struggle that he is bound to lose. Trying to conjecture at the goings on in the mind of a man already on the ferry across the River Styx is extremely frustrating for the living because there is nothing concrete to surmise about. But such frustration could only be a fraction of the frustration felt by the dying man for in his head are thoughts the likes of which he is never likely to have thought before, thoughts that he is dying to express but cannot for all modes of expression fail him, thoughts that are destined to be buried with him for all eternity. Imagine a man being shot like an animal in full view of his children and then dying in a few minutes with his gaze transfixed upon them, trying to speak but remaining unable to do so. What could have gone on in such a man’s head in those few minutes, I do not even dare think about for to my own surprise I still value my sanity. They say time is the greatest healer but there are things that transcend all limitations of time and burn in one’s memory like the sacred flame of Zartusht. Lucky are those whose moment of truth is nothing but a split second because even though all their hopes and dreams are dashed they do not have to face the harsh reality of death full frontal. For death is the scariest thing about life. But what could be scarier still is when life chooses to play tricks on you in the guise of death. There was a statistic in some newspaper a few days back stating that 30% of all people are buried alive. Even though this in all probability is a gross exaggeration, even the thought is enough to lose sleep over. Maybe there is some sense to cremation after all or maybe we should have working telephones buried with us in case they fail to differentiate between death and a coma, or better still, loaded revolvers. But unlike the constitution of this country, the laws of God contain no clauses for necessity. Suicide is a free pass to an eternity of pain. The poor bastard who finds himself alive six feet under with a loaded gun sure has one hell of a decision to make.