Obituary

Dear Mom, Dad, Aparna, Sirisha, Bhargav et all (In all the probability almost everyone I know);

You remember the big brown dangling pair of ear rings I used to wear? Appa, the one you used to hate and refuse to come out me if I wore them? Amma, the one you would beg me to take off and wear a more appropriate one just to maintain domestic peace? Bhargav, the one you used to call tribal wear? The one Pavan used to describe as made from ball bearings and other metal scrap stolen from a garage? And the one that Aparna used to smile off – calling them as my “those” earrings.

For that matter they were always my “those” earrings, or at least that is how everybody who has seen me in them has called them. Few (Reality Check: more like a multitude of people) have been repulsed by the sight of those long ear rings, preferring instead that I wear something more traditional and refined (!). Most have begged me to take off the hideous thing. And there have been a couple of people who have absolutely loved them. There have also been very few like good ol’ Sirisha who never really voiced out anything (knowing her, I am sure she hated them); instead just asking me to do what I wanted to do – wear ‘em and not listen to all that jazz, err noise.

I guess I am just stalling. Those big beautiful brown earrings have died on me, in a freak accident. And so the earrings that loyally served me for about five years are no more.

Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.
Amen.

P.S.: And before you heave a sigh of relief and start gloating, I have already found the perfect replacement.

When I was a kid, I always fantasized of how things would work out. I visualized my future as a very ethereal, poetic dream. I would just flit in and out of things and Life did have an airy feel to it. Cut to reality. Everyday life is just a struggle against sheer boredom.

She may be the face I can't forget
A trace of pleasure or regret
May be my treasure or the price I have to pay
She may be the song the summer sings
May be the chill the autumn brings
May be a hundred different things
Within the measure of the day

She may be the beauty or the beast
May be the famine or the feast
May turn each day into a heaven or a hell
She may be the mirror of my dream
A smile reflected in a stream
She may not be what she may seem
Inside her shell

She who always seems so happy in a crowd
Whose eyes can be so private and so proud
No one's allowed to see them when they cry
She may be the love that cannot hope to last
May come to me from shadows of the past
That I remember till the day I die

She may be the reason I survive
The way and wherefore I'm alive
The one I'll care for through the rough and ready years
Me, I'll take her laughter and her tears
And make them all my souvenirs
For where she goes I've got to be

The meaning of my life is
She