Hi,
Back from the dead literally - it is been such a long time since I posted. But I'll be doing it regularly from now. Here's something to lighten up...

How will I look when I die?

Who will cry when you die, Robin Sharma popped this question at me from one of his paperbacks. But first of all, I am wondering, how will I look when I die. My mom died with a smile. Honestly, I don’t know how she did it. My dad wore a reserved look – like always. What will I wear? I would prefer to look intellectual, wise, successful, famous – in short, all the things I am not. So what if I get caught? I won’t be there anyway. I am looking forward to see some of the most ghastly people I have come across at my funeral, the people who stopped me from being intellectual, wise, successful and famous. They will be intrigued! And I would have avenged them all at last.

One person I would like to see in particular is the idiot who said the more rejection slips you accumulate, the greater you will become as a writer. I have enough rejections to my credit (or rather, debit) to be deservedly known as Mr R (Rejected) among the editors. Many newspaper offices started ordering for paper shredder machines as my thoughtfully written and well read (by me) articles were pushing up their inventory costs.

Like Abdul Kalam, I always think big. I wanted to make a few crores in a few weeks. I knocked on all political parties seeking ANY ticket promising to make a big scam in the very first day of my taking office. I promised to defect, deny, run away to a resort, lie, cheat, watch porn in assembly, rape my maid if need be, rob, kill, loot, and also break all my promises without thinking half a nanosecond about them. They were impressed, but they said, “Show me the money first” and my dream of making rich died in a nanosecond.

I then worked as an attendant in a petrol bunk, dreaming of making it big like Dhirubhai Ambani. One day when I was striking a billion dollar deal with Ambani in one of my dreams, I accidentally set fire to the bunk. I did not die, but my friend did. I cried – as my dream went up in smoke.

I then wrote a crime novel with a self-addressed envelope for readers who wanted my free advice. Two copies got sold out (one by my best friend, and second by my worst enemy) after it hit the leftover roadside stands and they mailed the envelopes to the publisher with their own advice. For some mysterious reason, the publisher started publishing comics.

I requested Aamir Khan to audition me for a lead role in any of his films, or his pal’s films, or if he was in the mood for revenge, recommend me for his enemy’s films.  He politely set his six dogs after me.

I approached Rajnikanth and said I would like to give him a chance to donate a few crores to an ordinary man in need, since I had heard he was generous. Rumors! Never believe in them.

I then tried my hand as a motivational speaker like Dale Carnegie. After my stirring speech, no one turned up later. I thought they had had enough of motivation to hear more. My partner thought otherwise and his company folded up. I think all his clients must have had more than their fill of motivation.

I published a magazine which was eagerly awaited by my neighborhood paper dealer. I posted a fine article in my Facebook account and waited for millions to follow me from all over the world, but Mark Zuckerberg called me and demanded that I remove the post immediately for it was the only post that did not have a single follower for the past several years, even when people were paid to see the post. He said he would even pay me $100 dollars to remove it as it was hurting Facebook.

After sincerely having tried to do everything humanly possible, I then got the idea to simply look the rich-and-successful part. I can’t do it when I am alive, for that would be faking it. The only way to get away with doing it is when I am dead. I think only my doctor can suggest a way out. Is there a facial for the dead?