The Chosen One

The Sun shone… again! Banging those jaundiced rays of light upon my closed eyes. I groaned and twisted, my back craned, perhaps a joint popped, but that wasn’t new now, was it?

With my eyes still closed, I made kissy noises for my cats Cleopatra and Nefertiti, to come over and give me some of those hugs and kisses.

Just then I heard Cleo’s low purr sounding like train huffing somewhere in the distance; somewhere far enough to be close to the bedroom window. It was that damned owl again, I realized, come to deliver my tenth Hogwarts invitation.

“Go away!” my voice took on a high-pitched shrill. “I told you already, I’m not joining any of those floozy wizarding classes.”

My words sounded like whiny gurgles. I opened my eyes, my hands fumbling for my dentures. When I did find them, I could feel the fur of my cats stuck on the sides of the dentures. I rubbed it against the bed sheet, which was a mistake because it added a few more strands of the ginger hair. I grunted and popped it in, moving my jaw up and down, side by side adjusting it to fit into my small mouth. I gargled the fur out with water.

The Chosen One

I screamed at the owl again, “Like I said, I am not interested. Don’t you have some twelve year olds to recruit?”

The owl cooed and flew inside my bedroom, driving Cleo and Nefi into a frenzy of screaming and jumping.

My hands then fumbled for my spectacles and when I did find them, I felt Nefi’s regurgitated hairballs. I shrugged and wiped the vomit off the bed sheet.

When I put on my glasses, I saw that there was someone else in the room apart from that wretched owl.

“Mrs. Morpe”, said a tall man whose beard hung like untrimmed hair from a vagina. He bowed in pretend flourish, “Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts, at your service.”

I felt like I should bow for this excessively hairy man, but then my hips weren’t what they used to be, so I settled into a barely perceptible nod.

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Gratitude Hoes!

They say people who live with gratitude, live longer, happier lives.

Unfortunately, the people on my social media seem to take this mantra a little too seriously. Not that my circle of acquaintances is any different from your circle of friends. You know the kind, don’t you? Or you maybe the kind; the kind that makes me barf my lunch, breakfast and last night’s dinner all in one go.

I can almost categorize these Gratitude Hoes in four different buckets; The starry eyed lover, The disgruntled housewife, The pseudo intellectual and finally, The self-appointed Spiritual guru.

Are you the starry eyed lover?

Woman Embracing Man

Well, most of them are women, but, mind you, there are many men in there too. I am sure you know them, you have seen them, or you are one of them.

You can almost immediately spot them with their profile pic. They clamber on each other like Siamese twins, and they never, ever, never walk, without holding hands.

Every single birthday, anniversary, valentine, non-valentine, the gift of a fucking KFC bucket has to go online on FaceBook, Instagram and Snapchat with a tagline that says, “Blessed to have this wonderful man in my life.”

Darling, you are not fooling anyone. Give it a few years and ask that college mate of yours who saw your husband canoodling a woman ten years younger, wearing a dress with a plunging neckline, while you now turn into the next in my category, the disgruntled housewife.

Are you the disgruntled housewife?

Those images every morning you post, where you plop your three-year-old twins on the breakfast table with orange juice and fruity oatmeal. A bow strategically placed on the girls’ cute pony tales and a forced smile lining their lips.

The title of the image says, “My rays of sunshine” and then a 300 word write up about how lucky you are to have these two angels in your life. How God has blessed you with divinity in the form these girls. Yet, when the glass of juice crashes the floor in the midst of you writing this beautiful eulogy to parenting, you slap the wrong twin senseless for breaking the glass.

I mean seriously, ask that mother in kindergarten who saw you drag the wrong twin, again; by her hair across the road. Your perfect life on social media doesn’t fool a fool, love.

Two Toddlers Sitting on Grass Field

Perhaps one of the most annoying gratitude hoes ever, the pseudo intellectual:

They post on a good day, especially when it rains outside, the kind of rain that sends tingles down your spine; the kind of rain that brings a sigh of relief after an unforgiving bout of heat.

The kind of rain that makes them want to open all doors and windows, take boomerangs of their plants dancing in the rain and post them as their Instagram story.

The kind of rain that is perfect to sit by their porch, drink a hot cup of coffee and read one of those ridiculously talked about books, with names like ‘The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck.’

Of course now, they wouldn’t just read the book, would they? They would shoot one of those artistically framed photographs, perhaps of the book lying next to their colorful pot of succulents and their spectacles casually placed.

Golden cup and basket with books

But then they wouldn’t just post the photograph on Facebook now, would they? They would write five hundred words about how that book makes them feel, how ‘The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck’ has freed them from those iron shackles in their lives, has elevated them to the next one in my list, The self appointed Spiritual Guru.

As they type their long drawn, beautifully worded, heavily philosophical message; they don’t forget to give out the impression that their life is too intellectual for basic bitch stuff like ‘checkins’ into hotels or airports, group selfies and dog pics.

The rain still pours outside their door, one that is wide open, to let a cool draft in. They smile in contentment. They are only five pages down the book in the past two hours, yet that doesn’t matter. They check on Facebook every five minutes and shower hearts generously to those who have decided to drop equally verbose, brimming with gratuitous comments on their post.

Yeah, well I wonder how they find time to read, with these six, five hundred word posts on Facebook within a span of ten hours.

The last, but perhaps the one that gets most on my nerves is the self appointed spiritual guru? You are one of them, aren’t you? You know I am talking about you, don’t you?

Oh, I know you have managed to somehow add me into this Whatsapp group that is filled to the brim with your followers. You make it a point that you start every new day with a long tirade about ‘Mindful conversations’, ‘Being one with the universe’ and ‘Self reflection’. It is then followed by twenty acolytes agreeing with you and adding their two cents about showing up, about sisterhood of gratitude hoes and about being humble. And by the twentieth message of universal thankfulness, I have managed to regurgitate last month’s biryani.

You have the formula down to a ‘T’, don’t you? You are the worst form of con artist that an unsuspecting fan would ever have the misfortune of encountering. You have the ego the size of Donald Trump’s ass and you hide it under the guise of your acolyte’s trust issues.

When someone dares to question your wisdom, you subtly lay the blame on them by questioning their own values and beliefs. You are the Queen Bee among your acolytes and you ensure that those who challenge your unreasonable tirades are no more tagged in your daily posts, under the tab of ‘Thanks to these wonderful people in my life, who make it all worthwhile.’

Silhouette of Person Raising Its Hand

Now dear readers, you may ask me, why would I even be a part of such groups, or follow these people on my social media, if it bothers me so. Well, I mean, I have nothing against gratitude, really. What I have against is the bullshit being spewed in the name of gratitude. And I do start my day going through these posts and thinking these thoughts, it is like coffee to my sleepy brain.

(P.S: Except for the last category, every other category is generic and not based on someone I personally know.)

Detective Phansy and the case of too many women…

Detective Phansy knocked thrice on the gargoyle knocker and we waited for the massive oak doors to swing open. In five years with the murder squad, not many things intimidated me, I had seen it all, or I thought I had. But the three-mile drive inside the estate and finally parking my mini wagon among rows of Ferraris, Rolls Royce and Lamborghinis had ensured that I stand smaller than my five feet eight inch, in front of whoever opened that door.

“The Kains are wealthier than I imagined, Sir.” I spoke, tapping my feet.

“Of course they are, McLane. You Irish don’t know the meaning of true wealth now, do you?” Phansy said, roaming his disdainful gaze from my mop of waist long red hair down to my freckled face and a body that worked out, but did not say no to baguettes.

“Sir, we got wealthy people in Ireland, what are you talking about?” my voice took a high-pitched whine, the kind that appeared whenever I felt defensive.

“Not like the English do, McLane, not like the English.”

Just when my voice was about to reach a pitch higher than earlier, the door swung open and a stately woman of about fifty opened the door, and said, “Yes?”

Phansy jumped in to educate the woman of the house, “Oh Mrs. Kain, I am Detective Phansy, with a ‘Ph’. I know this would be terrible inconvenience but we have some questions regarding your husband’s unfortunate demise yesterday. I do hope you can give us ten minutes of your precious time.”

Detective Phansy

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Bad erotica…

Abhay paces the small one room kitchen apartment, it wasn’t a lot of pacing; four steps back and forth made up for his tiny dwelling. But then again what is a struggling writer, if not living in a space cramped with a chair, a bed, a foldable writing table, a solar powered lamp, a bowl full of cigarette butts and five day old pizza.

Abhay’s predicament wouldn’t be something new for you, but for him it was a dilemma that put him in precarious situation. You see, the next chapter in Abhay’s highly ambitious debut novel about four friends who had just passed out of IIM – B; was that one of those friends was finally getting lucky. And Abhay had to describe him getting lucky.

Now this shouldn’t be a problem to many writers, or maybe it would be. I would never know. But Abhay is still a virgin, which means, he has never gotten lucky. And the poor little peasant has no idea how to, either.

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Shall we eat Dick, instead?

“It is all about reiteration, recognizance and following up relentlessly to ensure that your work gets done. You feel me people, do you feel what I am saying here?” Dick looks around, his voice rising in decimals, his back straight and blood shot eyes wide enough to cover Rita’s generous boobs.

We all nod our unenthusiastic ‘hmms’ and scroll down the screen to the next point in the agenda.

“It is like my son, you know.” He continues. Rita, almost groans out loud but then saves her ass by pretending to cough. “Every single morning I lift my son’s sorry butt and plant it on that atrocious fluorescent green and yellow, plastic potty. I sit there with him for five, ten, even fifteen minutes, squatting just like he does and grunting loud and clear to make him poop in that potty. And when he does, only then does he get rewarded by his favorite fruit loops.”

A strong whiff of chicken steak, tiramisu and the smell of someone’s butt crack invades my nose and almost makes me throw up in my mouth. I realize that Dan, who is sitting next to me, has let out a silent, yet smelly fart.

I pick up a glass of water and cover my mouth and nose with it, while giving Dan the evil eye. He shrugs and whispers, “What?”

Ah, I think, the fucker ate before the meeting. This goddamned meeting was supposed to be only for half an hour, and already we are at the ninety-minute mark with sixty minutes of the single dad’s potty training anecdotes.

boring-meetings-made-better

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The Bride who was late

I was born late. I mean I stuck around mother’s womb a week or two, just to float listlessly in that rapidly constricting sack of amniotic fluid and critically analyze my life choices.

Which pretty much set my life’s precedent for the next thirty-five years. I don’t remember a single day at school when I wasn’t late. And I can’t forget my graduation day where my shame faced dad had to go up there on the stage and collect my certificate. I mean it wasn’t really my fault; I had to stop the traffic outside my college to let a family to turtles cross the road.

Or the fateful day I almost got married. I turned up after the guests had left and found my fiancé, Dan, busy doggy styling the wedding planner. Well, all I have to say is that when celebrating your Bachelorette the night before your wedding, never start a bar brawl with another woman who had come for her own Bachelorette. It is like a gang war between two families of hyenas; too much screaming, manic laughter and too little punches.

My only consolation was that I had messed up her nose as bad as she’d messed up my marriage.

But that’s not what this story is about. Definitely not about my life choices when I was alive. This is a story about what happened when I died, and died late at that.

You see I had just turned thirty-five when I walked in late to the altar of our summer wedding, and found out that all the prospects of a happy marriage had upped and left, but not before sampling the hors d’oeuvres.

The last ten years flashed before my eyes as I stood staring at the empty church. Every single bad date I had ever had, belched at me, and all those credit card receipts for premium membership of dating services, danced naked before my eyes.

The thought of having to go back to the Tinders and Ashley Madisons of the world; and having to sign up again, made me groan so hard that my heart stopped several beats. The next thing I remember was standing in room #13 of Chicago general hospital, and watching a hot doctor with an ass straight out of heaven, resuscitating me.

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