aspire-ations

one day,
i'd like to go deep-sea diving in my grandma's pet fishbowl.
or be a whistleblower of whistleblowers.
maybe write a novel about my navel,
or how noses look crooked, reflected in my bifocals.

just small dreams, nothing fancy.

i'd love to travel with the millions i make in a parallel universe.
perhaps hike up my coworker's pants,
or take a gentle cruise down my perpetually stoned friend's stream of consciousness.

and love,
i'd like to hook up with john hamm's body double,
but because i value my roots, eventually settle down with a professional mamootty memorabilia salesman.

and when my day is done,
i want to be buried next to gandhi & then be cremated.
i want an obituary written in 140 characters by kamaal khan.
i want no one to weep for me, for i would have had a full life
so rejoice,
And I will soon return as a beloved character from your favourite sitcom. 

it's even funnier when you're sober

Doomsday

"Wow, kya obituary-type picture hai."
That's the highest compliment my sister can pay as we both squint into the camera's display. What she means to say is that, for once, both of us look good at the same time. What I hear is this:
"...and that's the last thing she heard before her plane went down over the Atlantic. Tragic. This is Ryan Seacrest. Up next on E!News - Kim Kardashian's ass..."

And so the omens line up.
Waiting to board my connecting flight, a conversation is overheard between a mother and her young boy.
"What happens if there's a storm, Mom?"
"Then the plane doesn't take off baby."
"And if there's a storm after the plane's taken off?"
"Well, that's not so good then baby. But the pilots take care of it."
"Hmmm...good thing it's a clear day Mom."
"Yeah baby, good thing."

From here on out everything is a sign that I'm a fool for not heeding.
Everywhere I look people are reading the same headlines: "CRISIS!!!" "Armadebton!!!" It's clear I'm not the only one bracing for impact.

I'm seated next to a tobacco chewing Texan, who (because I have the aisle seat) has a tiny bladder. An hour into the flight, he taps my leg. I get up to let him pass. The next hour, he taps my leg again. And again in the third hour. By the fourth hour, I don't even need to open my eyes as I feel his finger approach my leg. I begin to get up for him.

"Don't get up...look out the window..."
It's a most spectacular electrical storm - beautiful but for the fact that the plane lurches every time lightening strikes. The Texan isn't alarmed, he just needs to go pee again. I shut my eyes tight and remind myself that I can't die now. Not after such a fabulous vacation, not before I give everyone their presents (especially that Apple Airport Extreme I got my dad - it's fucking heavy and I haven't carried it all this way only to have it vapourized in a freak accident), not before I get to live out at least 3 of the 97 resolutions I made on my holiday, to make real change in my life even though I'm getting older & have watched several of my hopes die and no longer have the same zest I did at 21 to dream those audatious dreams...

I don't remember much after that except a lame joke cracked over the announcement system about it being mildly windy. I sigh with relief and start scripting Ryan Seacrest's piece on my 'gripping escape from the jaws of death'.
And then there's a sound that chills me to the bone. It's a sound no one wants to hear on a long haul flight that's full to capacity. I've gravely misjudged the manner in which my doom would befall me but it's too late now. I shield myself from the impact but fail miserably as the son of a bitch in 30H turns his head towards me and with all of the life-force contained within him, sneezes.