Humor| Anxiety
An Email to My Future Grave Digger
Bury me in broad daylight and all that stuff
Dear future grave digger,
Death is an intimidating subject for me. Though inevitable — given my parents are dead — I am succumbing to the idea of dying while I am alive.
And I am trying hard to envision what ‘Being Buried’ looks like.
The moment I imagine ‘being buried,’ a sense of dread grips my heart, like a Venus flytrap clutching its prey. I drop the idea. Why intentionally go through something so dreadful?
There’s a lot on my plate otherwise. Why buy extra? So, I evade.
But then Woody Allen comes to play. He and I might’ve been Siamese twins in the past life. Or maybe identical ones. He says — “I’m not afraid of death. I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”
How much I don’t want to be at my death party. I know this sounds ridiculous and escapist. But I do this even when I am having surgeries. Even for the most minor surgery — which may cost around 1 minute and 36 seconds with local anesthesia — I beg surgeons to throw me into a slumber with general. Because I don’t want to be there when PAIN erupts.
Don’t take me for a superficial soul.
It’s just that — I am not able to picture myself dying or having pain.
Picturing myself descending into a six-feet is hard.
Picturing my family wailing and hollering is harder.
But picturing my kids succumbing to a wily world is hardest.
So, please ensure that you tend to my concerns.
And don’t let people sprinkle a handful of mud over me. I am terrified to the grave to have a grain of sand in my eye. I am phobic actually.
Most importantly, bury me in broad daylight. Even if I am dead at night and ask them to keep me home. After all, it will be a matter of ‘one-night-sleep.’
What if the moment you turn your back, Munkar Nakir comes over for interrogation?
Gosh! No.
The only thought gives me deathly chills.
Again, mentioning Munkir Nakir reminds me to give you a list of dos and don’ts.
- Don’t leave the cemetery until dark. I am hysterical when owls hoot and leaves rustle simultaneously.
- If you see two guys coming along — with clenched jaws and raised brows — stop them. Say the burial was only for close family. You never know. They might be Munkar-Nakir for interrogation. My granny has scared me enough to entertain them in my post-life.
- Remember to bury at least a dozen books in my kabr. Boredom can kill me. Include a couple of non-fictions.
- Don’t forget to place the pictures of my kids in those books. I’ll have someone to feel sorry about.
- Ask my husband to refrain from scrolling Instagram while I am being buried. That’s my pet peeve. I might revive and lash him for being indifferent.
- Do not let ‘these’ people buried around me. The list of ‘these’ people is hidden in the chest of the left bottom drawer of the Security Locker with secret access to my kids.
- Keep some more space in the kabr. I have productive anxiety. I can’t lay supine without sunlight for long. If I might, I’ll sit upright and straighten my back.
- Grow pansies on my grave. However, having insects is another pet peeve. I’ll learn to co-exist with insects for pansies.
- Remind my kids and husband to visit me until I feel home. I might give signals. If plausible, I’ll be visiting them — in dreams. I can’t scare them to death, visiting in my ghostly avatar. I am done with that during the human avatar.
- Remind my husband not to remarry. That’s again my biggest pet peeve. However, I have instructed him not to. Yet you never know with Men.
Lastly, inscribe this on my tombstone. Resting in peace — well, this wasn’t on my bucket list.
Stay grave,
Seema with a scoff and a smirk.
P.S. For Christ’s sake, check for insects and Munkir Nakir around. Do not forget — I am hysterical when I see them.
