I wandered listlessly up and down my
suburban, two floored home. Mum had been crying constantly since the last 5
days, and occasionally she would, and I believe on purpose, bring out
discussions on how I farted so loud last Diwali, that my fart could be heard
above all fireworks. And how I had the
most heinous singing voice. Especially whenever I tried singing like Yo Yo
Honey Singh. I was sick of people
discussing me, and especially sick of seeing mum, dad and Pingu, my little
brother, cry over and over again. Seriously people, I am right here.
And guess what, for once why cant you
discuss the good things, like when I was the school prefect, and college
journal editor? Is it so hard to say nice things about me?
I sprawled unceremoniously on my favorite couch,
and then equally unceremoniously fell on the floor with my butt hovering half
way through Shammi aunty’s ceiling, when the doorbell rang.
Right, I needed time to adjust to the fact
I was only ectoplasm now. I passed through solid matter. Which wasn’t fun,
because it made being a smooth and dignified ghost highly challenging.
Seriously, have you ever seen and awkward, clumsy ghost? Neither have I!
Also while I never feel hungry anymore, Id
sure like to taste some of that delicious gulab jamun Meenu aunty so
religiously sends.
Mum trudged up to the incessant pounding on
the door. Who could it be, this late in the night? I tried to use my super
speed (man was I glad for that?!) super speed to reach the door, when mum cried
out.
“Chintu, mera bacchaaa!” ummm Chintu? Mum I
am right here, who was she calling Chintu at the door. And I saw my mother fall
on to someone, obviously hugging. WTF, who the hell was she hugging?
As I slowly, walked towards the door along
with dad and Pingu. I decided not to pass through any of them. While it gave me
great pleasure to send tingling shivers up their spine, now was not the time.
Once I reached the door, I saw mum hugging
and crying at me. Me, I tell you. There standing on the door was me, in that
stupid red chudidaar my parents had buried me in. My eyes seemed unfocused and
red, skin pale and chapped like gooey paper and my hands hanging on my sides.
All I could grunt while hugging my mother was, “grrrr!”
Mom, finally left what was left of me, and
said, “Maine bahut sai baba se dua kee thi ki tu wapas aa jayee. Now you are
back beta. Bhagwan ne meri sun lee.”
Wow, I was right here and my family was
getting all excited about the stupid zombie me, who couldn’t even pull her
sleeve up when her dirty bra strap showed.
So, I watched my zombie, eat Meenu aunty’s
gulab jamuns, while only grunting, “Grrr” and mum calling all our relatives
that, “Chintu, maut se wapas aa gayee. Bhagwan ne meri sun lee.” Everyone
wanted to talk to the zombie me, and all she had to say was “grrr”.
And mum constantly instructed my petrified
father, to plan a trip to Shirdi sai baba first thing tomorrow.
Such melodrama I tell you, all for a sick
looking zombie who has no bloody fashion sense.
Days went by, and I realized that zombie me
had a limited vocabulary, for example “Grrr”, Grrr” and “Grrr”. Plus she was
awkward, falling on straight even paths and then complaining “Grrr”. But she
was my mum’s dream daughter, she didn’t talk back, wore all heinous chudidaars
my mother bought her. Obviously, my earlier wardrobe of short dresses and
leather jackets was packed and buried in the basement.
I hated the zombie me, because even though
all she said was “grrr”, people heard her. And all she wore were dirty
chudidaars, people saw them. And I was pretty sure soon, she would hunger for
human flesh, but atleast she could taste. Life after Chintu was all about living
vicariously through a Zombie.
