Dying Wish

Having executed what might seem to many as my death wish, meaning smoking, albeit frustrating such many nincompoops for many decades, it is time to record my dying wish. Once I kick the bucket, no blame should be placed on me, but the shroud. It is silly to meet your maker, naked. Time of death is but then the biggest mystery. Hence it is better to make a bucket list a priory.

Those who have seen war movies or westerns obviously have noticed that the man who is about to be done for is given a swig or a drag or both by the very compassionate “pardner”. Let that be remembered in my case. The soothing that it gives is immense and is not to be denied to me. I would like to go high and in a swirl of vanishing smoke. If there are any movies that I enjoyed other than those of Sophia Loren or Gina Lollobrigida are the genres mentioned. I don’t obviously know who those compassionate ones would be next to me at the appointed hour, but I hope it will be one of the loyal readers of my blogs.

First things first. Never put me on a ventilator, as is the fashion these days. I had lived in British built houses which always had ventilators and I had admired those ventilators for their simplicity and functionality. The Indian designers lowered the roof and removed the ventilators. May be so that you go the way of all flesh a little faster. Be that as it may, the ventilators in the hospitals are a far cry from those I am used to. These contraptions make you look like an astronaut (not a bad thing in itself) with all the tubes and masks but it looks very uncomfortable and painful. It is worse than a straitjacket. The problem is once on this ventilator, no one will know when you have actually breathed your last! Not even, Yama.

Other than Pancreas, no other gland or organ of mine has been declared degenerated. Yet, that is. Thank you. And that too, I think was thrust upon me on flimsy grounds, when I was running around happily, one score and ten years ago. That the saga began since then is another story. And all sorts of gory details and fearsome consequences were forced down my ears indicating the failure of almost every organ, if I didn’t give up each and every food that I liked for their taste. I am glad to report that till date all those have proved to be false alarms. I cared two hoots for all their morbid warnings anyway and continued on my unique way.

A small correction here. Though not degenerated, my heart, which held so much romanticism in it, was forcibly cut open on the excuse of insufficient blood flow to it, in it or from it, whatever you will. This is notwithstanding the declaration by a cardiologist a decade ago, “you are healthy, your heart is healthy”, to quote him in part. I have been told the shelf life of such a cut open heart sutured back with millimetres of vein taken from a foot long one from the leg would be about a decade. So far so good. So maybe after all this romantic heart of mine may be of no use a little later. Give or take a couple of years. I am glad to report that the romance in it is intact, still.

But I don’t know when I croak which all organs would be still functional and therefore be useful to others. (The one who won’t get my heart is sure going to be a loser). There ought to be some to whom my organs could be given (I don’t like the word ‘donate’ as it sounds too pompous), I am sure. Unless pure ageing has withered any of them rendering them unfit for further use. But then it is always worth a check. And if there is any organ that can be put to use on another needy body, then why not? So instead of cremating me and polluting the already miserably polluted air of our country, better give me whole and sole to a decent, worthy hospital for any possible organ harvesting. And if that is a no go, then give it to a medical college where they can use me for their anatomical studies. What do you say? You know, they can cut open and point out the various organs to those students who still haven’t run out of the lab to throw up?

Eyesight correctable with spectacles should not be a problem, right? The beauty is my eyes have corrected themselves of myopia after a full 50 years! Don’t confuse it with cancellation due to hyperopia. No, no. It is full and full corrected to zero power. Hyperopia does exist. But what is a little hyperopia? I am sure my eyes which beheld many a beautiful thing from far and near could be useful to someone interested in beauty. However I can’t say the same thing about my ears, since my grand daughter has declared that I am hard of hearing. But then that is minor from all accounts. Some hearing ability is food for those who have none, is it not? Point to note is that listening is more important than hearing. So!

Let me insert an aside here. On the topic of the disappeared myopia, after the ophthalmologist and the optometrist in the reverse order confirmed absolute clear far vision, I ran to our CSD the very next day and got myself a Ray-Ban Aviator Outdoorsman. To possess that, was a long standing dream of mine, which I couldn’t since I always wore spectacles. And whenever I tried shades, any make, my LOH (Lady of the House) simply said wincing, “cheeee”. And the shades Ray-Ban and others went back to the shelf. I had to remain an Army Officer without a Ray-Ban. Shucks. But this one time I felt victorious. Another reason for the hurry was that I was not sure how long this incredible heavenly feeling would last, for any time my myopic vision would return, I feared. I hope this unwanted insertion has not unduly disrupted your reading flow, but I had to do it, excuse me.

Some who know me have doubts about my brain, though. I mean about its health and functionality and hence its usefulness, even to me leave alone others. I understand the world has begun or at least is trying out brain transplant. As far as I am concerned, I have tried and am still trying to keep it from sinking. I play Bridge, Chess, read and write (the last exposing me to my antagonists, perhaps), get into discussions and arguments with grand children talking nonsense to them in an effort to get them to talk the right values, in which trap they duly fall. I understand such activities keep the brain ticking and avoid the fashionable Alzheimer’s and Dementia. I personally would not recommend my brain being transplanted into a student, though. That poor little chap might curse the concerned doctor and me. Give it to someone who is past his student days, is what I say. He can plod along.

You see my cells including those of the skin (not yet too wrinkled and hence worthy of harvesting still. Think of a man with burn injuries) have many memories stored in them. Which memories came down from generations before me. I have also added to those. All my organs carry these pleasant memories. Apart from that they have stood me in good stead all through my ill-treatment of them. So they have the power to withstand punishments to serve the body still. Such memories and abilities should not be cruelly burnt at the ghats.

Why am I telling you all this? Of course the Panikkar - the astrologer - has told me that I would be horsing around with vigour for another five years and ten, but you don’t live on what the Panikkar says, no? Especially when you don’t live by what the doctors say?

I think you get my drift. Cheers!

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