Ilay on the hospital bed like a decaying vegetable. The doctors plug in oxygen supply and medical apparatus to give me a look-alive look. Parts of my body the distribution is poor to, is telling the cold truth of my body heat already having moved out.

The watchful doctors’ eyes on the monitor reassure them the device is telling the lie it was invented for. Meanwhile, the medical bills are being generated and created for the fat priced elixir of immortal health delivered to me. The nursing station team already gazes down at me as a body, while the visitors’ optimistic but poor calculation highly rates me as a person who’d get to walk out of the ICU.

Just how soon would I be unplugged from the life leasing wires depends upon how soon another one is ready to fill in my bed. It’s something like shift scheduling, they won’t let go of you unless a reliever has arrived- that’s ‘Medical Management’.

The uncharted time of my death is such an unsettling feeling for those who throng the hospital to be in that moment when I clock out. The hypocritical binaries muscle their way up over one another. From the sadness staged outside to the inside math on how soonest to how longest would it take to wrap up this dying thing.

The slow-paced time begins to unnerve the patience of the spectators who move into close herds of friends and relatives with varied choices to keep themselves amused. The ones to be seen as the most affected root themselves beside my bed examining me like a new species I was soon to be. Some spread their long legs and bored but hard to look sad faces in the waiting room, yawning out in between discerning analysis on how wonderful I “was”. Some spirited ones hold forte in the dining area, feeding their appetite that only grew voracious out of grief.

Murmurs of time overspent on a delayed ritual begin to show out in somber conversations around the awaited climax. Advice and analysis on how I could’ve been serviced a better treatment and my family’s expressions lacking the appropriate sadness quotient huddles up behind closed doors. All rooms brim with restrained energy of the concern-specific aggrieved. Those planning the cremation, lunch, messaging, and arrangements for the funeral bunch as the ‘Futuristic’. The gossip “Focus Group” dissecting the unheard saucy stories take on another space. And those with a day already planned ahead restlessly pace around in search of secret babbling on the finale.

The awaited moment arrives- the patience is rewarded, the doctors call it time to transit ‘me’ to a ‘body’. A body that ought to be turned over to the holy flames ASAP. Quick action is called in along the steps mentally rehearsed during the forbearing wait. Everyone has moved on-had moved on- even before I moved out of my body. Tears don’t come to anyone easily, so there’s a chaotic mix of feigned histrionics and those taking to posing a shocked-silence.

In less than three hours all are back from a hard day of work- now planning obituaries, and the time-saving maneuvers for the Chautha. The guest list has to be awe-inspiring, drawing in even those who make time for my ‘not being there’ but never for my being there; catering and valet parking; speeches and scripted condolences; cremes or pastels, organza or chic chicken kurtas, aviators or sun-shades, matte lip colors, and natural day make-up look, driving down in Bentley, Beamer or a Benz…….

My picture at the center-stage ringed around with flowers gives me the celebrated feel on my day. People come and people go- who’s who roll call, check; fashion statement, check: photo story, check; out of the stale box eulogies, check; hungry appetites, check; ego heads’ elocution right, check; un-wailing vanity fair, check.

And, me- done and dusted, check!……..Happy Dying to Me!!