The 50th death.
[Text by Nipa Charagi, photo by a fellow tourist in Brussels]
Nipa Charagi died today in her office chair, after hearing that the company had given her 199.99% hike.
Ms Charagi had lived her life like a long, breathless paragraph, spent fixing shoddy sentences, page after blurry page, in the hope that her salary would one day be as verbose as these stuffed stories. She leaves behind a negative bank balance and her physiotherapist’s bills, for the treatment she was undergoing for CTS (carpal tunnel syndrome, for the ignorant lot), tennis elbow and spondylosis.
Ms Charagi also leaves behind her reading glasses, in case some lowly, poorly paid sub-editor with failing eyesight finds them handy. There are also a couple of pens, prized possession on any copy desk, nicked by people who obviously want very little from life. Oh, and she wants that her chair in the office be consigned to flames with her; after all, she spent 8 hours, five days a week, year after year, fattening her bum on it, and weakening her spine, muscles and other such things.
Also, Ms Charagi does not want any of her colleagues to send her family condolence messages on WhatsApp; she would like that they post their footnotes on her Facebook timeline, and that people share them several times, so that she can go viral.
She would also like that they not attend her funeral; it would just remind her of the pointlessness of commas and long dashes, and that’s not the dreary image she wants to carry as she turns to ashes and scatters in the already polluted air, and settles on somebody’s hair, clothes. Oh please, let it not be somebody’s nostrils. Amen.
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