Knocking on Heaven's Door

After having spent a lifetime wading through the monstrosity of human struggle for nothing, Anwar stood at the gates of heaven. Finally, the final home was here. But where that man was, Rizwan, the gatekeeper, or was it Chitragupta? Anwar couldn’t care less. The gates shall open soon and there shall be his interminable supply of wine and virgins. Knock. Knock. Knock. 

Will he have a new name? Having a right name, and the surname most importantly, was good. Because having the wrong one was horrible, Anwar had known, little love & too much politics. He stretched his neck. The stiletto that was stabbed in his neck was still there. There was no pain, no blood, but just the bloody stiletto which had travelled to the gates of heaven with the naked man. He wondered if that too will be answerable for his death. Knock. Knock. Knock.

He still had memories. Not so fond ones. There was no spotless mind, alas, but why. There was peace but no chaos to look for it in the first place. No death. No birth. And hopefully, no rebirth either. No sunshine. No moonlit trails by the river. No morning azan. No chai. Knock. Knock. Knock.

Rizwan! Anwar shouted. Chitraguptaji!

Once upon a time while replying to another of the stupid fucking journalists, Bruce Lee had said – If I am pointing at the moon, do not look at my fucking finger. But why was Anwar thinking of that now? He looked at his fucking finger. There was no moon, of course. Shit. Knock. Knock. Knock.

May be Bruce Lee will be there. He looked around but there was nothing apart from that gate. But this was certainly not that nothing which that Baba was talking about while sucking up Anwar’s consciousness through his chillum over a boat in the middle of Ganges in Shiva’s own city. Shiva was smart. Stoner city for the devotees, and himself in the hills… Cool, very cool… Like daddy cool, made Anwar crazy like a fool. Knock. Knock. Knock. 

And suddenly he could see more gates. And more people. Where were they coming from and where did they want to go? Their halo of social validation was shining bright. There were no animals at the gates of heaven, all of them stayed back with Shiva in the hills. Nobody was looking for God at the gates of heaven. Privileged motherfuckers! Anwar suddenly started to look for God. 

Knock. Knock. Knock.

If you are knocking at my door, do not point your fucking fist at me. Bruce Lee shouted. Anwar had tried to do things right. Treat people right. Do good, as his mama had told him, and people will do well to you too. That was not true. She must be in hell. Could he go there instead?

Rizwan! Anwar shouted. Chitraguptaji!   

Where was Rizwan? Where was Chitragupta? Knock. Knock. Knock. Where was death? Here. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. What would he ask of them? Hopefully, rebirth.

--

Today's Horoscope

A lost man looked at his hands hoping for directions. There was none to be found. All the lines looked going haywire. Sometimes the lines on his hands appeared to be stronger than the hands were themselves. That was the ultimate despair that had left the fools wiser and the wise ones foolish.

Few lines hid themselves almost afraid to show up. And few showed up like the length of their stride would determine their right over the lost man’s destiny. It was almost an evil ploy by god to stop the lost man from going on to his own path of happiness. So the lost man looked for solutions from god’s agents, the astrologers and the old stone merchants. He read horoscopes everyday, of yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

The lost man wondered about all the dead people of the day who the horoscopes had missed, and prayed for himself to be a part of that crowd when the horoscopes turned bad. The lost man looked at his hands, believing in disbelief that all his life was coded there, and often spent hours reading between the lines, most of which crisscrossed violently on its way into the heaven.

God has a plan, the god’s agents told him, sold to him, and then told him again upon doubt due to delay in the services the lost man paid for. A proper plan, the lost man hoped, would be better than today’s horoscope at least. However, little doubt had seeped into his mind.

One day the government banned the horoscopes for spreading false beliefs and manipulating an entire race of mammals. There were protests all over the place. Middle aged men and women marched around the India Gate with candles, and their kids and the opposition debated over TV on the extent of the government’s moral policing.

In all this craziness, the lost man felt like a revolutionary all of a sudden.

Some people told him to take it easy, but he took to the streets flashing the rings around his eight fingers and two thumbs. He told stories of their success. He was all of a sudden, an ambassador of the people who were lost within their hands.

The government had to step down. The rules were changed. The power of the stones returned the faith of the mankind, and the lost man felt found for the first time. He then applied for a certificate of the knowledge of the telling of tomorrow.  

He now tells today’s horoscopes over YouTube, and also has been able to find this plan in his hands. It was clear from the beginning, he mentions often.

_

When I Met God ...

“Cut me some slack man, I am god.” said God, frustrated.

“Why should I care? You torture me.” I said.

“Everybody gets equal chance.” God spoke.

“That’s bullshit. Everything is unequally distributed, from intelligence to money ... everything.”

“But everybody gets chance.”

“Huh, earlier it was equal chance ... now it’s just chance!”

“It’s you who makes your own life.”

“Then what the hell do you do?”

“I make you.”

“For what ... Torturing me, watching and having fun? Dude, if it is true, then it is sick.”

“Don’t call me dude.”

“What?”

“Don’t call me dude.”

“Why?”

“I’m not dude.”

"Aien ...”

“I’m not dude. I’m god. “

“Chill dude, answer my question.”

“Don’t call me dude.”

“Ok fine.”

“What was your question?”

“Why are you so unfair?”

“What do you want? I can’t fulfil everyone’s wishes.”

“Then why do you even create them?”

“I like how humans roll.”

“What?”

“I mean, you people are very vibrant, and persistent.”

“So?”

“I like watching them unravel the mysteries of nature.”

“So you are just like a rich, powerful guy who likes watching people suffer. You are like a better version of Lex Luthor.”

“Who’s that?”

“Who?”

“Lex Luthor! I do not recall creating him.”

“Uhh ... you can’t create Lex Luthor. I you could, he would have taken over the control of this world from you by now.”

“Nobody can do that. I’m almighty.”

“Lex Luthor can!”

“Impossible.”

“Can you slap me?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t do that.”

“Or can’t do that?”

“Yes, in a way.”

“Then how are you the almighty?”

“Shut up.”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

“Why?”

“Shut up.”

“Why? Why are you not answering me?”

“Because I’m god.” He said, and then he disappeared.