Peeing Calamari

Here I lay, with my decapitated body—a dormant specimen in vermilion blood; of brittle bones and empty promises, my torso wriggles like a peeing calamari.

A second later, I’ll be dead and everyone will be happy—the opposition party will use my stinking cadaver to filibuster parliament proceedings, the media will suck dry my carcass for ratings, the maltreated farmers will have a garden-fresh subject to deliberate on, the photographer will ruminate about his potential Pulitzer while my wife tries to garner sympathy points from the ruling government; perhaps negotiate a compensation to secure my family’s future, or even a permanent job for my son—there are certain perks that you inherit alongside destitution.

Unlike the elite, or even the petty bourgeoisie, the deprived do not have the privileges to fight for their dead husbands and sons. You try to gain whatever possible from whatever misfortune that may befall on you. I won’t judge my wife if she barters my low-lying carcass for my family's fate. As a matter of fact, I hope she does. I hope I will be of some use to them; let that be in death.

I was neither a good father nor a good husband. I failed to make my wife happy and contented. I couldn’t manage to enroll my fairly bright son in a college. I wasn’t even a successful farmer. I did not protest when the local goons destroyed my crops because I failed to pay their monthly remuneration. I did not pray or plead for forgiveness from the heavenly creature in the sky who supposedly wrecked my paddy because I didn’t believe in him. Instead, I became an alcoholic in depression; and a rather bad one at that. I abused my wife, beat my son, partook in an illicit affair, and repeatedly failed to overturn the misfortunes of my family. So, I’m rather happy to die. I was dead inside anyway.

The only thing that will perturb me is the way I died. In an ideal world, I would’ve preferred to have a sumptuous dinner alongside my favourite drink, and then pass away blissfully in my midnight slumber. But never in my wildest dreams did I expect to be butchered, let alone be clobbered by my wife and son in broad daylight in my own paddy field.

It turns out, that all it takes to kill a man is some violation of trust, the will to survive, and a pickaxe. They finally did something for themselves. It was a slow and steady execution. They took turns, one hack at a time. It was excruciating, but rather marvelous. You could see in their eyes that they’d had enough. But then, they wouldn’t have found a better moment to end their misery. It was election time.

Nevertheless, here I lay with my decapitated head—my headless specimen in musty blood; thinking about all the good times that may succeed following my demise. I hope my wife is able to negotiate what she wants, especially a job for my son. I hope he gets what he desires. May he have a happy life, and when he dies, I hope that he dies the way I wanted to.

A sumptuous gourmet meal at a big restaurant alongside his favorite drink; and a dish of fried, peeing calamari.