In a surprise call at about 1.20 pm on seventh, June, a messenger from god came looking for Satya. All pleading to postpone affairs fell to deaf dears as a determined god insisted he could do nothing in this matter.
'But prayer is the art to conquer the impossible,' I said my plead turning into an argument with god after the messenger put him on line via his satellite phone. And I have been praying for her good health all night.
'Oh! You humans! When will you realise that billboards with footballers saying 'Nothing is impossible’ is just to sell you shoes.’
'The other day flying past India’s Connaught place I saw one big billboard saying ‘Impossible is nothing, and I asked my secretary when will the human mind evolve’, said god his voice polite but sarcastic enough to belittle me.
‘And by the way dude who told you prayers were the art of conquering the impossible,’ asked the voice on the other side of the phone.
‘No one. But I grew up with this idea,’ I replied still trying to hold my ground and find an opening where I could argue my case further.
‘I believe there are churches, Gurudwaras, Temples and Mosques selling you this product called prayer. And what I hear is there is a prayer for everything - good results, long life, sexy wife and even a prayer to get in touch with me. Book stores are full with volumes and volumes of books on ways and methods of how to pray and reach me.
'So what’s the harm,' I asked. 'Since I am talking to you, it means you exist. But you are one hell of a cool guy,' I said trying to humour him, hoping he listened to my case more carefully.
'Ha ha,' laughed the voice.
‘Prayer to me just seems some kind of a balm...ummm...like the ‘Tiger Balm’ the guys with the small eyes make. It can give you momentary relief, but the inevitable is unavoidable, his voice suddenly showing sense of urgency.’
‘I need to disconnect,’ said the voice citing seven missed calls from his office in Mars.
Beaji, my grandmother breathed her last.
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