And Srikanth died.
It was nothing major.
Just a simple heart attack.
One minute he was arguing with the cable operator over a
bill of ₹143.
The next minute he was standing in front of a giant gate
wondering what had happened.
Now Srikanth was not a bad person. He believed in good
deeds.
He donated clothes.
Fed stray dogs.
Helped neighbours.
Attended weddings even when he didn't want to.
And most importantly, he firmly believed all this good karma
would one day earn him a direct ticket to heaven.
His image of heaven was very clear.
Everybody would wear white.
Soft music would play all day.
The weather would be pleasant.
Food would be unlimited.
No traffic.
No bills.
No politics.
No relatives.
And definitely no housing society meetings.
At the entrance, an officer opened his file.
Looked at it.
Looked at Srikanth.
Stamped it.
"Approved."
"That's it?" asked Srikanth.
"No interview?"
"No."
"No background verification?"
"You passed with distinction."
Srikanth smiled.
This was exactly what he had worked for.
As he entered, cool air touched his face.
His clothes transformed into a flowing white robe.
The roads felt like cotton.
Music floated through the air.
Flowers bloomed everywhere.
Not a mosquito in sight.
"This is amazing," he whispered.
Then his brain started working.
How long will I live here?
Will I be immortal?
Will there be death in heaven?
What happens after heaven?
Will my wife come here one day?
Nah...
No chance.
She is definitely not getting in. Twenty eight years of
marriage had convinced him of that.
Then another thought struck him.
If there is no death here... does that mean I am stuck
forever?
What if all the people I know eventually arrive?
Relatives.
Neighbours.
School friends.
Office colleagues.
That uncle who gives unsolicited advice.
The housing society secretary.
Even the cable TV operator.
Srikanth suddenly felt nervous.
Surely heaven must have another level above this.
A quieter one.
Maybe after a few hundred years there is another small death
and you get promoted.
A place with no meetings.
No relatives.
No community groups.
No people asking for favours.
Just peace.
Complete peace.
A place where nobody knows your name.
He smiled at the thought.
"Now that sounds like heaven."
Then another panic struck.
What about food?
Will it be South Indian?
North Indian?
Chinese?
Some healthy European diet?
What if heaven serves quinoa?
He had not survived Earth to eat quinoa forever.
As he was thinking, he spotted Sharma Ji from the next lane.
Sharma Ji had died six months earlier.
He was sitting under a tree scratching his head.
"Sharma Ji!"
"Arre Srikanth!"
The two hugged.
"How is heaven?" asked Srikanth excitedly.
Sharma Ji sighed.
"Depends."
"On what?"
"Whether you liked Earth."
"What?"
"You'll see."
They started walking.
Within ten minutes Srikanth noticed something strange.
There were groups.
Lots of groups.
One group was discussing Indian politics.
Another was discussing American politics.
A third was discussing why cricket was declining.
A fourth was discussing why cricket was improving.
"Why are there groups?" asked Srikanth.
Sharma Ji laughed.
"You think people leave their habits behind?"
As they walked further, they saw signboards.
North Indians Association.
South Indians Cultural Forum.
Global Tamil Federation.
United Malayalees of Heaven.
Heavenly Kannada Sangha.
Punjabi Welfare Society.
Bengali Cultural Circle.
Telugu Friendship Group.
International Association of People Who Think Their Food Is
The Best.
"What is this?" asked Srikanth.
"Heaven."
"This is heaven?"
"Yes."
"Looks exactly like Earth."
"Wait till election season."
"There are elections here?"
"Residents Welfare Association."
"For what?"
"Cloud management."
Srikanth stopped walking.
A few minutes later he overheard an argument.
A North Indian was claiming North Indian food was superior.
A South Indian was defending dosa.
An Italian was defending pasta.
A Mexican was defending tacos.
Three angels were desperately trying to maintain peace. A
group nearby was arguing whether the North Indians got more cloud allocation
than the South Indians.
Another group wanted a separate heavenly zone because they
felt their culture was not being represented properly.
One gentleman had already started a petition demanding
reservation in cloud-side properties.
Another was claiming that heaven was better before all these
new people arrived.
Srikanth looked at Sharma Ji.
"I thought heaven removed suffering."
"It does."
"So what is this?"
"Entertainment."
They reached the dining hall.
The food was incredible.
Everything imaginable.
Dosa.
Biryani.
Pizza.
Pasta.
Payasam.
Gulab Jamun.
Ice cream.
Everything.
As Srikanth sat down happily with a full plate, somebody
nearby complained.
"The biryani was better yesterday."
Another person said,
"Too much salt."
A third added,
"The dosa near my house on Earth was better."
Even heaven had food reviewers.
A few weeks later Srikanth settled in.
He made friends.
Attended community events.
Joined two committees.
Left one committee after politics started.
Joined another committee hoping it would be different.
It wasn't.
Then one day something unbelievable happened.
He saw Meera.
His childhood crush.
The same Meera.
The one who sat three benches ahead in school.
The one he had written love letters to and never delivered.
The one who smiled once at him in 1987 and gave him enough
confidence to survive until 1992.
She looked exactly as he remembered.
Maybe even better.
"Srikanth?"
"Meera?"
The next few weeks were magical.
Long walks.
Conversations.
Memories.
School stories.
Teachers.
Friends.
Old jokes.
For the first time since arriving in heaven, Srikanth felt
truly happy. One evening they sat beside a beautiful lake watching the sunset.
The breeze was perfect.
The music was soft.
The sky was golden.
Meera smiled.
Srikanth smiled.
He was just beginning to wonder whether heaven had finally
become heaven.
Then suddenly a familiar voice appeared behind him.
"Having fun?"
His soul nearly left heaven.
He turned around.
Radha.
His wife.
Standing there.
In white.
With folded arms.
"Radha?"
"You seem surprised."
"You got into heaven?"
"Apparently my file was stronger than yours."
Sharma Ji, who happened to be passing by, almost choked
laughing. For the next several centuries, Srikanth would never hear the end of
it.
Every time they met somebody new, Radha introduced herself
the same way.
"Hello, I'm Radha. The wife who wasn't supposed to get
into heaven."
Eventually Srikanth met the old wise man who managed
admissions.
He asked him one question.
"Why is heaven exactly like Earth?"
The old man smiled.
"It isn't."
"It feels exactly the same."
"That's because heaven is not a place."
"Then what is it?"
"It is simply a place where everything is
perfect."
"It doesn't feel perfect."
The old man laughed.
"That's because we forgot one thing."
"What?"
"We brought the humans."
That night Srikanth sat under a tree.
The weather was perfect.
The food was perfect.
The roads were perfect.
The music was perfect.
Yet around him people were still arguing.
Still comparing.
Still complaining.
Still forming groups.
Still discussing politics.
Still chasing status.
Still judging neighbours.
And still trying to prove they were right.
Just like Earth.
Suddenly Sharma Ji sat beside him.
"So, what do you think?"
Srikanth sighed.
"I think heaven is wonderful."
"Then why are you scratching your head?"
Srikanth looked around.
Then whispered,
"I was just wondering..."
"Wondering what?"
"Whether there is another heaven above this one."
"Why?"
"So I can finally get some peace."
At that exact moment Radha's voice came from a distance.
"Srikanth! Come here."
He stood up immediately.
Sharma Ji smiled.
"What happened?"
Srikanth shrugged.
"Apparently some things are eternal."
Later that night, while sitting under the same tree,
Srikanth looked up at the sky and stopped an angel passing by.
"Excuse me."
"Yes?"
"Do people die in heaven?"
The angel looked confused.
"Why would you ask that?"
"Just curious."
"No. Nobody dies here."
Srikanth sighed.
"Pity."
"Pity?"
"I was hoping there might be one more promotion
left."
"Promotion to where?"
Srikanth looked around.
At the people arguing.
The people gossiping.
The people comparing.
The people forming committees.
The people discussing politics.
The people proudly explaining why their state, language,
food, culture, cricket team, and opinion were superior to everyone else's.
Then he looked at Radha, who was walking toward him from a
distance, probably with another task for him.
Srikanth smiled.
"Anywhere," he said.
"As long as nobody there knows me."
The angel thought for a moment.
Then smiled.
"Sorry."
"Why?"
"That's exactly what everybody here is waiting for
too."
"Srikanth, heaven and hell are not places."
"They are the way you think."
"Most people carry both with them wherever they
go."
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