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I WANT TO BE KILLED BY AN INDIAN BULLET I heard the news long ago that they were looking for me; in the morning in the afternoon at night. My children told me; my wife told me. One morning they entered my drawing room, the five of them. Fire, water, air, earth, sky - are the names of these five. They can create men; also destroy men at whim. They do whatever they fancy. The very avatar of might. I ask them: “When will you kill me?” The leader replied: “Now. We’ll kill you right now. Today is very auspicious. Say your prayers. Have you bathed? Have you had your meal?” “Why will you kill me? What is my crime? What evil deed have I done?” I asked them again. “Are you a poet who pens gobbledygook and drivel? Or do you consider yourself a seer with oracular powers? Or are you a madman?” asked the leader. “I know that I’m neither of the first two beings. I cannot tell you about the last one. How can I myself tell whether I’m unhinged or not?” The leader said: “You can be whatever you would like to be. We are not concerned about this or that. We will kill you now. Our mission is to kill men.” I ask: “In what manner will you kill me? Will you cut me with a knife? Will you shoot me? Will you club me to death?” “We will shoot you.” “With which gun will you shoot me then? Made in India, or made in another country?” “Foreign made. All of them made in Germany, made in Russia, or made in China. We don’t use guns made in India. Let alone good guns, India cannot even make plastic flowers. When asked to make plastic flowers India can only produce toothbrushes.” I said: “That’s a good thing. Of what use are plastic flowers without any fragrance?” The leader said: “No one keeps toothbrushes in vases to do up a room. In life a little embellishment has its part.” “Whatever it may be, if you must shoot me please shoot me with a gun made in India. I don’t want to die from a foreign bullet. You see, I love India very much.” “That can never be. Your wish cannot be granted. Don’t ever mention Bharat to us.” Saying this, they left without killing me; as if they didn’t do anything at all. Being fastidious about death I escaped with my life.