The year is 2030. Mr Sharma, the last resident of the erstwhile capital of India, New Delhi, is airlifted out and admitted into the critical care ward of the brand new AIIMS built in Pune.
The para commandos who carried out this brave and potentially suicidal mission to extract him from the toxic city are also admitted next to him, being treated for light lung damage, since they were thankfully wearing HazMat suits and oxygen masks as they slithered down ropes from an overhead Helo used to insert them onto the scene.
It was tiring and exhausting, and a degree of force was necessary since Sharmaji was caught unawares, half bent over with his ass crack showing from his pyjamas, about to light another string of 1,500 crackers when the commando’s tranquilliser dart found its mark.
Back at the hospital, the hardworking doctors have given up hope, and as his family gathers around him to bid him farewell, suddenly, Sharmaji struggles to say something. The relatives come closer trying to catch the whispered words coming from the dying man.
Just as he flatlines, he utters his final words,
“But, what about the goats at Eid?”
Rest in peace, courageous warrior. And no, I am not crying. It’s just the fucking smog.
