The Death of a Friend

An Appreciation

A few days ago, a good friend passed away.

You’ve probably heard of him, because he often wrote to the newspapers, incessantly starred on YouTube, and was much liked on social media. In his own way, he was quite the celebrity.

Since his death, his many friends and colleagues have written many gushing appreciations of his long and verbose life. You’ve probably endured at least a few of these.

I too wanted to write such an appreciation.

But, given the sheer quantity of what has already been said, I was struggling to find something novel and imaginative to add.

So instead of appreciating his life (that is, what happened before his death), I thought of appreciating his afterlife (the strange sequence of events that followed his death).

It went something like this…

My friend arrived at Pearly Gates International.

The scene was as majestic as one might imagine, with celestial light casting an ethereal glow — just the sort of glow that Signal Toothpaste casts on one's teeth.

There stood St. Peter, holding his legendary book, his presence both awe-inspiring and comforting. He had enormous biceps, triceps, flexor and extensor carpi radialis, that pulsed and rippled in the heavenly light. They didn’t call him “The Rock” for nothing.

When he noticed my friend, his eyes sparkled with a mix of curiosity and warmth.

“Why — Hallo!”, said St. Peter.

“Uhm…Hello.”, said my friend.

“Did you have a good flight?”

“Eh, yes — quite good. They were out of Cashew Nuts — as usual, and the Watalappam was a bit so-so, but other than that, quite good.”

“Good. Good.”, said St. Peter. “Let’s get down to business.”

St. Peter turned to a page in his book, and unclipped his Atlas Chooty pen.

“Now, what have you done during your life?”

My friend perked up at the sound of a favourite question.

“I was founder and president of Problemata — Sri Lanka’s first and greatest Think-Tank. I spent my life highlighting all the problems the nation faced and”, my friend put on his famous sad face, “continues to grapple with.”

St. Peter nodded, visibly impressed (or maybe ’twas just the constipation. Binging on Manna does that).

“Remarkable commitment!” he commended, “Remarkable!”.

Then, leaning in, he inquired, “Was Sri Lanka grateful for all the problems you helped solve?”

A pregnant pause hung in the air before my friend answered, “Well, I didn’t actually solve any of the problems. But I talked about them. Brought them out into the open. Created visibility.”

St. Peter’s eyebrows raised slightly, a hint of surprise in his expression. “But did you feel fulfilled and contented, living a life of research, analysis and discussion without any actual progress?”

“Absolutely! I felt very fulfilled. Very fulfilled! My NGO and I won many awards for my work. From all over the world!”

“But did the situation in Sri Lanka improve because of your efforts?” St. Peter pressed on.

“Well — No. It didn’t,” my friend admitted. “But is that relevant?”

St. Peter fell silent, a thoughtful, profound silence that seemed to stretch for an eternity (which it might have, actually).

In his characteristic manner, my friend grew impatient with the prolonged silence (or maybe it was the Watalappam). He wanted a resolution, a clear answer.

“So, what’s it going to be?” he asked.

St. Peter, momentarily distracted, looked up. “Come again?”

“Is it going to be heaven or, well, the other place?” my friend pressed.

St. Peter appeared thoughtful, his gaze introspective. Then continued.

“My first instinct was to keep you here in heaven, as you’ve essentially lived a good and pious (if not a little boring) life.”

“But?” my friend interjected, a small sense of alarm creeping into his voice.

“There is a project we’d like you to work on,” St. Peter revealed, his tone serious yet enigmatic.

“A project? What project?” my friend inquired; curiosity piqued.

St. Peter explained.

“Many of us here — in heaven — believe that hell, as it stands, is a bad place. We want to transform it, turn hell into a version of heaven. A democratic place, with the rule of law, where human-rights are observed, a place at the top of all the rankings…”

“How are you planning to do that?” my friend asked, baffled by the enormity of such a task.

“That’s where you come in,” St. Peter said. “You will spend a little time — a few thousand years, say— there’s no need to overdo it — studying hell, identifying all the problems it has.”

“And once I do that, I come back to heaven, right?” my friend asked, hopefully.

“No, no.” St. Peter replied. “You stay in hell and continue to talk about everything that’s shitty about it. Your expertise in discussing problems will be invaluable there.”

My friend scratched his head violently.

“But are there really that many bad things in hell? I mean, I know it’s quite a bad place, but is it bad enough to warrant that much study and effort?”

St. Peter was silent.

“Perhaps there is a different, more impactful project? Here in heaven?”

The Rock was still unmoved.

“Or even back in Sri Lanka?”

“Well, you’re right. Hell’s not as bad as it’s cracked up to be,” St. Peter admitted with a slight smile. “But we’ve just received a substantial grant for this project — from the Beaver Institute no less — and we all think you’re the best man for the job.”

“When does the project end? When we finally succeed in turning hell into heaven?” my friend inquired.

“Oh, no.,” St. Peter chuckled. “No. The grant only covers “Research” and “Communication”. There’s no cash for actually implementing any changes in hell.”

My friend’s brow furrowed in confusion. “But all this talking about how terrible hell is — won’t that annoy the residents? Like Satan, Hitler, and all those Popes?”

“Don’t worry about that. They won’t pay much attention to you. Sure, they might poke fun (and other things) at you. But only occasionally. And all in good humor. Deep down they’re not really bad people. Really. Most of my best friends from St. Thomas’ are in hell.”

“There must be some end date for the project, right? Like when the grant money runs out?” my friend persisted.

St. Peter shook his head. “Oh no, there’s plenty of money. Enough to last for — well, all eternity.”

“But what happens if, by some off chance, hell does end up becoming like heaven? Or maybe at least like Singapore?” my friend questioned, clutching for straws.

“There’s no danger of that happening,” St. Peter assured him with a knowing look. “We wouldn’t allow it. And neither should you, right?”

“Why?”

“Because then you would be out of a cushy job, wouldn’t you?”

My friend couldn’t speak.

St. Peter seemed thoughtful, then amused.

“Come to think of it — so would I…”

😉All characters appearing in this appreciation are fictitious. All resemblances to real or imaginary persons, living or dead, worldly or celestial, are purely coincidental.

✏️CORRECTION: In the article, we implied that St. Peter schooled at St. Thomas’ College, Mount Lavinia. In fact, and as many readers have since pointed out, St. Peter actually attended St. Joseph’s College, Maradana. I apologize for the mistake. However, it should be noted that St. Peter often claimed to have attended St. Thomas’, usually at dinner parties.