It has to be in June. The sixth month from the Gregorian calendar; the median of all months. Ideally, it supposed to be on the first or last day of June. I don’t know why so don’t ask me. It probably because during my whole life I just love to be the first – the fact that I’m the oldest son in my family might as well support the idea.
It has to be during the transition from day time to evening. It has to be in the afternoon. Exactly at 4.30PM would be nice since it’s the nicest time of any day in Indonesia. It’s the time when my late grandmother used to sit in the balcony with a cup of tea while waiting for me to get back from school. Simultaneously, it’s the time that inspired many great musicians to produce their magic: to create songs, such as what Sore (the band) did.
It might as well be in Indonesia as I love my country so much. I don’t want it to be in a foreign land, I don’t want it to happen while I’m here in Manchester right now. I want to edge away in a familiar sorroundings. A warm temperature with a perfect amount of humidity covering me. Don’t rain, please don’t. Why? Because rain in Indonesia is highly associated with sadness, despair, and regret. Even though Chinese descent in my country argue that rain symbolize prosperity but it’s only relevant for their lunar new year. So please, be sunny.
I want it to happen during my sleep. I love to take a nap during day time. As I tuck myself inside the duvet, in my modest yet luxurious house, I will fall asleep in approximately 10 minutes and pass away 1,5 hours later. In my deepest sleep ever, I will go without any pain at all. Besides, people said that if someone died in his sleep, then they’ve lived their life to the absolute fullest and they went on without any burden at all. That’s just the way I want it.
Or the other scenario is to die while I pray. To go at the moment when the distance between my forehead and the sajjāda is just an inch away. In other words it’ll be flawless if I kick the bucket while I’m kneeling; while I closed my eyes and ask Him for forgiveness.
I don’t want people to cry for me. I don’t want my wandering soul to see it at all. I want them to feel contented. I want them to see that my departure will open hundreds of opportunities. I want to feel that even though I’m already vanished, I could still give benefits to those in needs. My spirit will be more than delighted if my family (through my consent, of course) decided to donate my eyes or any parts of my inanimate body. And I’m sure God would feels ecstatic as well.
I want my family to gather. I want my mom, my sister, and my stepdad to greet the guests and tell them how I lived my life. I want them to tell the guests enthusiastically so that the guests will know that my family is fine. Even though they’re not, at least I want them to pretend that they’re fine so that the guests wouldn’t have to be worry about anything. They will play Maliq & D’essentials songs as the playlist in my funeral and the will sing their lungs out and dance like they’ve never dance before, especially when the song titled ‘Lil’ Thing’ is playing.
I want my little sister drink an orange juice while sitting in the living room after she read Surah Yaseen for me. I want her to be the first and the last person on that day to read Yaseen dedicated for me. I love her so much; I believe that God will immediately listens to her prayer. She will read it with some form of happiness even though I predict that she’ll never be that religious. But I want her, at that day and that day only at least, to interpret philosophically the meaning behind a prayer, an act, and a brother.
I want my bestfriend, whoever it might be, put a mask on herself. I know she’ll feel beaten by the universe. I know she’ll feel that God betrays her trust by killing me. But I don’t want her to show her anger, her disappointment. I want her to be as diplomatic as ever, and I know she is capable. She’s a smart person indeed.
And then here’s the interesting part.
In the middle of this excitement, upon the idea of my death is a gift from God, I want my partner to approach the guests one by one in a flawless manner. I want her to whisper those people I hated the most during my whole life and say smoothly,
“His last wish was this: Get out”.
I want people to stop living pretentiously: saying nice things and showing sympathy in front of you whilst embezzling you in your blindside. I want them to come to my funeral hoping that by showing up then at least they shown a respectful gesture, but turns out it’s all fake. They just want to expand their networks because they know I have powerful friends. And my bestfriend’s whisper tears down their tainted plan. And I will laugh out loud in the air and I will kiss her cheek.
I want people to go home with their stomach full and satisfaction in their heart. I want them to retrace their memories with me, especially the good ones. My laughs, my inappropriate jokes, my ideas, my passion, and all of the things I’ve done that provide benefits to many people. I want them to remember me during my years in the basketball team during junior highschool, I want them to remember my struggle as a chairman of the student body in senior highschool, I want them to make proud of my tears when I didn’t get elected as a president of students association, and ultimately I don’t want them to feel that I’m useless as if I didn’t rejoice my life.