Last week I wrote about the passing away of my Dad, and his legacy of goodwill.  I also happened to watch bits and parts of Rob Ford’s funeral and laughed out loud at the hypocrisy of politicians who had mocked and ridiculed him throughout his tenure and then when he passes away and the TV cameras are trained on their harsh and botoxxed countenances’ they melt, make sad faces that are the of the switch-on, switch-off variety and pretend that they truly loved him.  Saying the nicest things about his length of stay in office, his honesty in calling a spade a spade and frankly act as Pharisees, charlatans, and Hypocrites with a capital ‘H’. Councilors who had spoken the worst things about him in the media suddenly turned into virtuous souls when covered by CP 24.  Frankly it was all such a stinking sham.  Minutes after his funeral, everything is forgotten, flowers tossed away, chairs dusted, and the charcoal black suits go back to the dry cleaners.  Even death with all its solemnity is quickly forgotten by a society channeled by instant gratification.

I didn’t care much for Ford and his ‘Mayor of Toronto’ status, and frankly speaking did not even vote for him.  Although weeks before the polls we literally bumped into each other in China Town as he—all sweaty and red-faced insisted on shaking my hand and handing me a flyer—and I holding my weekly bag of groceries tried to dodge his clammy palm, and did not succeed.     However later on I watched him on and off try to amend and try out the things he had promised the citizens of Toronto.  He did attempt to put an end to the gravy train, and he wasn’t shy to take on the pink-collar brigade that makes up a substantial part of the government.  He also refused to take part in their Pride march.  That’s what I liked about him—as a politician he wasn’t afraid to make enemies, and this often was his greatest trial as a Mayor.  Because those antagonists leaked-out stories about him and his shenanigans for sure, and had friends in the media who unfortunately caught him, so to speak, red-handed.

But this article is not about Rob Ford, it’s about living the temporary life, finally it is about death, and it’s about something that none of us can possibly dodge.  Even though we know deep within that we are mortal, the truth be told—we are all deeply afraid to die.  That’s because we’re not prepared for the final countdown.  Sure we can face interviews by the dozen, battalions, terrorism and armies, conquests on the stock market, risky driving, natural calamities, freefall from an airplane, or a rock climbing expedition.  So how about preparing ourselves for a mock interview with God, and on Him being the Rightful Judge?  Asking ourselves how we’ve lived our yesterday, and how we are going to live our today is a good place to start.  Making notes in a diary is even better as most of us have short-term memories.  Because the end will come with a summons on how well we’ve lived our lives.  The question to ask is: are you going to be a candidate for everlasting life, or a death without a beginning? There’s certainly no multiple choice here.

Given the fact that honesty is a good place to start, we’re still living a vacuous life, chasing empty dreams, ambitions and aspirations—carrying empty baggage that’s full of rocks all our lives—sowing seeds of unforgiveness, thoughts of revenge, with absolutely no compassion for the poor, downtrodden or underprivileged, grievances against nearly everybody, full of gossip and maliciousness, lustfully drawn towards the desires of the flesh, food and satiation of our bodies.  It’s always for the moment; adulterously sleeping around, gambling, over-eating, over-drinking, partying, idolizing celebrities, cheating, calculating, manipulating.

I hate going to funerals—the visitations are depressing, funeral homes even more so where in one room lies the forlorn, incapacitated corpse in its casket, and in another room people are eating, drinking, and remembering the dear departed.  I had no choice when a dear Aunt recently passed away, and had to touch her cold, bloodless hand as part of the rite of saying goodbye.  I recollect that the week earlier we already did that when we visited her at the hospital. The aroma of the incense wafts towards me and the smoke sings my eyes till they begin to tear. The son notices that my eyes are watering and mistakenly thinks that I am crying, but I’m not.  I’m actually happy that this event has been self-reflective and an eye-opener for the future.  I know it’s a good place to start writing things in little black diary, and to follow them through.

Jude Paul Fernandes is the author of ‘Frost Bites’ which is available at the Toronto Public Library.  He is currently working on a novel ‘Lonely in Mumbai’ and can be followed @JudePaulFerns