I'm dancing my way into 2017

2016 — goodbye, get lost, do not come back. I’m so happy to see you go. You did this dual-trickytime play where, for a moment I thought you were never leaving and would just keep delivering awful news, yet you went by so fast that I could achieve nothing worthwhile. In fact, I could not even find us a holiday that didn’t use up my entire year’s hard earned money to bid you — you awful year — farewell.

Apparently, to be anywhere you actually want to be this time of the year, you needed to have booked sometime in 2014. So 2016, you win. I can’t even kick you out of my life in style. I’m not going to lament the terrible leaders you brought in, or the cash you took away, or the freedom of speech and thought you didn’t guarantee us in democratic India, or the disservice to women you did around the world, or the insular hatred of outsiders you made legit, or the misery you caused to war-torn children. No I won’t, I just want you to go.

Even though December 31st is just a date, it marks an end and offers a new beginning and I am grabbing any chance to wipe the slate clean and start fresh. Hello 2017! Come on in. Actually, hold on — before you do I need you to read the memo. I don’t want another dud year with the stubborn mind of a fool. I need you to be slower, better and wiser so I can finally focus on one thing for more than three minutes without you distracting me by taking yet another favourite youth icon away (David Bowie, Prince, Leonard Cohen and George Michael in one year is much too much).

While we are discussing distractions, please can you put an end to this data deluge? This information overload has left me juggling between devices till I’m drowning in downloads. It’s a miracle I made any of my deadlines. 2017, your job is to turn me into a digital hermit so I can actually begin to think again. I’m already dreaming of the reclaimed hours which will give me the luxury to walk with time to spare, instead of running and rushing to catch up, already late even before beginning.

I know you have your work cut out, but your predecessor was so lame and cowardly, that as long as you don’t tolerate idiots and stand up to the righteous morality brigade, you will win the game of years. Don’t worry, you’ll know who they are by the hypocritical, demeaning hatred they spout that will instantly transport you back 500 years. And if you still have doubts — in India they favour a particular shade of saffron. Some tricky ones walk around in plain clothes, masquerading as your friends, waiting for the day that you’ll bring up religion and politics so that they can pounce on you and extol the virtues of their bigotry. Other dangerous ones hold high positions of power — these are usually the most frightening because they make it their goal to curb life, art, and thought as we know it.

If you are still having trouble spotting them, then say something mean about a cow, or better — sashay past in a short, tight skirt. If all hell breaks loose, then you know you’ve got your man. Now, if you really want to be king of the years, then find a way to lure this entire brigade on a boat to Siberia. It may take them half a year or more to reach, but they’ll keep each other entertained with “who loves the cow more” game, and I’m sure Putin will have a welcome committee waiting for them. Once we bid them adieu, we can all exhale loudly, put on our sleeveless tops and reclaim the free, liberal country we grew up in.

Now that you are going to free us up, 2017, can you also bring lust back? I love love, it’s great, but lust is what gets our juices flowing and we just don’t have enough reciprocal lust doing the rounds. 2017, listen hard — along with a lot more happy sex you need to bring with you chocolate that makes us thin, drawers and cupboards that automatically organise themselves, smogless skies with clean air, weekly nutritional menus that instinctively update to prevent boredom, wine that sharpens our intellect, projects (that are my brain child) that educate, enlighten and make millions, babies for all those on their third IVF rounds, Rs 2,000 notes for that proud, hardworking farmer with watery eyes, safety in a city that we would’ve just won our right to dress in, and none of this “go home at the stroke of one” as the city shuts down nonsense. You’ve got to make dancing till the wee hours in safe, accessible, beautiful clubs kosher again.

For now, I’m turning up the sound system in my living room and dancing my way into 2017 hoping that it reads the memo.

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