“Why Don’t Clothes Die?”

Kids ask all kinds of amusing questions. And although I don’t have any, unlike others who would begin the sentence with ‘Although I don’t have any,’ and end it with ‘I love kids and spend as much time as I can with them’, I would end it with, ‘I don’t spend my time with any either.’ Kids are too stupid to understand my humour and anyone who is too stupid to understand my humour is fucking bad company.

So yes, kids ask all kinds of amusing questions and had a kid asked me the question in the title, I’d have laughed it off and called him stupid or cute which would have relied entirely on whether is mother was hot or not. However, the most amusing part is that the question in the title wasn’t really a kid’s query. It was Isha’s.

A few days ago, we were discussing about what clothes should we pack for a holiday.

“I don’t have anything to wear”, she frowned after pulling out her whole closet.

“What?” I asked, because for one thing I knew there were at least sixteen dresses of one kind and thirteen of some other kind, and myriad tops and a lot of implausible stuff that looked too odd to fit around a human body but she said it did.

Perhaps she didn’t understand the fact that my “What?” was rhetorical. So she repeated, “I don’t have a fucking thing to wear!” then very sadly, in an almost-morbidly-fascinating Billy Holiday voice, she added, “Why don’t clothes die?”

“W-haat?” I asked again.

Just a few days prior to this incident, she had once asked me why isn’t my father a drug lord. Her logic was that, if he was a drug lord she would have then married me and got drugs on the house. Although her obsession with murders, drugs and other criminal activities isn’t surpirsing for me anymore, this type of question was fucking weird.

“Yeah, think of it! What if clothes could have died and given birth to new ones?” she said.

I like being witty in such situations and although you can’t be something just because you like it in the same manner I can’t be William Shatner although I’d fucking love to be him, I still asked in a witty tone, “Wouldn’t that require your clothes to have sex between themselves?”

Perhaps I wasn’t really witty after all because she then said, “Why do you have to think of sex all the time?! I meant what if the clothes died and like a Phoenix rises from its own ashes, they rose as new ones?”


I have a powerful imagination. This is how I saw it in my head.

“What then?” I really couldn’t understand what the fuck was the whole point of it.

“I will murder my clothes then! So they’ll die and give birth to new ones and before we go on this holiday, I’ll have new ones!” she exclaimed.

That was creepy as fuck, so before it could any creepier, I said, “Isha listen, go shopping.”

After she had bought ten tonnes of clothes, I said, “Hey listen, the whole Phoenix thing is a myth, you know that right? And so when you said that thing about murdering your clothes, that wasn’t really valid either, right?”

So then she snapped, “For God’s sake I was kidding, you fucking asshole.”