I have waited in the long queue forever now—
no ground beneath, no sky above,
as if floating in space; an empty void
illuminated by celestial bodies beyond sight.
It’s like an infinite waiting line at a grocery store
with a restless crowd, anarchic and messy.
A prolonged, inconvenient delay—uneasy, burdensome.
I look around, find people draped in white robes
with halos around their heads like angels,
managing and keeping a check on us.
I learned it’s for paying the taxes on our earthly activities—
100 bad acts negated by a single good one, 
a whopping 20-percent rebate on intermediate ones.
“Senior citizens need to be attended first.”
Some elderly folks in the single file demand.
“Everybody is senior over here.
The seniority is based on the date of passing.”
A gentleman in white with a head corona says.
I am handed a pre-filled form listing my deeds—
50 good ones (hardly remember a couple of them), 
thousands of bad ones (plenty of course),
millions of intermediary ones (not clear to me).
The line dawdles like a snail, the system unhurried—
somewhat like the old, derelict manual tax process on Earth.
“We have been waiting for perhaps centuries.”
My co-queuers say irately, wriggling like snakes.
 An angel appears, escorts me forward into nowhere.
Almost instantaneously, we reach inside a rocky cave 
flooded with natural light.
An edentate angel with a crown and tawny beard is sitting 
with a bunch of papers before him on  a raised platform,
resembling those strict, old government 
tax assessors who live on forever.
“Did you verify your tax liabilities?”
I bow my head and nod in agreement.
Who can argue with a tax collector?
Or, appeal one’s tax bill (mostly unsure of the calculations), 
go through multilayered, time-consuming resolution?
He smiles and adds, “We need more hands over here.
You could have joined us. But I see you are weak 
in maths and not other-worldly wise.”
“Why don’t you introduce the online system?”
He gives me a hard stare, quieting me—
as if I have uttered a fatuous suggestion.
Another angel comes in and takes me along.
Bids adieu on reaching a riverbed, 
where a boatman waits, like an exuberant salesman.
Once on the boat, I experience the ambrosial water,
savour it—sweet like honey, fragrant like sandalwood,
overwhelmed by a sense of eternity, inner harmony.
Half-way through, I envisage the coast adorned with vibrant verdure.
Suddenly I feel an excessive heat wave coming from the shore—
unexpectedly, transformed into a raging inferno— 
and the river turned blood red.
“They said I will go to heaven.”
The boatman lets out cackles of laughter, 
rows on shoreward.