It was the funeral of the century.

India’s economy lay on a bamboo bier in Delhi’s central square, covered not in the Tricolour, but with copies of the Economic Survey and a few unpaid electricity bills. Priests chanted. TV anchors sniffled into their microphones. Politicians jostled for space like pigeons fighting over a breadcrumb.

“Dearly beloved,” began the chief priest, wearing a scarf that said ‘Dead Economy’, “we are gathered here to bid farewell to the Indian Economy, taken from us too soon—”

“Too soon?” roared the opposition leader, waving a bunch of onions in the air like holy relics. “It died years ago! We told you GST and demonetisation would bury it!”

A TV anchor leaned over the bier with trembling excitement. “Ladies and gentlemen, stay tuned for the economy’s last words—exclusive, only on our channel!”

Meanwhile, economists arrived with laptops, like pallbearers of jargon. One said, “Technically, this is not death. This is a prolonged fiscal siesta, forced by an external stimulus.”

“Speak Hindi!” shouted a bystander.’

‘Urban naxalite’ shouted another.

Then came the ritual fight over last rites:

The opposition insisted on cremation, so they could scatter the ashes over the next election rally.

The government wanted a burial in an unknown grave, so later nobody would remember they had anything to do with its death.

The Finance Minister suggested embalming the body, “for economics students to study”

Suddenly—like every good Bollywood climax—the impossible happened.

A hand twitched.
A foot moved.
And the Indian Economy sat up on the bier.

The crowd gasped. The Sensex jumped 500 points. The chaiwallah fainted.

The economy yawned, stretched, and said, in a voice that carried across the square:
“Relax, people… I was just having a nap.”

Gasps turned to silence.

“Do you think,” it continued, “that an economy built brick by brick by the founding fathers of this nation—by Nehru, by Indira, by Manmohan Singh, even by Vajpayee—will die just because someone tweeted I’m dead? Hah!”

The politicians froze.

“This economy,” it thundered, “survived colonial loot, oil shocks, scams, sanctions, the 1991 crisis, and even today’s terrible strategy of putting precious taxpayer’s money into the bank accounts of voters. I’ve taken naps before. But dead? Never! You can’t kill the Indian economy with just words!”

At that moment, somewhere in the heavens, an old man in a khadi cap—who had once defied the British and given this nation its freedom—smiled and said softly,
“Nobody can kill my India with words, sanctions or penalties.”

The economy jumped off the bier, brushed off the Budget papers, refused a cup of chai from the bearded chaiwallah and walked away stronger, taller, and more alive than ever.

Behind it, the politicians stared at the empty bier, realising that for all their drama, India’s heart still beats, its economy still walks, built on a solid foundation, that resists all efforts to kill it…!

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