IF GOD WAS GUCCI

By Hemanshi Arora

Illustration By Arshiya Chahal

I whiffed him before I saw him.
I heard him before I whiffed him, as he came down the grand ornate staircase.
A citrus gust of air and the rattle of high heels welcomed the man himself.
Here stood my creator in all his glory: 5 foot 9 inches tall, scrawny, with the most ridiculously dyed purple bob of hair.

“Ayy! What’s Gucci!?” He greeted me in the shrillest voice, throwing some weird gang signs.

I rushed to greet him with my extended hand.
“No can do, just got a manicure!” He shrugged in the most unapologetic tone ever as he removed his sunglasses to give me a very conspicuous once over.
Hit by a sudden wave of self-consciousness, I stuttered to introduce myself as the one journalist among millions on the planet chosen to interview him, for an exclusive edition of the Times Magazine.

“Pleasure.” His smile revealed pearl white teeth and two gold-plated canines.
“Shall we begin your precious ‘Seven Minutes in Heaven’? I’m kinda busy you know, gotta run the world.” He laughed a throaty laugh, apparently happy with his little joke.
I gulped.

Now, what would you ask God if you met him? Hypothetically, the questions would be: when will I get rich? When will I be married? How many kids will I have? Will Trump really build a wall? Will there be any elections after 2019 in India? When will the Third World War happen?
And the list just goes on. But this is hypothetically speaking.
What do I actually ask him? Where do I even begin? Milton did not prepare me for this!
He is so much like us! No halo, no robes or capes, not even a hint of a serene disposition. This God, our God, was Gucci. Dressed in a polka dotted green shirt with red suspenders and blood red trousers, he had an almost too expressive a visage as he stood to wait in front of me with those glittering eyes. I cleared my throat.

“Why did you create this world?”

Crap! I really should have referred to my notes. But let’s be honest, even the most thought out notes couldn’t possibly have prepared me for this.

“Ah, you see, I was bored and in desperate need of a good show.” He purred, content with his answer and perhaps by extension, with his motive behind creating Earth and everything on it, including the entirety of my species.
He calmly sipped on his Americano. And then, the last strand of sanity I had flew right out of the window.

What can that possibly mean? How can he be this blunt?
“Not very smart. Are you? I created the Gucci garden, which you…people, call the Garden of Eden, which is a stage. This glorious ramp was for my perfect models. On this ramp of life, they would model themselves to different personas every day, thus giving me something to watch while I eat foie gras and sip on a glass of Château Margaux.”
He concluded with a smirk and fixed his gaze on me, waiting for a reaction. His smirk grew into a bout of laughter as he noticed my wide gaping eyes, processing all of what he just said.

“Yes, love! Life is fashion. Period.”

Completely confused by the analogy, I blurted out the next pressing question.

“What is the purpose of life, then?”

“The purpose is to slay the game, of course! Pulling off whatever attire you chose for yourself. That’s about it.”

“Do we get to choose the attire?”

“Yes, a different you each day! Makes the show more interesting.” He replied as it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“What will be the end of the world?” I enquired, more curious than ever.

His eyes darkened and he scoffed. “One Gucci after a thousand Walmarts? The world is already nearing its end, honey!”

“Huh?” What language was that again?

“When humanity settles for less than what it deserves, when quantity beats quality, when quirky and creative is deemed weird, when you want to blend in rather than stand out…that is when humanity meets its end.”

How do you even take in something like that?
Isn’t life all about imitation, admiring others’ clothes and then attempting to dig out from our poorly stocked wardrobes to model ourselves as similar to them as possible?
Hasn’t it always been about fitting in?

But then again, it was so simple! It did make sense. We must make it through, no matter what, right? So it was all about doing your thing and taking it to the end.

I snapped out of my thoughts just as he downed the rest of his Americano.
“Just feel like Gucci and one day you’ll be it.”

And as if a switch flipped inside him, he said, “Duty calls! Gotta go now. The world doesn’t run itself, you know. This multi-billionaire industry is China waiting to crack.”

“Thank God for Bitcoin! God who? Ooh! That’d be me!”

And in a flurry of another chuckle and a dramatic wave of his freshly manicured hands, he turned his back on me and strutted into the green and red.