The Diary of a would-be Suicide

6th June 1999

My father, being a farmer, died for the very reason that he professed something as unrewarding as that. I was only nine then,but still, I do have a vague notion of what transpired on the day he was found dangling on the mango tree at our backyard. Quite a commotion broke out: almost the whole village congregated around our shack, my mother wailed unrelentingly and I wept bitterly; all the while wondering where our beloved cow had vanished to. And before the funeral pyre was made, learned folks with their pens and lens rushed in to claim their share of the sensation. I won't go further into the finer details of that day; not that they are particularly painful to be reminded of; for over the years, a sense of stoicism has descended upon me owing to the cumulative effect of all those travails. Infact, on a retrospection, it does seem all too ridiculous, particularly considering the fallibility of the premises upon which father assumed that his end might spell a new beginning for us.


In a sense, father's was more of a 'politically motivated murder' than a suicide. The reason for my assertion being the following parenthesis: With the elections imminent, the then ruling party found that they were losing ground among people and only some drastic policy change could have saved them from a debacle. Soon enough, the shrewd political think tank devised an ambitious and elusive propaganda: "All sort of debts and farm loans of suicided farmers shall be waivered and an incentive to begin anew shall be distributed among their families, once we are vested with the power to serve our people."

A lucrative proposition, one must say. And it did make an impact.


To her delight, our cow found herself unleashed and to my terror, I found my visionary father's swaying cadaver. A suicide note - which contained a confident declaration that the almighty has been entrusted with the task of looking us after and a direction to my mother to exercise her franchise in favour of those shrewd servants  of people who inspired him to commit such a valorous deed - was all that was left behind. And when several other fathers followed the suit, the eager servants managed to retain their coveted seats, thanks to the fidelity and dutifulness of widowed mothers. As for the promise, it goes without saying that it was comfortably breached. 

This being the case, I grew up and with me, or rather outgrowing me, our debts. Consequently, I had to grapple with the posers that life kept throwing my way even before toys and fairy tales ceased to amuse me. Only if life were as simple as the  run-of-the-mill celluloid scripts which had heroes who were impudent enough to challenge the predicaments and fortunate enough to emerge victorious. Or some windfall....only something as fantastic as that could have saved us from the claws of compounding troubles. But it was not to be. And by the time I gave up hope in any such miracles, I found myself labouring hard to eke out a living. Since then, that is to say, from the eleventh year of my 'survival', it has been nothing but indifferent toil. And the only outstanding and unforgettable event in the course of two decades of confinement occured a couple of months back - it was the death of my poor mother, which further aggravated my dispassion for life.


Sitting back and reflecting upon that unsavoury past, I can't help heaving a sigh of exasperation. Has life been worth living ? At least that till her death, I had my mother to live for. But now ? Back in my village, I have proved myself a worthy successor to my father and enjoys an even better reputation as a debtor. As I wish to emulate him in all aspects to the very end, I have chosen to tread the very path in which he finally sought refuge. The only difference between us being that while he (fancied that) he had everything to die for, I (find that I) have nothing to live for.

** 

I presume that either the owlish, old receptionist cum room-boy or  some police constable would be reading this suicide note. Hopefully, I have furnished enough reasons to qualify as a dignified corpse. After all, in an age when fools kill themselves for reasons as trifling as a love failure, I feel that I am completely justified. A few hundred rupees left herewith - provided that the old owl keeps his hands off it - shall be employed in arranging a decent funeral and for other related expenses so that I can rest in peace thinking that at least in death, I managed to salvage some respect....


P.S:- Our wise village postmaster had told me that dead bodies are subjected to mutilation so as to identify the exact cause and time of death. I beg you not to meddle with my corpse. I tell you that I intend to die by consuming pesticide (so that it might prove to be a symbolic protest on behalf of all those wretched peasants) at around eleven in the night, after having a final ramble through the streets of this alien town, observing with a disillusioned yet arrogantly mocking air, how dearly the plain folks cling on to their invaluable life........

Yours Sincerely,

The Deceased 

7th June 1999
I feel guilty for being anachronistically alive. Perhaps, fate has it that I should perish on a rainy day as this. Yesterday, when the dreariness of all those years were shaken off, I felt so light that fluttering contentedly among those chained beings who milled about in the streets, my eyes fell upon a hermitage that promised even more tranquillity. A tavern it was. Half an hour later, I was feeling unbearably light that the senses digressed into some other world. 


Waking up from the trance, I found myself by the roadside gutter. A new day had dawned and I was outraged for outliving my expectancy. Only then did the afterthought strike that I don't have a clue about where my lodging was. The only idea about the inn's location being the opposite medical shop with a pretty girl - of whom I had vantage from my window - and that it was a shabby, old structure with dingy rooms and an owlish, old receptionist cum room-boy. It was only after a frantic search in every nook and cranny of the labyrinthine streets that I found my way back. I hope that this answers the intrusive questions that the owl raised this morning - as to where I was on the previous night - which I evaded then.


Perusing what I have written down till now, I see that a mere suicide-note has now attained the dimensions of a 'suicide-diary'. Since I don't have anything in particular to be preoccupied with, I write on. Out of the desire to save myself from living further, I have resolved not to heed the temptation of tavern any more. Hopefully, this drizzle would be my swan song.
Yours Sincerely,
The-late-to-be-Late


8th June 1999

"What if after all the tribulations, fortune is finally beckoning ?"

Precisely this thought prevented me yet again from self-annihilation. Though the assumption went terribly awry, it was helpful in making me aware of the existence of an alter ego that harboured an intense desire to live.

So unforgiving was the untimely rain that I was confined into my room all the day. In the noon, the old owl knocked at my door and asked if I needed a bucket. Noticing the bemusement upon my face, he explained bitterly that since morning, all the inhabitants had been reproaching him for the leaking roof and the only solution he could have offered was providing an extra bucket and a promise to refund a small amount for the inconvenience caused. Feeling sorry for the old man, I assured him that I won't be asking for any refund, and he happily provided me with two buckets.

In the evening, fording across the inundated street to have what I imagined to be my final cup of coffee, I noticed a  quartet of guttersnipes who squatted under the awning of the coffee house. At this point, I must confess that I am a reasonably good man and the plight of these urchins filled me with empathy, from which arose sympathy. An invitation for coffee was gratefully accepted and in return for the favour shown, they presented me with a lottery ticket. Back home, being a proletarian, I used to spend a considerable share of my daily wages upon purchasing tickets. Therefore, these tokens of probable fortune being an old addiction, I decided to give one more chance for a prospective windfall to occur, only to find this morning that I made a fool of myself.

And now, it seems as if even death has forlorn me. The resplendent images of the other world that I fancied are slowly falling apart. And with the money (that I managed by selling odds and ends of housewares and my tools) running out, it is inevitable that I must be done with as soon as possible.

Hopefully,
The would-be-suicide


9th June 1999
Today, I have no qualms or conflicts to trouble me whatsoever. World is not entirely hopeless, afterall. For if I were to die on any of those foregone days, it would have been an injustice to myself. Not that I have given up the idea of suicide and contemplated upon living on. No, not even for a split second. But an end without savouring the primal pleasure would have been absolutely juvenile. Indeed, carnality is the quintessence of life and death.


The dire straits that I had been thrown into from time immemorial was instrumental in driving my basic instincts into oblivion that it took an obscene poster of some porn film to remind me of that unsatiated appetite. By the time I walked out of the theatre after the show (the audience of which were mostly senile men for some queer reason), the decision to break my celibacy was made.


Delving any further into the details of the night would prove distracting for the constable or even the old owl. I would sum up by saying that the whore was a very fine, professional lady and the bitch remorselessly snatched all the money that I had, sparing a trivial sum of twenty-three rupees, with which I couldn't have hoped for a decent funeral or even afforded to buy some pesticide. Blasted be the bloody village postmaster who thinks of himself as an omniscient and dares to blabber about the incredibly virtuous prostitutes, of whom he had read in classic novels of yore.


As for now (and forever), it seems as if I must follow my father's modus operandi and hang myself. But all that I have is a dhoti, which I am presently wearing and availing it would mean that my cadaver would be bottomless. And it would be quite dishonourable - especially with the perpetually open window - if the pretty pharmacist finds tomorrow morning that I didn't show the solemnity to properly clothe myself before hanging. As such, I am filching your dhoti, my dear old owl and as an atonement, I bequeath my twenty-three rupees in your trunk. Go and have your tea, while I shall have my peace.
Yours Sincerely,
The Sure-to-be-dead


19th June 1999

There is as much of a reason for some things to abstain from happening, as there is for some things to precipitately fall into place. Lying in the hospital bed as a disgraced 'attempted suicide' specimen, I can't help laughing at myself in spite of an aching jaw, broken neck and disfigured body. For I can't think of anything more slapstick than my bid at death. Thanks to the antiquity of the inn and the unjust rain, the termites had feasted upon the wooden framework and consequently, the emaciated joist found me too cumbersome.

Two days later, I opened my eyes to the more promising concrete ceiling of the government hospital. Most humiliating. Even more disconcerting was the fact that the old man at the inn, who had read my diary, took a liking for me despite being aware of the derogatory manner in which he was addressed in it. Returning the irreverent manuscript, he told me that initially, he was angry for all the troubles that I had caused him; for, with his dhoti being wound around my neck and my wallet being found in his trunk, he found himself to be a suspect in the eyes of those stupid policemen, at least for a while. But then, he felt that I, being an extremely ill-starred youth with a good heart, deserved pity. And he, being a solitary soul without any kith or kin, thinks that he has found a worthy successor in me. He says that as soon as I recover, I shall be employed as his apprentice. My job would be to coax those in search of a lodging into the inn and serve them as a room-boy. But I won't object to the idea of such a vocation as proposed by the old man. Particularly considering that besides the comforts that it offer, it means that I can afford to have the vantage of that pretty lady forever.

20th June 1999

Thanks to the stiff neck, I now have a steady head, in every sense of the word. On an introspection, I discover that perhaps our old man is feeling for me, what I felt for those urchins the other day. Perhaps that all human beings, despite the seeming disparities, are miserable for some reason or the other. If so, then why mind living ? Maybe because they are afraid to die, maybe that they don't take themselves so seriously, or that they are way too optimistic, or perhaps, they think that happiness lies in identifying oneself with others and loving them unconditionally. But the bygone days have taught me a thing or two, resolved my problems to some extent and most of all, answered my question in the affirmative....that life is worth living.

Gratefully,

He-who-loves-life