Introduction to the author:
Anshritha M Rai, born and raised in Bangalore is currently pursuing law. She has a penchant for ghoulish fiction. The theme of her writings generically orbit around death, debilitation, miseries underlying life and so on. Writing invariably injects a spark of life in her. She has an eye for creativity and pixel perfection.
Not cool, Nakul.
“Suicide is an indicator of cowardice”, his wise father proclaimed solemnly. Nakul was a young lad then. His eyes shone with flakes of life, soon to be smothered into dust. A bright; clear face, blemishes then were playing truant engaging in absenteeism throughout his stereotypical, vibrantly carefree childhood.
But every story bears witness to a sudden climax. All songs reach their crescendo only to later dramatically fall in beat. Each orgasm inevitably ceases and post childhood, life in its purest draconian form kicks in.
He grappled wildly, like most of us do, gradually beginning to loathe this Earth and all that it accommodates. Lonely hours were spent in dissecting the anatomy of the world, life and the things we continue to address as humans. The boy had a simmering predilection for enchanting philosophy, not that I really needed to tell you that. Nature’s deplorably despicable afflictions were coldly received with his smirking eyes.
Oft, in a grievously inebriated state, he was heard to declare “Life’s diabolical. Its shitty guys, irrespective of how you take it.” He’d pause eloquently for a few moments, patiently waiting for the dire implications of the generalization to penetrate and would then reminisce “Unfortunately, I just hadn’t gotten my head around this earlier.”
He seemed ordinary. Nothing unusual, nothing special about the pretty boy encumbered by the burden that life tends to impose. On the face of it, nothing about him could spur anyone to take a closer look. Like the woman pouring you scalding coffee. The unobserved ticket inspector in your theatre. But my dear, you couldn’t have been any more blatantly mistaken.
If anyone were to carefully inspect him, they’d undoubtedly be spellbound for perpetuity. He’d guffaw but not once did his face light up or did his eyes crinkle, as invariably happens when one cackles with laughter. He appeared to be watching his surroundings closely but actually had drifted far away from the realms of reality. One closer look, beloved reader and the veracity of my allegations would be validated. It really wasn’t a conscious act he devoted effort to. A certain, microscopic portion serenely soaked in this painstakingly fastidious identity that he subliminally assumed. But, the other mighty chunks venomously despised it. There subsists something morbidly mysterious about him but hardly did anything suspicious ever surface.
Life, by no means is even remotely simple but it can be simply classified into dual categories of people. The “rhapsodic content’ and the “ghoulish miserable”. He was catalogued under the “miserable” but I’m sure your razor-sharp minds would’ve already computed that. He sneered at life and its myriad forms, covertly envying the ‘content’, just as all the other miserables always do.
His father could be appointed as the proud ambassador of that division. Nakul truly wanted to emulate his father’s erudition. Surreptitiously, he wanted to live life, but the poor boy just never could fathom what that ever meant.
It was the day the electric blue of the sparsely clouded sky strayed away. Monotonous Monday. A perfectly good day to kill himself, Nakul deduced, pragmatically, of course. But why, you ask?
The poet shackled by the confines of his psyche burst forth and enigmatically sprung to life. He ever-so poignantly surmised:
“The years raced. Responsibilities surfaced.
Happiness dwindled. Atrocities peaked.
Displeasure attacked. Humanitarianism hid.”
“Apologies, my dearest Father. You preached and professed but here, in my arms lies my quenching gratification. Suicide’s a sign of cowardice, you’d periodically remark. Well, I must concede, you may be right. It necessitates immense strength to endure this vain; sweltering life. But let it suffice that I am done.”
He hardened the clasp on the loose noose, smartly marching toward the morosely welcoming chair. “Beep Beep” warned the phone, shattering the emphatic silence. “Hmm, perhaps I can live a minute longer”, he chuckled. Bemused, Nakul sauntered toward the phone.
Mother at 12:30 texts:
Darling, papa’s no more.
He killed himself.