Skip to content

A Suicide Note

January 14, 2011

Receiving feedbacks for your writing is a good thing. But, when someone says you write like Chetan Bhagat…well , er,, seriously its embarrassing. I don’t write to flaunt my IIT-IIM degrees (although I don’t have either of them), nor to prove a point that I’m stud enough to have sex with classmate or Professor’s daughter or whatever. And more importantly, I don’t write to preach the world or change the nation like this gentleman. (Read last para)

It so happened that few years ago I was forced to read ‘One night @ the call centre’, mainly because I had literally nothing to do. Lets skip the reviewing part. And sometimes later, I was even forced to watch its Film adaptation – this time mainly to vent out the week’s frustration after working for the Guru bhai’s brat son. Indian film Industry could never get worse than that. An already pointless story made more pointless with logic and fun reduced to atomic levels ran (?) at 25 frames/s non-stop for two and half hours in front my eyes. “Korangu kaiyil poomalai (A garland in the monkey’s hand) is bad. The film was ‘Korangu kaiyil seruppu malai’ (Floaters (aka bathroom chappal) in the hands of a monkey). End result – I wrote this psycho story , throughout that Saturday night.

————————————–

Shruti has finally gone to the US. “I just wanted to add some meaning to your life and so I did it, after all Sundaram is a kind worker, nothing else” she said when I stood in front of her as a proud man. She was everything to me and she was nothing less than my everything. 8 hours of kabaddi everyday has made my skin and chin rough but it taught me how to concentrate. I concentrated. I made a concentrate of rodent poison with tequila shot. Tequila for me and poison for my love. Looking through my highball glass I see myself. I see my past“Kabaddi, kabaddi, kabaddi” – three men to dodge and the cup is home. Unlike regular kabaddi players I’m fair, normally built and had agreeable looks. My looks weren’t brutal enough to threaten the monsters to touch who was the mission. A few tricky acrobats inside the rectangle and few minutes of traditional ‘pranayama’ and yes she is mine. I could get her all for myself overtaking those geeks that impressed her over years. I concentrated. I concentrate. A thin layer of salt on this tiny lemon slice does all the magic. I have never felt my adrenalin rushing so fast in me. The bar tender looks funny, no lesser does the opponent.

These computer champs have bruised my happiness like anything over years. All she liked was a few codes. It’s so beautiful to get things done with a few mathematical expressions. “It all depends on how you define the object” she often tells her pals. How do I define my love for her, how do I define computer, how do I define this toothpick that held this magical lemon until few seconds back. This bulge in my glass reminds me of Mr. Shankar’s belly. The Shankar in Shruti Shankar. He wanted her to get an MS from the renowned Massachusetts. ‘Kabaddi, Kabaddi, Kabaddi’. I’m concentrating. Very ambitious fellow-this Shankar. He automated and computerized everything in life. He would even develop an Artificial Neural network model for kabaddi, assuming my breathe rate to be constant and using other variables, constants, differentiating and applying Simpson’s rule on a million data to convince himself that ‘it all depends on how you define it’. Here I’m doing the same ‘pranayama’ that he has been doing in the mornings for four decades. He wanted the world for her and I want her as my world. When it comes to ambition or loss, there is no such thing called ‘small’ or ‘big’. A child’s loss of a toy and a king’s loss of his crown are of same magnitude. This Cup is going to get me Shruti. A bronze plated aluminum cup against a Massachusetts Gold Medal. Yes they are of equal magnitude.

Kabaddi, Kabaddi, kabaddi. This fellow is barbaric and he abuses me. He is afraid of defeat and he doesn’t know that even I’m. This defeat will never let me play the game again. She looked anxiously. I hear some strange noises.” Why should I go out? Am I not paying for every drop of intoxication? You bloody…..” Vreeeellllll goes the whistle…Out! This fellow is gone. I pried him out of the box with my legs. Just two more and I’m losing sight. The idlis with Tomato chutney that I had as my breakfast seem to be betraying me. Stamina is draining. I feel like sleeping on this cold floor. No, the sun is hot and the match is on, why do I feel cold ? I could see several suns sticking on to long poles at equa  distances. But I got to win this. Just kick these two fellows. 

I proposed to her. Straight on face once after trying to give her a love letter in a floppy disk. That was the closest computer related stuff that I knew which I thought would impress her. She had something called ‘pen drive’ for her usage and found a floppy disk to be very much outdated. The letter was never opened. Still 5 minutes to go and the whistle will go forever. I’m concentrating and I’m sober. I could feel the heat as she gave a piercing look. She wouldn’t have even dreamt of such a disgusting proposal. For me, saying ‘I love you’ in a sports jersey without any rose or card was cool enough. Now I’m out on the ground with that very cool jersey.

The blue one, my favorite. But I don’t understand what this jean is doing on my lower torso. I don’t feel like wearing it nor do I feel like removing it. I have to concentrate and I have no time to think about it. “You have been fooling around without any aim all these years. I can’t give my life to such an aimless fellow even though I kind of like you”. Now that’s the signal, this studious shy gal cannot bluntly express herself like we kabaddi players. After all she needs some security, some kind of insurance. When a silly two-wheeler comes with insurance, it’s natural to expect a boy friend with some future for him. I got to win my love through something that I always love. Kabaddi. Yes Kabaddi is my weapon and the victory in this National Championship Finals is worthy enough to please Mr. Shankar, my dad’s boss. Just 4 minutes more to reach my destiny.

I have travelled through this many a times and I know the exact time it will take. Whether our child will become a Kabaddi player or a computer expert is not yet decided, but I will never let my child become one like this unkind traffic police. He shouts at me for not having a Head light in my bike while there were so many on the road who dint have the bike itself. My goodness, what a crazy country is this, no wonder Shankar uncle wants my Shruti to go to the US.

My head is banging like anything. The sun is right on my head and my body shivers in spite of this heavy jacket. I think I should slow down, but anything less than 60 is not cool. I’m sweating, my limbs tremble. I’m an expert in handling these slog sessions of kabaddi but still I need an armor to guide me. This is a personal match and I have to be careful. I looked into her anxious eyes. They were rolling like two marbles as usual. Vrooom, what was that? What happened to her eyes, and why one is red and other orange and it’s really strange to have eyes one on top of the other. No, now they are ok. Two nice marbles.

I’m looking at her eyes and eyes alone because I believe in my love; it will take me to the gates of success. They rolled left and right, synchronous to my two opponents’ movements and I moved exactly opposite. That was the best ever dodging this nation had seen in a kabaddi match. Vreeellll…..one man down and I’m still holding my breath. Cheers got louder and louder until it reached its threshold limit. Now it’s calm and silent. I think I forgot to fetch the key. All I could see was a pale face that would have looked like mine some 20 years ago. “it was so generous of shruti madam to give you a boost up in your life like this, you should fall at her feet rather than expecting her marry you, you fool” said that familiar voice with a tint of grief. I fell down immediately but recovered in a microsecond.

But now the ground is very soft and seemed familiar. I feel ‘at home’. My mission is not yet over. This tiny person has to be finished to fulfill all my dreams. I look back to her eyes. They aren’t moving and she looks younger. She changed her clothes within no time and has got a bouquet in her arms standing still. May be she is waiting for that moment of my success and to wish me with that bouquet. Her unmoving eyes convey that I have to look straight and concentrate. I’m going to choke you little fellow. Hey you are too soft for a last man. But he holds me like lizard and pulsate me here and there; I can’t get rid of him.

The cheering sound start hearing back. The final step is not that easy especially in such ambitious missions. This guy is repressive. The more he holds me the more I start liking him. His aroma, the very exotic aroma that induces more sleep in the mornings. I could sense that I’m in the verge of winning and I want to see shruti show some expression and this guy has literally stuffed my face and its too late to stop him. He is killing me and I jumped at shruti so that she could help. She never came and her eye balls never moved. This tiny fellow is angry that I would cross the line to win when I jumped at shruti. He will never leave until I die. I touched my heart to realize. I’m alive….I’m alive…I was alive. A laminated chart paper fluttered near the window which read “Winner, Mr.Srinivasan s/o Sundaram”.

Advertisements
One Comment leave one →
  1. Rushi permalink
    July 17, 2011 4:22 pm

    So this is your blog. Huh!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: