Suicide is not Glamorous, Heroic or a Beautiful Sacrifice

chillibreeze writer — SRIJAYA CHAR

‘I have never been afraid of death’, she murmured to herself. ‘I would rather die now, while I am young and healthy than live to be old, ugly and infirm and die of disease causing untold hardship to me and my family.’, she said to herself, trying to convince herself of her decision. ‘I will not be able to live without him. I can’t and I won’t. What about him? Will he live without me? Who cares? Once I am gone who cares what happens to the world and what happens to me.’ She had made up her mind after a long fight with her conscience. She had had a sleepless night and had tossed and turned in her bed all night. Now, she felt elated at her decision to end her life. ‘I am heroic. Death is beautiful!’ she kept repeating it over and over again. ‘Death is beautiful. Yes. Death is beautiful.’

Nita had seen the beauty of the tragedy long before she had even thought about it. She had read almost all the Greek tragedies and the poignant death of sacrifice had always appealed to her. Tragic death, to her, was beautiful.

She was on top of a cliff. She looked down into the beautiful clear water. She felt happy that she had never learnt how to swim. ‘I will just jump and that’s it. I, Anita will be no more.’ How lovely the thought seemed. ‘Is it cowardly? Escapist?’ No. According to her, it was heroic. She said that to herself again and again.

‘What would my parents feel? How would they react? It serves them right for having put me into such a predicament. Should I punish them with this?’

‘I wonder whether Jeevan would feel the same way. Where could he be now? What would he be thinking? Maybe he’s at work. He may not even be thinking about me at this moment. How foolish I am.’

They had planned a wonderful life together. They had never talked about love, romance, marriage and sex. They had only talked about a number of other things. Their conversations were stimulating and intellectual. Philosophy, psychology, books, authors and movies. They just talked and talked without realizing that they may never be together in their life. They did not even sit close to each other. They always kept their distance. He would be sitting on a rock three feet away from her and she would be sitting on a low branch of a tree. They would just smile into each other’s eyes and knew what it was all about.

There was a sudden commotion somewhere down below and Anita came to her senses. She looked down again at the blue waters and the horizon at a distance. Everything seemed very incoherent. When she saw people down below, she dived behind a rock. She peeped once again. ‘O God!’ She would not be able to do it now. She would be seen. Slowly she climbed down to see what the noise was about.

There were people. She ran in to the crowd to get a glimpse of what they were all looking at. There was a silent shriek within her mind. She was not prepared to see a dead body with its eyes open. There was pain and horror in them. Her stomach churned when she saw blood streaking down the man’s head.

‘He must have hit a rock.’

‘Maybe he drowned.’

May be he committed suicide.’

The word ‘suicide’ hit her hard. She had never imagined that she was also contemplating the same thing. No, hers was different. It should not be termed that. It was something more ‘beautiful’ than that.

She saw the man’s face and convulsed. She found herself running away from the scene.

‘Death is not beautiful. It is ugly, sickening and shocking.’ The horrible face of the man seemed to be chasing her. She ran breathlessly until she reached home. ‘O God! I would never want to be like that. Eyes open, mouth frothing, features grotesque and the body bluish and stiff. If only I had known death was like this, I would never have contemplated it’, she said to herself in a shrill voice. ‘It was a lie. It was all a lie. What my heart told me was a lie. There is nothing great in death. It should not be inflicted upon ourselves. God knows when to take us.’

Her mind raced back to the day when her grandfather had died. He had died when he was 85, old and emancipated. But there was peace in his death. There was a smile on his lips and he seemed content and happy to leave the world. But that man. That man whom she had seen a few minutes ago? His face was all twisted and ugly. There was pain and horror.

‘It was just a bad dream’, she consoled herself.

‘Anita, lunch is ready. Are you hungry?’ That was Mother.

She ran to her mother and hugged her tightly. ‘Yes, Ma. I’ll be at the table in a minute. I need a bath’.

She had a good bath. Felt cleansed. The September sunshine was sweet. The lawns looked greener. The soil looked browner. The sky seemed bluer. The sun seemed to smile.

‘Life is beautiful. I want to live. My life is mine. I’ll be a wife, a mother, a grandmother and die peacefully at 85 just like my grandfather. A beautiful death. That’s what I want.’ Her mind raced with pleasant thoughts.

‘You seem to be in a good mood today’, said her mother as she was laying the table.

‘Yes, Ma. I am ravenous! What have you made for lunch?’ Anita was really hungry and happy.

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—About our writer:

Srijaya writes for chillibreeze.

Suicide is not Glamorous, Heroic or a Beautiful Sacrifice

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