Once upon a time there died a man. Though he went through the motions of life, he lacked one essential trait- he was not made of flesh and blood. He needed neither food nor drink and he would come out, just as he went in if you placed him in an airless cavity of the earth's bowels…….
Ram was ordinary in every sense of the word. He had to work to satisfy the demands of this stomach. He bled if you pierced his skin. His eyes watered if smoke or dust entered them and his legs ran if and ever his brain urged him to. But his heart was weak. Not as in the muscular organ that pumped life into you, but in the context of faith and conviction. Though the "mill" that he was a "run" of, churned out many like him into the world, he believed he was special. He believed that he was extraordinarily stupid, extraordinarily ungifted, extraordinarily common and above all extraordinarily detested. But he was just ordinary, painfully ordinary; and no one has strong emotions about ordinary, most of all, detest. Ram was so ordinary that no one noticed him, a fly on the wall. Actually, not even a fly on the wall, given today's sterile conditions that any winged creature causes such confusion and commotion as a dragon's visit would. Women would rather yawn than speak to him. And men, well, men would rather go to the toilet. It isn't a sin to be ordinary, but it's a sin to stick to its heels like a piece of shit that sticks to the underneath of your shoes.
Ram let the coils of self-pity fall around him and it was in its suffocating embrace that he slept, dreaming his grey dreams. Everyday, he would read the papers and remember nothing about the 12-year old who got raped and killed or Iraq or the farmer suicides after he was done with his morning coffee. He would do morning puja without actually making contact with God. His thoughts were black spaces where beetles of jadedness bumped about blindly against the glassy surface of his eyes, like the bird that entered Tom's ear in those Tom and Jerry cartoons. Words of devotion bereft of sentiment fell like dung before the image of love. One day the coil of self-pity got a little too tight around his neck and as suffocation always does, it blocked out his ears. His ears were blocked to the voice of God. They found his body on the railway tracks the next day.
I didn’t have to do it, you know. But I did it anyway. Why? Cause I didn't want to struggle. I was the lazy butterfly whose freedom was the result of the effort of an external source. I didn't fight my way out of my protective larva skin; someone assisted my way out- made it easier. But maybe if they hadn't I would have appreciated my freedom better. Maybe I would have given my life a second chance- maybe struggle would have saved me. But my chances have gone b y- no more second chances.
The curse of death is binding and complete. The scorch of a soul's torment isn't something the flesh would understand. Endless nights of insomnia and nightmares you can't wake from, reaching out to you with gnarled, hairy fingers; decomposition within inches of your face. But this isn't half as bad as being the fetid smell amongst the living. I see their lips twist in disgust, their only acknowledgement to my presence. The fly on the wall degraded to a bad smell. But at least they acknowledge the smell. The bitterness of a bad death isn't something expressible in quantitative terms. It would make a body crack, coming out like worms, eating you inside out and outside in. but a soul, what does it do to a soul of uncertain material? It does what you do to a stubborn bag of potato chips that just won’t open. It wrings it, it punches holes, it pulls it, it tears it, it scratches; only, the soul never rips open- the struggle continues. And the word " suicide" from living lips makes you feel the wheels of the train, mashing your body, reducing you to pulp- your last scream, "Oh God!!", knowing that not even He is listening anymore. Knowing that you cut the tie that binds. Knowing that you cursed yourself- took out your tongue and put worms in its place. Took out my heart and put filth there. Took out my God and placed decay in His place. To hear " suicide" from living lips switches on a hundred and one bright lights blinding your eyes - hundred and one bright lights of a hundred and one oncoming trains. "Move out!" "Run!" "Get off the tracks." You scream, till you think your lungs will burst, and blood will spurt out from your mouth. But neither happens, because you're dead, remember!?
The agonies of life are certainly difficult. But I'll tell you, living the agony of your death is, by far, worse.
(This is a really old story, written like 4 or 5 years ago. I seem to running out of stuff to write. Till then, recycle i will)