The Suicide-Note

It was under the strong yellow light at the police station. The investigation officers held it by the side with tweezers, careful not to soil its sanctity. Rajdeep qualified for the IPS while doing his Masters in English Literature and this piece according to him, was a fine example in its build to be a contemporary classic. If only it were flash fiction he thought. He decided to make a photocopy of it and take it home. Of course the photocopy would never be able to duplicate the attention given to the page in which it was written, a neat, off-white, unlined page from a tasteful notepad. The handwriting was beautifully legible. Perhaps a convent bred. The curls and curves were well-defined, denoting how meticulously decisive the action must have been. And, it was written in jet black ink. Once again, such a diligent habit to retain! She used a fountain pen. He recollected how peacefully the silver Waterman lay beside the note. Surely, she had the makings of a writer, a Great One. He slipped the photocopy of the note and proceeded with the forensics of the chemical infused body. Strangely, she looked restless even at death. Rajdeep returned home that night, to his bachelor's pad well kept by an array of government provided helps and post dinner, returned to the his coffee and the note. He began from the beginning. It did not feel like what the original felt, traces of life still intact, yet, it was better than having nothing. He visualised her writing it, poised, spontaneous and beautiful. Hell attractive. Between his fingers he strained his focus to return.

"Whoever it is who would be reading this -- Hello, and Sorry.

Sorry, because, you must be in a riot right now having to deal with an unceremonious death in your district and you may have certain struggles in finding your way around my language. 

I have no idea of how these things are written. All those deaths that we grew up in, out of authors' lives, they seem vigorously full of life. Mine is a resigned one, comparably. I do not much respect the uncouth spilling of blood or the overused chair-rope-fan props. I would give in to chemicals (chemistry never suited my intelligence). I also do not see the requirement of this note, except that this is what is done. So be it. What do I write?

There is no one I hold responsible for my death (were it successful), so all you officers can evacuate yourself from the pain of another impending, unattended file. There is no one I write this to, or, for; hence, I am grateful even to the fly who sits upon it. My part of life has been rather private. I am the board on which all my relationships pinned their hopes, ideas, expectations (I was? Oh yes, I was). 

I was fairly popular, relatively successful, rather well-loved. I severed ties with all things that could turn bitter -- a husband, a demanding partner, a morose living. I indulged in desires once in a while. One could say I cooked well, wrote well, laughed well -- all when I thought I would, I did. Yet, all along, there had been this clockwork chiming of another voice within, which I could never identify. Slowly, surreptitiously, the voice got a face, much like mine, and one fine absolutely harmless morning, it overcame my being. Two lives we became (do not turn this over to them psychoanalysts. They have a tendency to equate every case with an existing mould).

This other voice gave birth to non-existent fears, ruthless vivid images and brew in me an extensive disappointment, regarding...regarding everything, you could say. I chose to defeat her and believe my death will be the only way by which her voice can be diffused too. Yesterday I sat with my whiskey and thought long. Wouldn't that mean my defeat too (she implored)? No, I convinced myself. Would you, reader, ever like to know such a person? Loved her enough to cocoon her from her voices?

No one, barring myself should be held responsible for my untimely death. It will break the routine of my ineffective living. And the drudgery of unwanted intimacy.

I still wish, vaguely, that I could live to slay her. I wished.

And I long for just one answer. How do I look at death?

You cannot reach me,

Rukmini Anand."

Each time Rajdeep read it, he found the voice within him more audible than before. Rukmini, you looked restless. Restless, but attractive. How I wish I knew you.  It was dawn. Life, like the petals of flowers was opening out of his window. Another night had gone from the dire time-ticking of the impending administrative examinations. He returned to his desk after a wash to read what he wrote, with absolutely no memory of having written it.

It was scary. The Suicide-Note.