Crooning over the hotel balcony, she tries to find a way out of her dilemma. She is stylish, she is chic, she is fashionable. She is also suicidal. To jump or not to jump? The big question that has always troubled her, seems on the brink of being appropriately answered. Quite literally, on the brink.
Oddly enough, she is thinking of newbie storytellers with less than reputable publications in less than reputable magazines, whose stories always end with a suicide; stories with happy beginnings and gory endings. She is amused. She remembers reading about heartbreak, unbearable sorrow, incredible disappointments, insanity even boredom. It amuses her that despite so many stories, there is no mention of saturation and the search for a deathly reset. Game over! Meenakshi over and out!
How can something so common and natural be so incomprehensible to so many? What is the point of living any further when the only remaining prospects are disease and distress in a life otherwise happy and sufficiently satisfying. There may never be the lack of will to live, just the pointlessness of doing so any longer. Life requires hunger, a desperation unequal to mere intention and certainly more turbulent. In absence of that hunger living becomes a question of mere mechanics and perpetually recurring processes; processes resembling chores; chores resembling a death wish. Hence, suicide.
Way down below the ocean roars with delight. It foams and drools wolfishly, at the imminent suicide, itching to claim its much coveted prize. She hesitates a little. She does not have second thoughts. She merely finds revolting the idea of jumping head first into the ocean, breaking her skull open upon impact, splattering her brains all over the wet rocks for a moment, until they are washed away by the outgoing waves, rendering her unrecognisable. She doesn’t want her battered head to be the image imprinted upon the memories of those who will grieve for her. Such trifles. She shakes her head. How can such a crucial moment of her life, rather death be overshadowed by something so trivial as her facial composition? She shudders at how banal and trivial the human mind really is? It will stoop to any lows to protect itself. Is survival our only purpose? Is that how Nature built us? If Nature did build us that way, then may be Nature made a daft error? May there is no God or if there is, he sure isn’t bright enough to understand that human beings need more than mere survival to live. They need more than status quo and satisfaction to strive and endeavour. Free will is usually capable of taking care of such puzzling conundrums. However, at times like these, dangling from the balcony waiting to loosen one’s grip over the iron railings, one really wonders how could God have been so stupid and so blind to one of the most obvious paradoxes of human nature. May be its all for the best. If God is actually this stupid or non-existent then there is really no point in dilly dallying any further. But then, she must not be pessimistic about the whole affair. After all, her life was not sad, her life was not a pit of tears but a rather happy little flower valley, where she meandered down like a cheerful brook. Disappointment with a nincompoop God or his gauche absence, is not a good enough reason to commit suicide. After all, her death must neither be grieved nor be laughed at. One whimsical day on the balcony has the capability to redefine her past in a way that will make her appear as if she had been slowly descending into madness. People, especially the ones that grieve and look to find a meaning in something as whimsical, emotional and illogical as a suicide, have this incomparable ability to look for and find clues that may tell them why the deceased actually committed suicide. This must be done, for it is essential for closure and vindication of the belief in the logical order of things. Things reasonable or unreasonable, must be dealt with the same yardstick for we forgot to renew our philosophy after Aristotle passed away quietly smiling away at the illogical sentiment of his own logical refrain.
She is starting to get bored, standing out there on the brim with nothing to do except contemplate suicide. She must find a good enough justification for her death quickly or even the attempt to commit suicide stands the risk of saturation. Why does she feel this need to justify though? She has lived a genuinely blissful life and that too, on her own terms. Why does she need to start answering to anybody at the moment of her death? It is of no consequence either what the reason for her death is, as she will not be alive to comment on whether such a justification was satisfactory or not. May be she is having second thoughts.
Now that she admits it, those misgivings rage on prominently and flood her consciousness with more and more doubt. She starts to think of her daughter and her adorable grand kids. How difficult would it be to explain to them why their beloved ‘Mumma’/’Amma’ chose to leave them and fall into the ocean? Her face fills with crimson and she starts to cry, slowly at first and then profusely, tears falling down at her feet, some splattering on the outer ridge of the balcony, some bouncing off into the ocean.She is still dangling but only physically. Her mind is made up. She must live. There is still so much to live for. There is still enough that needs to be seen and done. She needs to watch her grand kids grow up and get married and have kids of their own someday. She can’t give up on life like this merely because she thinks that there is nothing else worth struggling for and living for. It is New Year’s eve and there is a great party awaiting her. She will get off from this balcony and put on her most wonderful dress and her most opulent jewelry, and then bedazzle everyone with her natural urbane swag.
With the thought of a new dawn and the flurry of hope after the lifting of a great burden, Meenakshi attempted to climb over the balcony to safety. Slight scrambling of the feet on the outer edge of the balcony and she slips. She slips on her own tears and hits her head on the iron rails. She is still holding on to those iron rails, but with no footing and a concussed head. Her vision is blurry but she knows that Death has played a cruel trick on her. Her grip loosens further, but she does not even try to save herself. She lets go. She falls with the wind beneath her hair and in a state of weightlessness and extreme turbulence. She smiles at the inevitability of her fate. Death you sly dog! Such a long life wasn’t enough to break my fall.