dear reader of my mail,
how
are you doing today? not a great icebreaker, i know. well, i have never
been spectacular at interactions. i was not sure how to approach you,
R. can i call you 'R'? R is for reader, okay? just saying.
today, as the sun was shutting its shop for the day, i keyed in the
helpline number, but couldn't hit the call button. just like a few years
ago when i thought to call before contemplating to jump off from a
moving train or last year when i wanted to play a single-player
tic-tac-toe on my wrist
using a glistening sharp blade.
you
see, R, as i was growing up, i always failed in learning this
widely-spoken language of self-expression. but i thought, at least
today, i should do myself a favour and indulge in doing something i'm
moderately good at - writing. i would have added a tinge of romance to
this interaction by putting a pen to paper and posting an actual
handwritten letter to your office address, but you'll have to
blame this pandemic. Or maybe you're just relieved that you're being
spared from this theatrics. :P
i
won't make it long, i promise. i know you might have to look at several
such emails and attend calls daily. you may not hurry to respond to
mine. it's fine if you want to use your time to respond to the ones who
urgently need help. i completely understand. :)
so, here goes...
as
my life is passing me by, i stumble upon this beautiful book, which i
feel, talks to me. it even touches a raw nerve sometimes when it
narrates a story which is eerily similar to mine. it makes me feel, as
if, i belong to that book or as if it's written for me.
its greyed, yellowed pages bear the same scars as mine. it bleeds words
soaked in excruciating pain and heartache as mine. it asks me questions
which no one ever does. it makes me cry, it makes me uncomfortable, it
makes me anxious, and also makes me rattle those several rusty locks of
the tightly-sealed entrance door of my fortress. sometimes, i feel, that
this book sees through my pain, or may be even my soul. scary, no? or
just painfully beautiful?
but,
you know, R, after basking in this thought for a while, i realized that
the book is written for thousands of troubled readers like me. it is
meant to conjure its magic on those lost souls like me seeking a
fantastical escape or a secure home for their ravaged minds. i realized
i'm not its only reader. i'm not exclusive. i'm not special. you know,
R, just like it has always been like that for me with most of my
relationships. i know mine is such an unrealistic expectation from a
book. but i'm a human no after all? can't a book lover fall for a nice
book? i can feel you agreeing with me there right now... :D
but it's alright, i guess. i shouldn't fuss about such things... aur bhi gham hai zamaane me meri sad kahaniyon ke siva... :P :D (that's a borrowed line from faiz I tweaked for satiating my unnecessarily raging creative urges here.)
never
mind, though, at least this book unknowingly made me do this - write to
you, R, and your wonderful organization. i must confess, that even
writing this was somewhere close to cathartic, like caressing the earth
of the hilltop after a
nerve-racking climb. just like it has always been for me, when i try speaking the language, i guess, i will never ace.
you may not respond to this email, R. it's fine. i would like to revel in the thought that your eyes met this last line.
you take care, R.
may the force be with you
p.s: after my suicide post, i thought i might follow through. corona-inflicted 2020 is almost over but i'm still alive. sorry to disappoint.
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