suicides travel accompanied by history, anthropology economics, politics, literature of all sorts and obviously, the cinema! and what goes unnoticed : the glass broken, water departed under the table the diary half-burnt, the color pallet turning pink, the Reynolds Trimax uncapped, a black pencil sharpened, a page floating behind the curtain in isolation
/Assume all kinds of trigger warnings before you start reading this piece/
notes after eyeing the aftermath of an Indian suicide –
revolver isn’t a nice thought the trigger though, intrigues.
just as the ceiling is boring but the blades of that pygmy windmill. the patriarch in the room. just above my head is something one can look at, for eternities just to say.
or you may think of the flowers dead on the streets. trampled by the heavy showers (goddesses squirting)
flowers remain the same. thoughtless.
aimless.
an arrow in the heart of the fragrance. only that it bursts in the end.
think of tyrant’s lawbook, when you analyze a suicide. just as lawless as it can be, ever.
or think of Marx listening to Cigarettes After Sex
doing terrible (but great) things to those pages of Kapitol. making love in a calculated fashion.
just as the murder of the bookshelf seems. the books lick the floor all over. as if the Dickensian blues are not over yet. as if the rumours are true.
– the AQI is really bad. but shush.
nothing of that makes sense either just as the suicide.
south Asian bed is a blabbermouth as gossip is classic in our region
we make news out of the air that we buy from the industry of doubts.
our nightmares are manual to sleeplessness
our sleep, a mosque punctured.
our biases are novel only to us everyone else out there claims to be the best author of our ideas.
our dreams are London before English happened.
(all Rome, and no Home)
how ironic that I write about my agony in a language that understands none of it
and yet a triumphant me like an overflowing jar of metaphors and imageries not my own writes and writes and writes
following what Rilke said –
write, because you must because if it is denied you would die.
and thus I write.
I write tonight of how the towels wet swiftly rests on the armchair (because the Pakistani wind tore down the wires on my terrace!)
the towels care less of the skin and more of the water on it
just as the Officials : less of the citizens more for the citizenship.
(how devoted!)
I write tonight of theories, my curriculum comprises of
how they save my time for finding proses in life I have no interest in
how they save me from just breathing, in short.
how they kill, to put it shorter.
I write tonight of upset stomach, upside-down head upfront nose, upgraded redness in eyes
all divides in half
the partition is real, just as it was before.
1947 isn’t the year anymore it is an epitaph of years ahead we came to live
after all this time? well yes, always.
the grief the body the politics
they are loyal royals of existence.
Rushdie has taught me that. (Never knew he was that genius!)
I write tonight of insecurities implanted genuinely for privileged ones
but for third world us they are something we buy out of respect for conventionalism
how paradoxes are mentors.
how the guest is right and you are no one to tell that even
funny bones. my, my.
I write tonight of that one time when my friend was slapped in front of the morning assembly by her mum for coming late
she was a teacher. the girl had a fever.
and thus, she was slapped again for honor had other plans.
(the second one drew attention of a bit of blood on the lower lip)
I write tonight of collective sorrows, I saw on footpaths I see rather, daily. I remember vividly
the details of dirt. the clear frames of phlegm and saliva will disturb your (petty) intellect, dear reader
but I’m not sorry you see for you don’t forget the trauma when you are becoming it, every night at 2 a little more of the world gets lazier for good inside me. I carry a fetus. in it, I have a book on the pain that gives no fucks for your deliberate, made-up convenience.
you carry comfort. an apple for the showmanship of gravity whereas it had nothing to do with Newton or Earth for that matter!
I write tonight of fewer things anyway.
still, I am writing a lot, isn’t it?
now if you may then I shall remind you of how the story of suicides travel, regardless of how loud the news anchor is, or how technology splits open the solitude of a non-existential being!
suicides travel accompanied by history, anthropology economics, politics, literature of all sorts and obviously, the cinema!
and what goes unnoticed : the glass broken, water departed under the table the diary half-burnt, the color pallet turning pink, the Reynolds Trimax uncapped, a black pencil sharpened, a page floating behind the curtain in isolation, the rebel tap letting go, the tiniest drop that has survived the pressure of the pipe that connects the tank upstairs in which there’s not enough water to drown
all this data is a river to drown the meaninglessness that my death is
you would bother yourself to panic but is it worth it? who am I, after all?
a hanger in the middle of a nation shirtless.
I’m nude for an organless body
(makes me think, of what use I am!)
A Tablet that says: Bestseller. section where Chetan Bhagat is read.
(they burned the Constitution down, kind folks)
I’m poems Manto wrote I am too much to merely exist!
I’m murder of a rape victim happening now as I write am sure.
believe me, you are all dead, to realize depth is deep.
they were actually notes after stalking an Indian suicide
‘I have to make no sense’ was the thought and this didn’t take me long to decide.
Abhijeet Singh
Poet/Writer