The aftermath of an Indian suicide

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
Abhijeet Singh


Poet/Writer