The suicide point is slightly elevated from the grass cover; the only noticeable feature of the cold, hard, brown, rectangular rock, otherwise unassuming and unmindful of its charm. The most beautiful place of this town and, of course, the highest. From here, definite death looks like a cushion of fuzzy clouds floating gently above some secret and merging with the sky; something like what is supposed to be heaven. The person, who decides to write his own script because, perhaps, the story got dull from then on, jumps from this rock. Despite the promise of the clouds, which the furry dog, Ratan Singh, I and the clouds know is not true, he meets a hard surface before he could realise. Life then comes out with violence on the body and finally transforms it into a dull object. But a part of what they wanted would, be achieved, people would talk about them, maybe comment about what they could have done if alive. Ratan Singh, though, does not have much doubt. He sits precariously on the edge of the cliff in a slightly obscene manner. He is not playing with death but is aware of his superior physical balance and control; unlike me, needlessly standing a metre away from even the rock. We have had an argument. Taking moral positions on ending ones life. Whether it is brave or cowardly, right or wrong and whether, finally, we should not judge at all. He was kind of at a loss with the last one, not being up to date with social posturing. But he stuck to his claim that life, indeed, was difficult to go on with, in these hills. With the same faces whispering to each other about your despair and the same roads to walk up and down and the sun looking away from you sooner than you could realise.
Posted on: Sun, 26 Oct 2014 07:16:21 +0000
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