The Writers Voice
The World's Favourite Literary Website

Suicide Letter

by

Ranvir Singh Parmar

This is my end; like the end of a moth, troubling only till alive; like the end of waves, enchanting only till falling and breaking into droplets, some big, some small, taking numerous paths, still cohering and retreating back to the depths of the ocean, again to rise and provide everybody with another breathtaking view. But I will never rise again. My end will be like the end of the day, neither troubles, nor enchants, just ends.

I hate this life, this femineity, the trappings of flesh on my chest, the feeling of insecurity between my legs, the sensitivity of my womanly wrist, the monthly growth of nails on my fingers, these never ending monthly cycles. I hate my lips for their show of vulgarity, their sleek and slim figure which catches everybodyís eye. I hate my eyes for their innocence which makes me look vulnerable. I hate men, their walk, their gaze, the kind of clothes they wear, their dance. I hate the smell of their skin, which some idiotic women spouting gibberish, entitles it to be very virile and dynamic. I hate their clamorous laughter and virulent jests they make while boozing, surrounded by the rings of smoke which their noses keep emitting, intermittently. I hate their long stature and fleshless buts, the drunkard path they follow, their vagabond nature, their inability to carry emotions the way a woman do.

I hate old people for displaying such patience with life, their smile despite of bereavement of colors from their life. I loath smiling faces, no matter if they belong to children, their shouts, cries and hullabaloo they create, all day, all night. The kind of damage they do to my hearing organs and mental peace is too big in front of that ugly duckling smile. I detest routine and monotonous voices of daily life. I am too overwrought to live, too heretical for this world. I am not narrow, nor I hurtle to conclusions blindly. I have taken panoramic view of the world, it contains nothing of my interest. I feel this frustration around my eyebrows, this anger engulfing my nose, this grimace has made me ugly. I have lost the art of dressing different expressions for different situations. My face has gained the appearance of a hot tava , blackened like a burned roasted chicken, spoiling even the taste of beer, and making one vomit

I have got decayed alive, rotten so badly even flies refuse to lay their eggs on me. I am a humus which if used over the garden, not only daffodils and primulas, even rocks will corrode. I will emit toxic gases, miasma will make the atmosphere noxious, resulting in the deaths of swans, shelducks, and turtles. God curse me! For I can even fade the emperors look of an Himalayan Monal, can burn to ashes peacocks beautiful feathers with just a second of stare. My ears are not capable of feeling pain in someoneís bleep, and neither can appreciate the dulcet sounds of the birds at dawn. My infernal thinking, and inside evilness will shine as a black spot on those elegant white marble pagodas. Rooks are better for they get place to sit on them; but me to even get close, will shadow them all, kill their beauty, and provide the devils another place to preach.

I am an insect who should be squashed beneath Himalayas. I am the most offensive isotope of humanity; an ultraviolet part of sunlight; a shame for I hate my own self, a pain for I hate others self. Call me a broken nail which no mud sheltered and resulted in the death of a beautiful bird when she mistook it for a grain of rice. I am that sadistic beak of the bird which deserve punishment, as it dropped the scarce food bird was bringing from so far away for her hungry chicks. Me, the unfaithful scabbard of that brave soldier, me who jammed his sword in the middle of the duel, me who resulted in his death. I killed the king of that supreme empire who never lost it to its enemies and always stood unswervingly to face any trouble, for I was his cannon who fired back.

Yes, I am a betrayer severe than Judas. Though I hurt no man on this land, nor I ever ditched anybodyís love for no person ever loved me. I ask the question why green leaves make crushing sound when I unknowingly trudge them under my feet? Why wind go so dry to form scratches on my soft cheeks when I go out to gain moisture from it? Why should I love? If I am not even capable of growing flowers in my little mud pots. Its years I am trying, but seeds refuse to sprout, they refuse to accept water from my hands, these senseless arrogant mothers. God curse their children!, all flowers of this earth. Let no child ever can prick any flower, let no lover make his beloved smell their scent, may no petals add to the beauty of the lake by floating on its wrinkly surface, may no flower beds are left to enjoy the trampling during first night of lovemaking.

May God also vanish all the birds and insects from this land. Why they refuse to sit in my balcony? They donít sing for me. They always pass my window a haughty stare, birds stop chirping, afraid I will listen to their talk. I am deprived to hear bees murmuring and pigeons cooing. Why I never got a pleasure to see colorful birds mating on the branches of the tree, outside my window? Why they never shed their translucent feathers in my verandah? Why they donít let me see those magical artistic figures of nature, those feathers? see them changing colors in the sunlight, greenish-red, shades of orange, pink, blue.

One live but only when one gets love and respect from nature, from every minutiae of its creation. Forget people, even insects refuse to accept my existence. Why the ants donít dig burrows in my door hinges?, Why the mosquitoís donít lullaby in my ears?, Why my ceilings lack the privilege to provide land to spiders empires?, Why flies donít irritate me, enter my nose, enter my skirt so to leave me jumping?

You humans have made me feel leftover, isolated, alone. I looked for love among insects, birds; among wind and mountains; among leaves and trees; among the touch of different seasons; in the depths of oceans and its multifarious colors and lives. I need love from almost everything, but couldnít gather even from a handful. This is the reason I never want water droplets to evaporate from my skin, I feel a sense of touch, a shiver which spreads on my spine, and reaches my groin, as if a virgins skin is touched with a rose. I donít want these drops to evaporate. I feel hurt when I see them falling on the tiles, their place is on my skin, to reside there, forever, to cling to me in all weathers. Why they leave me ? Doesnít they feel the same need for me as I feel for them? Why its always me who is in need of others, why not others?

The mountains I wish to visit suddenly experience earthquakes, oceans I wish to sail tastes the grunt of severe storms. No comets strike the earth, not because of any Jupiter, but because of me, all natureís creation feel repulsion from me, and it is the biggest force in this universe. Every person including great scientists, astronauts, need not be afraid of any heavenly disaster as long as I am on this earth. But I am not going to live forever, I am soon going to end my life, yes -soon; only then this earth and its mean creatures will feel my importance. The oceans will then want to carry my weight; the mountains will compete to shower their beauty on me; birds will sing to the point they damage their vocal cords, pull feathers with their beaks ignoring any pain, to rain my house with them; insects will damage their teeth and turn blind by digging holes in my walls. All just to call me back from the heavens, but this insignificant lady, this wretched women, this heartless brute, will never return. Let the earth be reduced to a ping pong ball, let its all life be left in the heavens to float. This world hurts and is easy to leave like a branch leaves its tree, but the tree never moans for its fallen branch, this world will moan for me.

Just I wish none of my footprints be left for people to worship, no path to call me back. I am blessed with no talent, nothing, no interest to which I should cling too. Even the paper I am writing on is slipping away, it also hates my touch, just like this pen. Everything wants to slip away from me, this pen, letters, words, meanings, alphabets, this life. So I am ending my life, and may god never in the future create a creature like me. But I accuse this world for my death. Any kind hearted seeking revenge should punish this whole world.

THE END

Critique this work

Click on the book to leave a comment about this work

All Authors (hi-speed)    All Authors (dialup)    Children    Columnists    Contact    Drama    Fiction    Grammar    Guest Book    Home    Humour    Links    Narratives    Novels    Poems    Published Authors    Reviews    September 11    Short Stories    Teen Writings    Submission Guidelines

Be sure to have a look at our Discussion Forum today to see what's
happening on The World's Favourite Literary Website.