Please be warned that the piece includes a lot of sensitive, potentially triggering details about my experiences.
If you or someone you know is considering suicide, please contact the following helplines.
NEPAL:TUTH Suicide Hotline: 9840021600 | Patan Hospital Helpline:9813476123 | Mental Health Helpline Nepal: 1660 013 3666
INTERNATIONAL : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines
He lies on his bed. His eyes are wide open, gazing at the hook on his ceiling, wondering how badly it would hurt if he hung himself by the neck. He can hear raindrops strike the concrete outside the windows on his left and to his back. He has his feet on his pillows, his legs folded by the knees, and his head hangs by the side of his bed. His gaze is fixed at the hook on the ceiling.
Thoughts of death aren’t something new for him. He remembers his fascination with death since he was five. Now twenty-seven, he thinks about Kurt Cobain, and Amy Winehouse, and Jim Morrison, and then himself. He laughs. He isn’t ready. His gaze is fixed at the hook on the ceiling.
In the distance, a little cockroach is scuttling towards the door. It pauses by the little gap under the door. It is large enough for the cockroach to pass through, but it navigates the threshold cautiously before exiting. He watches the cockroach perform its delirious odyssey for a while. Perhaps it was just being cautious about what could be outside the door, he wonders. His gaze is fixed at the hook on the ceiling.
The raindrops are falling harder now. The sound rises, and it almost feels like a beat to his ears. The rain falls in tandem with his pulse, it seems. He takes a deep breath. It calms him down. His breath quickly becomes shallow again. He thinks about writing. Then he thinks about work the next day. Shortly after, he thinks about his parents 300 kilometres away, who would’ve just gone to bed thinking about how their son will gather fame and wealth. He thinks about the girl he loves 200 kilometres away, who he thinks hates him now. He’s estranged. He thinks about his tummy that feels bloated after the half a dozen eggs he had after dinner, afraid they might rot if not consumed at once. His gaze is fixed at the hook on the ceiling.
He looks at the ring he bought the same day. The ruby talisman onto his eyes — the harbinger of hopes for better fortune. He remembers the astrologer’s words. “Wear a ruby-embedded silver ring on your index finger; it shall make all your wishes come true”, the words reverberate inside his mind. He thinks about the rain again. Then he thinks about a future where his family have a house with a huge garden. He can also clearly see himself laying his head on the lap of his beloved, sitting on the porch of their dream red house, by the lake, under the auroras in Norway. He smiles. His gaze is fixed at the hook on the ceiling.
He takes an even deeper breath now. The raindrops fall harder. The cockroach comes back. The cockroach leaves again. His gaze seems to catch the cockroach every time it appears in the room. He thinks about it for a bit. Then he thinks about Lord Krishna in the Geeta. That man expects too much from someone like me, he thinks. Then he thinks about Radha. Then he thinks about Krishna again. How can Krishna ever be there for me when he couldn’t even be there for Radha, he thinks. He takes a deep breath again. God has forsaken me, he thinks. He takes a deep breath. His gaze is fixed at the hook on the ceiling.
He takes an even deeper breath now. One..two..three..four, he counts in his mind as he inhales. One..two..three..four..five..six..seven, he counts as he holds his breath. One..two..three..four..five..six..seven..eight, he counts as he exhales. This is supposed to calm him down. It doesn’t work. He moves his right hand to block the hook from his sight. It is shaking. He jerks his arms hoping to see the shakiness subside. It doesn’t. He drops his hands back down to the floor. His gaze is fixed at the hook on the ceiling.
His nights have been like this for months — an unwavering vigil. His days are spent laughing, working, walking, smoking, and talking. His nights are spent gazing at the hook on the ceiling.
