Me, Myself and I

And that was the beginning of everything. I still can't fathom why I did it. I take a look at my old photographs – cute, relaxed and smiling. Eyes burning with zest, I gazed at a world of sunshine and rainbows. Who'd have thought that I'd slash my wrists in a toilet cubicle at school on my 17th birthday? Weirdest part: I lucidly remember dying, and waking up in a hospital bed a few days later. An old janitor apparently discovered blood when he went to take a dump during recess and alarmed the teachers. Three years have passed since our encounter, yet I still can't identify him. Simple reason – janitors were supposed to use the staff toilet and our school didn't have any old janitor(s). But mysterious forces, I reckon, are always at play to glee at our broken selves from the corners; to further us from salvation. Human life is like a clay pot gyrating on a vicious wheel; shaped by experiences and worn down by time. One momentary lapse of reason, it loses the anchor and ends up being off-centred sludge. Sometime in this state of existence, we'll end up with a few bullet holes inside; voids that soak up our purpose like a sponge. It's like a wound that seems to be mending on the surface when in reality your body has already started decaying.

Quoting Green Day, "Do you have the time, to listen to me whine?"

Thu March 21, 2017

0800 hrs IST

I crash on the bed. Shut my eyes and just zone out. No thoughts, no thoughts. A crimson abyss awaits me. Too tired to give a damn, I piss on a pillow. Just when I'm about to drift off, my phone starts to ring.

"God is dead."

"So? Everyone lacks discipline."

"You don't like Friedrich Nietzsche?"

"I don't give a rat's ass 'bout philosophy. Bye."

That was a bad wake-up call. I roll to-and-fro, wrinkling the smelly bed sheet. Curse you, random stranger. Hell, now she's texting me on Hangouts. Seriously, can none let an insomniac sleep?

MM: Good morning. How are you?

You: Fine.

MM: Shuntaro Hida died yesterday.

You: Who the heck was he?

MM: A Japanese physician who treated Hibakusha (atomic bomb survivors) and became Director of the Hibakusha Counseling Centre. He was in Hesaka village treating a patient, six kilometres from ground zero during the attack on 6th August 1945.

You: Wow. You just topped the Fortune 500 list of jobless procrastinators.

MM: :( :( :(

You: Had breakfast?

MM: Yeah. Wbu?

You: Nah.

You: I want to jerk off. Please send your pic.

MM: Not interested. Aren't their websites for your needs?

You: :) :) :)

You: Hey. I just have one question. I confessed to you on 31st Dec. Still haven't given me an answer. Do you like me?

MM: Ttyl.

I eat a pack of Chocó's and wash my mouth with warm milk.

1324 hrs IST

Knock, knock, knock…

"Open up, sir! I'm here to collect your monthly cable charges."

"Wait a sec."

I fumble for my wallet. Amidst all the crumpled, greasy notes reeking of noodles and rust, lies a good 1000. Courtesy of birthday gift funds allotted to feisty teenagers.

"Here".

"Please sign on the upper right corner."

Slamming the door, I exercise and take a bath. I retrieve George Orwell's 1984 from my shelf and tune into Pink Floyd's The Wall album. I have just reached Room 101 and breathe in its sheer horror. Pages turn and the afternoon passes by in a flash. I stare at the twilight sky long enough for the red orb to dissolve into the horizon. I go online and the notifications keep flooding in.

1047 unread texts from MM. Every topic ranging from a TEDx Talk on factors hastening death, to zodiac sign compatibility, a family tree, and emojis. I reply to a few and request an ultimatum.

MM: No, I don't like you. Or any boys whatsoever

You: I believe you're head-over-heels for Elon Musk.

MM: I don't like any males. He's my idol. It'd be a no even for him.

MM: Understand?

You: But both of us rejected the prospect of you being a closeted lesbian.

MM: I am just a girl who doesn't like boys

You: Okay.

Bitch. I open Google Chrome and continue reading Hiro Mashima's Fairy Tail. The final showdown between Erza Scarlet and Irene Belserion commences. Shocking revelations follow and an exhilarating climax clears my befuddled state. Classes start on the 23rd. This year's my final attempt at redemption. One more failure and their faith in me will collapse.

You: Hey, listen. I know things got weird. I'm fine. Just cut down on texting me. Please. I got to like the whole week booked with school and tuitions till December. Ping me on Sunday mornings. I am free during that period.

MM: So, I'm not important to you anymore?

MM: Just coz I said I didn't like you as a boy, doesn't mean I don't need you as a friend

MM: But wait, who wants my opinion? Mr. Anti-social has already deleted all of his contacts, right?

MM: Know what? I'm leaving you

MM: Fuck off!

You: Don't get excited and exaggerate shit. We're nothing more than best friends. Bro and Sis, right? Text me on Sunday mornings, I can talk without getting crunched for time.

MM: Even I'm gearing up for the boards in January. So, till then let's not talk at all.

You: Wow.

MM: I'm blocking you.

MM: Tty 10 years later.

You: Bye. Have a nice life.

The time is 2032 hours and I feel like dog-shit. My phone's screen blinks and goes out just like the final embers of a candle. I perform a factory reset and deny those unrequited feelings solace. And thus, I descend from grace and roll into Dante's Inferno.

Figuratively, mind it. Or not.

Mon April 10, 2017

0745 hrs IST

XYZ School – a private institution of organized chaos and despair. It specializes in producing affluent, sheltered and illiterate tofynoses. Machines of rote learning are employed herein abundance to instil the formula – "Dedication, Perseverance and Success". Yellow buses fitted with air- conditioners and carpool vehicles swarm its parking lot as soot hued exhaust assaults the lungs. Students with taut green nooses, huge backpacks and dreary eyes march in silence towards their indoor sanatoriums. The pathway of cobblestone curves in three directions – the main school building, the administrative office, and the hostel where I am designated to keep shut and take notes in a brown coffin. The stairway is lined with dust and reeks of granite. The entire building is deserted except for a single boy in XII-B. One who basks in the rhomboid sunlight filtered through a window.

"Good mourning. How are you?"

"Dead or alive," he says.

"I started Chemical Kinetics and reached until first-order reactions."

No answer. He walks up to his desk, fetches a notebook and starts studying Solid State. I try to switch on the lights and fans by the hit-and-trial method for a while. I open the teacher's desk and search for chalk. On the blackboard, I write –

Thought of the day – The songs of the living are the lamentations of the dead.

I grab a seat at the 2nd last bench and wait. The monotonous day progresses at a snail's pace. It is almost reminiscent of Thomas Hardy's The Darkling Thrush. Determinants expand into Cramer's rule; Jeffrey Archer narrates "The Chinese Statue" through our English oracle; equations get derived from Coulomb's law by a sly fox; halo-alkanes undergo the baptism of IUPAC nomenclature and SN1 reactions, and Maurice Karnaugh simplifies Boolean functions. Chatterboxes compose a symphony throughout the lectures. By recess, my eardrums are about to bleed. I feel like puking on someone's mouth just to shut it. The bell rings and off we go. The drop bus no. 16 is full of notorious children of ages 3 – 7. I go to the last row and sit by the window. I have a lunch of bread and jam along with an apple. Satisfied, I open Ernest Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls and feel the forests of Spain through Robert Jordan's skin.

"Can you open this for me?" says a cute, bespectacled kid beside me. He flashes a toothless grin and extends a Tiffin-box with trembling arms.

"Who knocked all o' 'em out? Here".

"An angry fairy named 'cahviteez' mom said. Thank you."

The kid's got a better sense of humour than me. I flash a smile and go back to watching the rolling scenery outside. An hour later, I hop down at my stop and have a nice, long smoke.

Sun May 21, 2017

1829 hrs IST

Death is the final adventure, amigo.

I wake up choking on my saliva. Someone taps on my shoulder.

"Bro, you ok?"

"Where am I?"

"Stop talking, rotten maggots!" shouts the teacher. Ah, chemistry tuition. He goes back to explaining the Riemer-Tiemann reaction mechanism. I am amazed at how a phenol in the presence of chloroform and sodium hydroxide undergoes ortho-formylation. Everybody's packing up while I sit and jot down notes. I leave the centre within ten minutes and catch a crowded bus no. 213. Plugging into a Samsung headphone, I turn up the volume on Linkin Park's In the End and press repeat. The traffic lights, car horns, talking heads, and my pain cease to exist for a moment. You're not alone. Footsteps carry me home while a sudden rain drenches my bones. Let it go, the clouds whisper. I have a dinner of lentils and steamed rice.

"How're your studies going?" mom says.

"Good"

"When will you apply for the mock tests?"

"I don't think I'll."

"Why?"

"Waste of resource(s)."

I get up and shut my door. I lean back against a blank wall and binge-watch the air. I kill the lights. Darkness is better. Here I can live without a mask. Rain by SiD starts playing. Dad's calling me.

"You remember my friend in Mumbai? His son just made it into NIT Warangal – Material Sciences. I have sent you his number. Call him up."

"Hmm", I nod.

Sat June 17, 2017

1030 hrs IST

The door opens. A tall man exhales. His eyes are bloodshot; shoulders drooping and voice broken. He walks like a hungry, stray dog and drops into a chair on the stage. The Cranberries single Zombie starts echoing in my brain. He picks up a blue marker and starts explaining Limits, Continuity and Differentiability. It is torture. The Sandwich Theorem is a shit-sandwich; L'Hospital's Rule radiates pneumonia and by the end, I am a martyr of The Great War. After 4 dreary hours, I leave the sadist crucible. Nauseous, drowsy and trembling slightly, I walk towards the bus stop. A sparsely populated DN-8 halts in front of me. I go to the last row and sit by the window. Moths swirl in my stomach. I pass wind and shit in my underwear. Nice. The passengers avoid me. They'd rather stand than vomit beside me. How kind.

I reach home around 1600 hrs. Take a bath, have lunch and play Infinity Loop. I arrive at the decision and call mom.

"I'm leaving the coaching centre."

"Wha-at?!!"

"Just Mathematics; Physics I'll go when I feel like it."

"You joined here because you didn't like there. Now you want to leave. Stop wasting our money. We already paid for 6 months."

"I'll ask the administration for a refund."

Beep. The light and fan go out. It's a power cut. I open The Godfather II on my laptop and hit play. I get chills when Michael Corleone says, "If anything in this life is certain if history has taught us anything, it is that you can kill anyone."

Wed July 5, 2017

1536 hrs IST

"How to solve this integral, sir…" I said. Our old teacher ponders over the question.

"Try substitution and apply partial fractions."

Been there, done that. Just blow my head off. I open my bag and retrieve a busted 2015 diary. I write a bit now; drawing references from Fight Club, Inception, Linkin Park and Eminem mixed with a lil' bit of my fucked-up life. Anyways, they read my stuff. And understand. I have grown obese. My dick's shrunk; I can't read and am found sleeping on the desk always. Failed every exam I wrote. Tried vitamin D, therapy and group meetings; conclusion – bullshit. Can't believe three months ago, all I could think 'bout was her corpse. Hanging from a ceiling fan; discovered by her sister and on some wall scribbled, "[My name] raped me." My schizophrenia's getting worse. I can't shrug off being watched every moment. On the street, feels like people want to rip apart my throat and devour the crimson fountain. The nights are worse. My heart pounds like a snare drum solo while I struggle to breathe. I go back home after a while. I switch on the TV and watch F.R.I.E.N.D.S. on Comedy Central. I masturbate in bed, wearing an ocean-blue petticoat. Then I just scream around the room thrashing stuff with a wooden stick. I take a hammer and smash my obsolete laptop. I punch the walls as if they owe me money. It's almost 2200 hrs when mom comes home. Dead-tired, frustrated and dazed. The Indian IT industry is a bastard leviathan that sucks your soul every moment. Her skin has already yellowed and she passes dark stools each morning. But it's the abdominal pain that makes her scream at night. She's got NAFLD – Stage IV. Plus her gall bladder was surgically removed after my birth. I abandon headphones while in the house. Can't tell when someone's gonna expire 'round here.

Love, laugh and live.

Hate, cry and die.

Ha, ha, ha.

Thu August 10, 2017

0936 hrs IST

"The exam will start in 5 minutes. Be seated and calm down. All the best!" the ma'am said. The girl takes her seat beside me. And I have an erection. Focus. None of the chapters I prepared is asked in the exam. I write a load of crap all over the answer script. Almost as an afterthought, I add "SORRY" on the last page. I visit the toilet and punch my cock. Motherf****r! My starch-white trousers are hued red. I pull out my shirt and exit the building. I stretch out on a bench in the field. The wind blows through the distant trees. Every blade of grass kneels before its majestic ferocity. I think people learn more out here. Ah, how we played football, kabaddi and fooled around on these grounds. Those scars of youth are nothing more than fleeting memories now. A boy sits on an adjacent bench and solves Fluid Mechanics problems. I have an urge to kick his chin and shout, "Get a life, you duck-billed platypus!"

I stare at the blue sky and think of dying. Need a drink.

Fri September 15, 2017

1950 hrs IST

"What's to be applied - Biot-Savart or Ampere's Circuital law?" the teacher said. A part of the walking dead; I sift through time. The body is but a cloth. Yet, the soul is indestructible. Religion is dangerous for ones sans hope. I find it, okay, to believe in yourself. I devise a solution. Slip my family Lunesta in their food. Fill the kitchen with gas. Stab them in the heart. And light a fire. Everybody wins. No pain. I stop and think. Can I kill myself after I murder them? Someone's pinching me. "Move," says an old woman. Am I on a bus? She's a beggar. A ragged cloth envelops her wrinkled skin. Her ass is bare and her right breast doesn't have a nipple. She walks with a piece of rotten wood. I give a few coins and a piece of roasted corn. She nods and walks to the front. I sit down and mutter gibberish.

Tue October 17, 2017

2005 hrs IST

I like shaving with a straight razor. The mesmerizing connection of steel and skin can't be put into words. I attach a clean blade and apply foam to my pubic region. I smile when the blood starts flowing from every orifice. I continue doing the same to my chest and belly. I pour Dettol on my whole body. It ignites every inch of my being. You're here. This is not a dream. I am me. I place myself under the shower faucet for an hour. I put Linkin Park's Papercut on repeat and roar "No-oo!!!"

Thu October 19, 2017

1756 hrs IST

"Mom, is he out of the OT?"

"Grandpa's dead. I'll be staying here tonight. Okay?" When you've been suffering from rectum cancer for 2 years; require at least 6 litres of blood every week; have a prosthetic leg and a pacemaker in your chest, dead is better. I sigh and laugh. Then, go back to peeling off the burnt skin flakes from my balls and eating them. Are people hungry when they die?

Mon October 30, 2017

0519 hrs IST

I scatter her ashes on the polluted Ganges and submerge myself. You never know when you hug someone for the last time. At, least mom won't be tormented anymore. Or smile. Like Spike said, "Whatever happens, happens." Dad hasn't spoken to me since the 28th. Today, I go back to a house, not a home. In the bus, people talk about Netflix shows, stand-up comedy on YouTube and the latest Bollywood album. Why can't they be just erased? Every day I fought and shouted at her. Now I realize, I don't even have a picture to display at her funeral. I feel like taking a knife and gutting every person who offers me solace. The ones who look at me like, "I know" or "What a poor boy..." or something along the lines of "Don't cry."

The worst part is - you become what you hate.

Sat November 18, 2017

0226 hrs IST

"Want some?" he says.

I nod. We're walking through deserted suburb roads enjoying the tranquil night. The piece of chocolate almost melts in my mouth. A few birds chirp, some street dogs bark; most naked drunks are passed out – one half of their body dangling into the gutter. They hold on to that bottle of life and drown in a whirlpool of misery. One day I'll be there. Broke, damned and free.

"I once lusted for a certain girl in our bus when I was 15. She was 12. Every day, her voice electrified my soul. I jerked off every day, fantasizing about her. It got so bad, I wanted to rape her; no matter who watched. I was a feral beast with raging hormones."

"Did you do it?" he says.

"No, bruh; I distanced myself from her for 2 years. Now, I don't feel anything."

"You're a coward."

He turns around and holds a gun against my belly. "Never come here again. Got that, you fucking bastard?"

"Yeah"

I wet my pants. My legs don't move. They're jelly. He kicks my nuts and lights a cigarette. I sit on the ground. He spits on my face and walks away. I scratch my sweaty underarms.

What a life.

Fri November 24, 2017

2346 hrs IST

Sorry Dad. I couldn't be the perfect son.

***

The rest is a story for another time. I'm not mentally stable enough to type one more sentence.