Monotony And Tara

“I’m tired of trying to be happy.” the last sentence of the suicide note read.

Again?

Really, Tara?

It was even more depressing than clinical depression (which I had been diagnosed with a couple of years ago)—my suicide note, I mean. It was so cliché, so monotonous that you would definitely start yawning way before reaching the end of it. I had Googled various kinds of suicide notes and still messed up my own. Hell, no! I could afford to be mediocre in everything but dying. Death had to be unique and so had to be my death note. 

“Why you doing this to me?” I whispered to a vague someone. “Universe, make things interesting for me …one last time, please…”

“Hey Miss!” a high pitched and somewhat funny voice startled me. For once I thought Mumma had discovered me with the kitchen knife but I was well aware of her husky voice. Then who was it? There was no one at home except me and Mumma; there couldn’t be any guest either, for it was three thirty in the morning.

“This side, on the table.” the voice spoke again.

Confused (not particularly scared) I turned towards the table where a scribbled note containing staccato bursts of my emotions greeted me like it wanted to ‘talk over a cup of coffee’. 

“Well, I do want to talk to you. Not over coffee or something. Just talk.” the voice sounded funnily serious. “So hey there! I’m Tara’s Suicide Note and you can call me Monotony… because I’m boring as you can see”

“What the hell,” I muttered in disbelief. “Is this some kind of joke? Listen I’m here to die and no nonsense like this can stop me tonight. Get lost!” 

“Whoa! You aren’t scared to see a piece of paper talk?”

“No. I don’t care whether you are a piece of paper or the smell of ink or simply a figment of my imagination. Stop distracting me. Let me die, that’s all I ask for.” helpless, I wailed.

“Shh, you’ll wake your mother up. Listen, I’m not stopping you from plunging that knife into your veins. But before you do that, talk to me. After you die people would go through me a thousand times, smudge the ink with tears…and then the Police…so much mishandling! Please give me a few moments before I’m crushed!”

Honestly, I was too tired to think and only wanted to give that voice something which nobody, I thought, had given me. I wanted to give it some attention. “Okay, I’m listening. Go on.”

“Yay, you agreed! So tell me, why are you dying?”

I wished my family and friends had asked that! Tears welled up in my eyes and in a choking voice I replied, “I had a nasty breakup.”

“Wait, what?” the suicide note sounded dumbfounded. “Breakup! Goodness! I remember this young maid during the Spanish Civil War. After being raped and left abandoned by her family, she decided to live and give refuge to all the homeless women and children; she did not want them to face what she had.”

I fumbled for words. That indeed was a splendid story but I had a good number of reasons to die for, “Monotony, a constant war goes on inside me all the time.”

“Bloodier than the Battle of Stalingrad?”

“Not really. But it kills me anyway. Not just this break-up. There are other factors like the growing distance between me and Mumma, my short temper and…”

“Do you know,” Monotony interrupted, “Rabindranath Tagore had thirteen elder siblings and he barely knew his mother? He was brought up by servants.”

“Ouf! Why the hell are you telling me all this? Don’t try to make me feel that I have no real problems. I’m not doing this to draw attention or something.” I was sobbing.

“Oh no, you aren’t. And you do have real problems. I am just telling you more about the world, in case you have forgotten that there are a lot of people around--- in the past, now, and in distant future.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Life isn’t boring. It’s just that you have limited your periphery to yourself although it should be vast, spread across miles and ages and everything--- this enormous night, the soft sunrays, the breeze that blows over a place you’ve never been to, your mother’s smile and your boyfriend’s immaturity, your teacher’s appreciation and your dog’s cuddle.”

“Tell me, Monotony,” I said patting my cheeks dry. “Am I important?”

“You are a part of me now and you become a part of the Roman Empire when you read about it. Tomorrow when the lilies bloom in your garden, you shall be a part of them too.You are in everything and everything is in you, in all of us. See how important we are!”

There was a pause. Monotony and I faced each other. Monotony was being vague, but I wanted to believe it. I really am important, otherwise why would I be here?

“Come on, now! Pick me up. I want to be crushed by you before those silly relatives of yours can do that.”

“But you are important too.”

“Well I am. So I deserve to be a bit more fun. You will keep me, but not this way.”

I picked Monotony up, dropped her into the trash bin and smiled. I think she smiled back. And as I crawled into bed I whispered to myself, “Tomorrow I have so many things to do… I’ll make Mumma some nice breakfast, water the lilies, take Bruno for a walk and… and write something nice about Monotony. Yes, yes tomorrow!”