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She had locked herself inside the room at 3.15in the afternoon. Four hours had passed. Nobody had asked her to open the dooryet. Nobody cared. She looked at the ceiling fan. From it hung a thin, pinkrope. “More like a fat, pink thread,” she muttered to herself. It was the nada from her mother’s rose-coloured petticoat. She stood on the bed and triedmaking a noose out of the pink rope. All she got was a knot. It looked sosimple in the Tamil serials that played every evening in her paati ’s room. Shetried a second time. Again, a knot — a bigger one this time. Frustrated, shepulled at the rope. The fan swung violently, making a loud, creaking noise.Terrified, she jumped off the bed.
Death by thin pink noose was alright. Death bya ceiling fan smashing her head to bits? Thank you, but no.
*
She counted up to 10, took a deep breath andclimbed the last flight of stairs. It felt strangely euphoric. Walking to theedge of the tank, she looked down. It was a sheer drop. Eight-and-a-halfstoreys. Earlier in the day, she had read on the Internet that seven storeys isall it takes. The eight-and-a-halfth one was just in case.
She looked up. It had stopped raining a whileago. A faint rainbow was forming in the east. She looked down again. Sheextended her left leg, let it hover and pulled it back. “What if gravity givesup on me? What if I float away into oblivion instead?”
Let’s try an experiment. She would drop thefirst thing she could get hold of. If it floated away into oblivion, well,mission aborted.
She turned and there, in a corner lay agrayish-white pigeon feather. She picked it up, went to the edge of the landingand dropped it. It fell a few feet. Her heart skipped a beat. Then it rose. Herheart skipped another beat. And floated away. Into oblivion.
*
It was past midnight. She knew it because shehad just heard her neighbour make strange noises to Midnight Masala on thatTelugu channel. She plugged her ears with two balls of cotton, put the toiletlid down and sat on it.
Her uncle’s shaving kit lay in front of her.He had just flown in from Delhi last night. In it was a razor. No extrablades. She removed the blade from its groove. It had bits of his stubblesticking to it. She held it under the tap. But the stubble stuck on.
Suddenly, she heard a loud moan from the otherside of the wall. Startled, she dropped the blade. It fell headlong into thehole of the wash-basin. She sighed, packed the shaving kit, washed her handsand went to bed.
The next morning she woke up with a start. Heruncle was running about the house in his towel, “Where the hell did my bladedisappear?” She smiled sleepily. She had never liked that man anyway.
*
She was washing clothes. Her mother made herdo it whenever the maid didn't turn up. She hated it. First, the three failedattempts. Now, having to wash clothes. And then, her eyes fell on it. Atransparent plastic bottle with a white lid — washing powder.
“This will definitely work.” Better now thanlater. She sat on the floor and opened the bottle. She decided to smell itfirst. Jasmine?
She took a pinch of the whitish-blue powder,smelt it again and put it in her mouth. She felt nothing. And then it hit her.A burning sensation in her throat. She spat it out. How could something sofragrant taste so awful?
She gulped water from the tap. It was the samewater that she used to bathe with. It didn't smell good. It didn't smell atall. But it tasted better than the detergent. She decided that if she was goingto die, it would have to be a watery grave. She smiled at her pun. She frowned.Was there a pun?
*
Water. As usual, she had done her research.Jumping into a well was out. The well near her house smelt bad. And what ifthere were other dead bodies floating in it? Jumping into the sea from a shipwas out. She didn't know any captains who would take her to the deep seas.Jumping from anywhere was out. What if gravity gave up on her again? And then,she found it. You can die from drinking too much water.
That was it. She would drink too much waterand die. Peacefully. The logic was simple — drinking too much water washes awaythe minerals in your body, thus leading to death. She sat on the floor of the bathroom and withher steel tumbler. She dipped it into the bucket and drank the first glass ofwater. This was going to be easy.
By the time she reached the 17th cup, herstomach was full. By the time she reached the 22nd cup, she felt like throwingup. By the time she had reached the 28th cup, she couldn't take it anymore. Shepopped three sleeping pills, lay in her bed and waited for death.
The next morning, she woke up late. Very late.She had slept a sound sleep.
She felt something wet. She touchedher bed. It was soaking wet. Watery grave, eh?
*
That she is me. What I wrote might sound like satire, butit sure as hell is not.
Life was perfect. I had a great family. Agreat set of friends. Good grades at college. Other interests that kept meengaged. Why then did I want to do this to myself?
During the five months in which theaforementioned events had occurred, I was under self-imposed curfew. I hadn'tstepped out of the eight-storeyed building we stayed in. I hadn't spoken a wordin weeks. I only ate when Amma force-fed me. I wanted to kill myself. But Ididn't know why.
After many failed attempts, Amma and Appafinally cajoled me into visiting the doctor. A tall man with a long beard andeyes so sharp, it was as if he were piercing into my soul.
The next day onwards I was put on medication.Six pills a day.
That was 12 years ago. Things are better now.I only take five pills a day.
A year after that visit to the psychiatrist, Ilearnt that I had a condition that explained why I felt and behaved the way Idid.
They called it bipolar disorder.
