westland ltd
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First published by westland ltd 2015
First e-book edition: 2015
Copyright Ajit Harisinghani 2015
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-93-85724-43-5
Typeset in Dante MT by SRYA, New Delhi
The author asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, circulated, and no reproduction in any form, in whole or in part (except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews) may be made without written permission of the publishers.
Prologue
Sunday is just about winding up when my cell phone buzzes. I wonder who is calling so late. Its almost midnight. I press the answer button and say, Hello.
Hello, sir. I am Rahul Bhatia calling from Nagpur. Remember me?
Food and drink have diverted blood to my stomach and my brain is not at its alert best. I have no idea who the caller is. Im ready to sleep and am in a half-daze already. Besides, Rahul is a common enough name.
What he says next jerks me sober.
Sir, I am committing suicide.
What? Who? Where are you? I finally ask.
In Ambajari park, sir, cyanide in my hand.
I wonder if this is a hoax but the desperate voice sounds genuine enough.
Sir, I just wanted to thank you for all you did, but I cant take it anymore. I had improved but my stammering has returned. I want to die. Im useless. I cant even speak properly. He is sobbing and Im still trying to recollect who he is. Obviously one of my old clients but I cant remember his face.
And, you know my fathertoday he got angry when I stammered while attending to a customer. I am worthlesshow will I run the business? I cant even speak properly. Whats the use of living like this?
As I listen, I try to find a way to deflect his suicidal thoughts.
Rahul, I say, thank you very much for calling me. Really, Im quite flattered that you thought of talking to me at this momentous time in your lifethe time of your death! I cant wish you all the best, or even a bon voyage because I dont know what happens to souls who have committed suicide. Do they regret it? Want to reverse it, but cant? I guess well never know.
I ask him if he could defer committing suicide for a week. He could come say his goodbyes in person. A long silence follows and then he says, Yes, but only if you promise not to try and stop me.
I tell him that, in fact, I will help him commit suicide, but a week from today.
In any case, I point out, no one is really waiting for you up there. In fact theyre not expecting your arrival for six and a half more decades!
The lightness and irreverent humour in my voice must have surprised him. Maybe he expected me to panic and try to stop him from killing himself. Maybe that is the reason he had called me in the first placeto get some dramatic attention? After all, he was ending his life and wanted at least one onlooker. Whatever he felt, my response seems to have deflated the pressurized balloon of his mind, which I pictured was slowly coming back to earth.
He sounds a bit calmer now, says okay, he will throw away the cyanide. I ask him how hed got hold of it in the first place and he says, Dont you remember? My father has a sports trophy workshop where cyanide is used to etch metal? I tell him to be careful where he disposes it. A non-suicidal animal in the park might ingest it by mistake and die. He actually laughs at that one and agrees to come to Pune for a personal goodbye. Is that relief I hear in his voice, or am I just imagining it? After all, its a seven-day respite from self-execution. One more week to live!
I wish him a good night and get ready to slide into slumber land myself. Its been a long day. But Rahul with his pinch of cyanide keeps intruding into my thoughts, not letting me sleep. I switch on my laptop and open up the case-records files. There he is.
Rahul Bhatia.
Age: 22.
Resident of Nagpur.
Only son of a businessman.
I remember him nowa personable young man with a very slight stammering problem. Hed attended three sessions during which hed told me he was constantly afraid of being laughed at because of the way he talked. His father was another source of stress, pushing him into the family business.
As I read through his case history, I wonder if my gamble has worked. Could he have been too far gone and dead already? Cyanide is known to be quick. I imagine him lying frothing at the mouth in a dark Nagpur park. Unsettling thoughtscant seem to switch them off. Having long passed the age for my mother to sing me to sleep with a lullaby, I pick up the remote to switch the TV on, hoping to catch a boring programme. That generally does the trick. Not this time though. Channel-surfing, I pause on a popular news network to admire a charming, sari-clad woman with a diamond-stud in her nose and Madhubala-lips. The camera then moves to focus on the person she is conversing with. A handsome, regal, middle-aged man, dressed in an unusual, maroon, knee length, checked-tweed garment is talking in the calm and unhurried manner of someone used to being listened to. Interested, I put the remote down and watch. The lady is addressing him as Your Majesty. Then a bottom caption confirms that it is indeed royalty I am listening to. His Royal Highness Jigme Singye Wangchuk, King of Bhutan!
He is saying that not GNP (Gross National Product) but GNH (Gross National Happiness) should be the true measure of a societys progress. While economic prosperity is important, richer countries are not necessarily happier ones. Rarely have I heard a ruler talk with such gut sanity. When the Kings speech is over, I wave my wand, the TV shuts off.
Maybe Rahul should go to Bhutan to find happiness? Maybe we should all go to Bhutan. Maybe I should go to Bhutan. I go to sleep hugging the nascent plan to take off on my motorbike and go find this Promised Land and bring back a chunk of happiness to share with the Rahuls of this world. My dream that night is an audio-visual fantasy where I am riding an undulating road coursing through the green, green hills of Bhutan where the branches of the road-side trees are bent; loaded as they are with an iridescent fruit which, legend guarantees, grants everlasting happiness to everyone who eats it.
A day later, Rahul arrives on the early morning bus and comes straight to the clinic looking disoriented, his face frozen in stress. Well, what did I expect? Here was someone who only 48 hours ago had been ready to kill himself.
Sir, I am scared just scared so scared to die You saved me that night or I would have done it. I gesture him to sit and pour him a glass of water which he gulps down too hastily, gags and then spends the next minute coughing. Once hes settled, I ask him what had triggered Sunday nights drama. That starts him off on a litany against his father who has been forcing him to join the family business which he has no interest in. He actually wants to work with cars but his father wont hear of it.
