I stop at your door, I ponder over the thought of entering. But like every day, I fight the feelings and decide to go in. As I take a step inside, countless thoughts flood my mind. It’s you in every picture.  I wonder why you have left me, alone, wounded, and crying. It is worse because you never liked to see my tears. Your presence always spread happiness, you made sure of that. I remember how optimistic you always were, even when things went against you. Everything beckons me.

I walk in, I see your mother talking to an elderly woman. She is sobbing, maybe expressing your loss.  She doesn’t notice me, but she realises that someone has arrived. She carefully covers her face by pulling her pallu on her forehead.  I am confused, I want to talk to her and tell that I am hurt as well. I want her to know that I cared for you too. And, I miss you too.

The old woman leaves. Your mother gets up and walks towards the kitchen. I want to go in to talk to her, but I don’t understand if following her would be okay. Because, after you vanished from our lives, things have changed; the equations are no longer the same.  All relations have become uncertain, feeble and vacant. It seems like the glue that bonded us has lost its stickiness.

But then I hear a sound from the kitchen. It’s a manly voice, probably your father. He is shouting at your mom. He says she must stop sobbing before everyone who comes to visit her. Start forgetting your departure and start living her life again. But I wonder what she will reply. You were her life and how can she start living you when you are dead!?

I am completely out of focus for them as they continue their routine activities. Your father grabs a book and sits on his huge green chair by the window. Your mom, sobbing in the kitchen, opening the fridge to find some milk. They have gotten used to your friends coming at any hour and sitting near your nicely framed photograph that has a fresh garland on it every day. Today, however, it’s me, again.

So love, your parents don’t seem to have anything to talk to me. And maybe I don’t want to talk to them either. Just knowing that I can be around you, in your house, beside your photo and your things is more than enough for me.

But in all this chaos, my dear love, I forgot to ask you a simple thing,


Why the suicide?

Why didn’t you tell me what bothered you?

Why was the decision so hasty?

Why didn’t you talk to me?

Why did you leave me alone?


Why the suicide?

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