Monday, February 02, 2004

The Epitaph

There was this guy
who finally got sick of
his writing (his poor, suffering
readers had got sick ages ago).

So he decided to kill the
writer in himself.
Not surprising , because the
bad writers always kill themselves, while
the smart ones are busy counting
their royalties.

Having decided,
he wondered, how ?
Since he had never showed
any originality in his
writing, he felt, he should be original
at least in killing himself.

Gas him self? Nah, Sylvia Plath
had put her head into it.

Disembowel himself? Yukio
Mishima had committed hara-kiri already.

Blow his brains ? Sadly, Hemingway
already, albeit famously, did.

Poison himself ? Arthur Koestler
and his wife already had drunk that.

Jump of the bridge?
John Berryman had taken the leap.

So our poor guy got disgusted.
Wasn’t there a novel way
to kill himself?

He wondered.

Thinking hard,
finally, he gets the one
and only original brainwave
in his brief literary life.

Why not hang from a bridge?
Nobody known had done that.

Our friend felt very happy,
that in death at least he
would stand out. Or hang out.


So there he was preparing
for this momentous act,
when his writing peers
passed by and caught sight of him
in his heinous act.

“Hey, Look,” one of them shouted
and our friend looked startled
and stopped in his stepping-of
around-his-neck act.

“Hey, he is trying to kill himself,”
the discoverer exclaimed.
“You know,” chirped another friend,
“He’s a Saggi. Only they
are capable of
such grandiose foolish acts.”

“No,” intervened another knowledgeable,
“I think Taureans are more
flashy in such acts.”

Now, the crowd really got
into the act of arguing
about which sun signs are
more prone to commit
spectacular suicides.

Slowly, they walked away from
our unfortunate, and wound up
at a nearby pub, to discuss the
issue more seriously,
in more amiable environs.

Our poor sap, who had momentarily
felt that his life was afterall, worth living,
after seeing and hearing all
his friends around him,
fell into despondency again
as he saw the
last of his friends
back vanishing into the
warm, inviting and well lit pub.

So he decided to go ahead
with his interrupted
act, before someone
else comes and makes him
again wishy washy.

So he took the step into the empty.

The crowd in the meanwhile,
after a lot of rounds of
intelligent, sensitive,
and forceful arguments,
.finally agreed that everyone was right (because
everybody was so intelligent,
nobody could be wrong).

Suddenly someone asked.
“Hey ! Where the hell
is our poor friend ?”

They looked around, and
didn’t find him. They had
expected him to be sipping
his stuff silently in a dark
corner, alone, as usual.

“Don’t worry about him,” the clown
of the group chortled, “He must be
hanging around

As usual,
he was dead right.


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