I will not be around when you read this letter. Don’t get angry with me. I know some of you truly cared for me, loved me and treated me very well. I have no complaints with anyone. It was always with myself that I had problems. I feel a growing gap between my soul and my body. And I have become a monster. I always wanted to be a writer. A writer of science, like Carl Sagan. At last, this is the only letter I am getting to write.
I loved science, stars, nature, but then I loved people without knowing that people have long since divorced from nature. Our feelings are second-handed. Our love is constructed. Our beliefs coloured. Our originality valid through artificial art. It has become truly difficult to love without getting hurt.
The value of a man was reduced to his immediate identity and nearest possibility. To a vote. To a number. To a thing. Never was a man treated as a mind. As a glorious thing made up of stardust. In every field, in studies, in streets, in politics, and in dying and living.
I am writing this kind of letter for the first time. My first time writing a final letter. Forgive me if I fail to make sense.
Maybe I was wrong, all the while, in understanding the world. In understanding love, pain, life, death. There was no urgency. But I was always rushing. Desperate to start a life. All the while, for some people, life itself is a curse. My birth is my fatal accident. I can never recover from my childhood loneliness. The unappreciated child from my past.
I am not hurt at this moment. I am not sad. I am just empty. Unconcerned about myself. That’s pathetic. And that’s why Iam doing this.
People may dub me a coward. And selfish, or stupid, once I am gone. I am not bothered about what I am called. I don’tbelieve in after-death stories, ghosts or spirits. If there is anything at all I believe, I believe that I can travel to the stars. And know about the other worlds.
If you, who is reading this letter, can do anything for me, I have to get seven months of my fellowship, Rs 1,75,000. Please see to it that my family is paid that. I have to give some Rs 40,000 to Ramji. He never asked for it back. But please pay that to him from that.
Let my funeral be silent and smooth. Behave like I just appeared and went. Do not shed tears for me. Know that I am happier dead than being alive.
“From shadows to the stars.”
Uma anna, sorry for using your room for this thing.
To my ASA (Ambedkar Students’ Association) family, sorry for disappointing all of you. You loved me very much. I wish you all the very best for the future.
For one last time, Jai Bheem.
I forgot to write the formalities. No one is responsible for my act of killing myself. No one has instigated me, whether by their acts or by their words, to commit this act. This is my decision and I am the only one responsible for this. Do not trouble my friends and enemies about this after I am gone.
I loved science, stars, nature, but then I loved people without knowing that people have long since divorced from nature. Our feelings are second-handed. Our love is constructed. Our beliefs coloured. Our originality valid through artificial art. It has become truly difficult to love without getting hurt.
The value of a man was reduced to his immediate identity and nearest possibility. To a vote. To a number. To a thing. Never was a man treated as a mind. As a glorious thing made up of stardust. In every field, in studies, in streets, in politics, and in dying and living.
I am writing this kind of letter for the first time. My first time writing a final letter. Forgive me if I fail to make sense.
Maybe I was wrong, all the while, in understanding the world. In understanding love, pain, life, death. There was no urgency. But I was always rushing. Desperate to start a life. All the while, for some people, life itself is a curse. My birth is my fatal accident. I can never recover from my childhood loneliness. The unappreciated child from my past.
I am not hurt at this moment. I am not sad. I am just empty. Unconcerned about myself. That’s pathetic. And that’s why Iam doing this.
People may dub me a coward. And selfish, or stupid, once I am gone. I am not bothered about what I am called. I don’tbelieve in after-death stories, ghosts or spirits. If there is anything at all I believe, I believe that I can travel to the stars. And know about the other worlds.
If you, who is reading this letter, can do anything for me, I have to get seven months of my fellowship, Rs 1,75,000. Please see to it that my family is paid that. I have to give some Rs 40,000 to Ramji. He never asked for it back. But please pay that to him from that.
Let my funeral be silent and smooth. Behave like I just appeared and went. Do not shed tears for me. Know that I am happier dead than being alive.
“From shadows to the stars.”
Uma anna, sorry for using your room for this thing.
To my ASA (Ambedkar Students’ Association) family, sorry for disappointing all of you. You loved me very much. I wish you all the very best for the future.
For one last time, Jai Bheem.
I forgot to write the formalities. No one is responsible for my act of killing myself. No one has instigated me, whether by their acts or by their words, to commit this act. This is my decision and I am the only one responsible for this. Do not trouble my friends and enemies about this after I am gone.
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