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Suicide
- A Major Problem
(This is for reading
only. My heartiest apologies to anyone hurt by this article.)
The
problem with me is that I want to die. I want to die by my own choice, in my
own fashion. A totally new fashion. Like people should really love it when
they find out how I had died. Yeah, you are coming to the point. I want to
commit suicide. Yup, that�s it. But I am unique. Everything I do is unique.
So should be the case with suicide. Just imagine. People in the streets,
people on the roads, all saying, � Yaar! What a way to commit suicide. I
wish I had thought of it first�� Strange but true, I assure you.
Now
just imagine. Today is Sunday and you know that you are going to die on say�
coming Thursday. Now what would you do? Some would spend the whole five days
on the net, others on the praying mats. Yet, such cases exist very far and
few. On the other hand, you can create yourself as such a case by committing
suicide. Interesting??? No sir. Not at all. Actually, the problem is that
Islam has forbidden suicide. And here comes the main problem I need to convey
through this �bukwas�. So what I actually need is a person who can come
and push me over the cliff, under the train, down the hill, up the hill, going
with Jack and Jill. Unfortunately I have chosen a slightly out of the order
topic to write on. You may find it a bit (or rather a lot) unamusing. But what
can you do if that�s all you have been thinking of for over a couple of
days, about three weeks, four months and five years, not to mention six
decades, seven centuries, and eight millenniums. But who would take the pain
to mention the entire time problem. Like �tis said� �It�s the thought
that counts�. So, you have to count my thoughts. But how in the world can
you count my thoughts, when you cannot even count your own. Don�t believe
me??? Just try counting. Funny it is. But you would be totally helpless. Each
time you think that this is thought #1 you are wrong, for the same counting
makes it #2 and #3 and #4 and so on.
Now
many of my air conditioners (you call them fans) would gladly do the job of
pushing me. But somebody told me that there might be some heaters (you DO NOT
call them enemies) would follow you down, of course by stairs. But just
imagine. You jump. All the girls scream. Scream!!! Yeah. All your life you
want to scare them and finally they scream when they look at you. But would
you enjoy the scene? No. And this is the very reason I have to commit suicide.
Life doesn�t allow you to see what you want to see (and sea and see-saw),
all you want to hear (and here and heir and buyer and flier), all you want to
smell (for you docs: the Dissection Hall), all you want to taste (the blood of
your turnips), all you want to touch (red hot iron, lava, aqua regia, and�)
and all you want to experience (a couple of dates and a couple of heels and a
couple of�).
But
the problem still prevails. If nobody is going to push me down, I need to
think of something else. A way, a path, a road, which leads towards death.
What if my wife poisons me to take over my multi million treasure? Or my child
kills me because I run away with his girl friend. Or my granddaughter kills me
because I used her �Fair and Lovely�. However, there is a slight problem.
I am not going to get married which means no wife, no child, no grandchildren,
and no �Fair and Lovely�.
And
why I am I not going to get married? Good question. In answer to this one, I
am going to copy and paste my poem. I
call it �The Cruel Life� though it refers to married life mainly. So here
goes:
And
when you try to lead a life,
It
is all ruined by a wife,
And
when you try to enjoy yourself,
She
simply ruins your pride.
~~~~~~~~~~~
And
when it comes to kids,
There
are problems big,
Nappies
become your commitment,
In
front of your wife, you are a mere chick.
And
here I go on again. I just love to mix poetry into articles. How I got the
habit? Actually, when you come to studying Urdu, you gain this habit. Infact
if you see my result, you will only see Urdu as a good subject and that was
only because of the stupid habit of mine. Apart from that, I hate Urdu.
Anyway, back to �khudkushi� or suicide. Just check out the word �khudkushi�.
Doesn�t it remind you of something� like �khush-khatti� or good
handwriting? Yup, you are getting it. The major problem Pakistanis have in
Pakistan and the Pakistani examination is the Pakistani way of checking papers
that states that the Pakistani student should have a Pakistani handwriting,
and that means a damn good one. Otherwise he would be awarded the same marks
every average Pakistani gets because of his un-Pakistani handwriting.
Well,
back to the major issue. I was trying to die in a way I like. Like I was on
the verge of making my discoveries of suicides open to the earthlings when
suddenly the stupid idea of poem dropped in. Anyway, here I am back again. So
how should I commit suicide? There is the conventional way of eating sleeping
pills or falling from a height (not a single storey building). Then we have
some of our conventional or desi manners like falling in love, hanging from a
fan, walking in front of a car, flying a kite or asking a girl out. Then again
we have the scientific manners. A doctor would inject something in his veins;
a chemist would probably try arsenic; a physicist� God knows what, maybe an
electric shock; a geologist would fall from the Grand Canyon; and a writer�
write such articles (the type I am writing).
Now
as the story goes, I have a major problem with all of the above methods. First
of all, I am not a professional. I am a mere student. As a tradition, students
like me take some �neela thota� (CuSO4). However, at the
beginning of college, our chemistry instructor told us:
�Here,
this is �neela thota�. This is highly poisonous. Most of our fellow
students take this at the outcome of result. However, and unfortunately, this
is useless. You take it, yes. You go to deathbed, yes. But, you just come out
of it like through a bad dream. All that happens is that you are escorted to
the hospital; you are brain washed (just kidding� I mean stomach washed) and
that�s it. Just a plain waste of money��
Like you see, the
above plan simply fails. Now what should I do??? Sleeping pills, I don�t
take (I hate sleeping); and since I am afraid of heights, jumping from heights
is a major impocossible feat to perform. As for falling in love, that failed
for me. Hanging from a fan failed too. Infact I am so heavy the fan broke
down. Then comes the walking in front of a car. That I do daily. Yet, nobody
has got the courage to touch me. Flying a kite, I cannot do.
As for asking a girl out, there�s a huge risk. Like what if she
agrees? Then lets come towards the professional manners. I am afraid of
needles, so injections are simply out of question. Arsenic?? Man, I can�t
afford to buy a ticket back to Mars (only $10), who will bring me arsenic? And
as for electricity, my three-inch super insulating double rubber current
insulators prevent even 40000000000000000000 volts from doing anything. Then
comes the matter of Grand Canyon. Now what do you think, I�ll go to America
just for the sake of suicide?? Hahahahaha!!! (Pardon me!) And as for writing,
what do you think I am doing right now?
And after wasting
all this time, we are back to the same old juncture from where we took off.
Like, I want to die, and die sooner than later. Like die today. Die now, I
say. But how? Nobody will kill me� who will take the pain and be called a
murderer? And I don�t want to commit suicide. What the heck, I am afraid.
Yeah, I am a chicken. So what??? Just like there is a kid in every adult,
there is a chicken inside every Martian. So where was I? Yes. I was about to
commit suicide. So here goes, I have got a bottle of aqua regia in my hand and
I am drinking it� (Believe me, it was tasty!!!) Ciao!!! Bonjour!!! Bye!!!