Entry

(Entry for Cactus Flower 2012)

The Death Sales Pitch

                The Avantika Express whooshed by in the dead of the night, making itself clear that it was in no mood to stop at a station in such a deplorable state.  The station in turn showed the finger to it as it held its head high in the clouds, reminiscing about past glories and fresh paint, failing to accept reality. Near the station were clichéd, small, slum-like apartments in which sat slouched a person, one hand on his head and the other unconsciously scratching his forearm.

Questions and conversations filled this person’s head. The railway clock outside his window read 02:30. To take his mind off things, he tried a little game he’d learnt to play with himself over the years of being a loner (He did have his ‘friends’, yes, but they didn’t quite fit the bill, not his wavelength, no). He closed his eyes and held a glass frame to his mind, observing every thought which drifted past, but not becoming the thought himself. Words, colors and memories flooded the gates. He had grown up in the orphanage. The childhood he had lost, roaming with gangs. He had found refuge in drugs, moving on from toner solutions to pot to smack. He had dabbled with every vice before discovering the costliest, gambling. Gambling! It was a Romeo & Juliet love affair, and now Romeo and Juliet were being forced to kill each other here! A single tear traced his cheek and fell without a sound. He forced himself to think of something happy, but the trail of thoughts turned murkier.  

His hand went instinctively to the small bottle of rat poison on the small table. He cursed himself loudly. Not now, he said to himself, his creditors had given him until morning. There was no way he could come up with that kind of money though. He cursed himself again. He had given up. He wanted out.  I need to sell death to myself, he said. His short, failed stint at reforming himself as a salesman came back to him. He needed a sales pitch.

   He played some music, tried to take his mind off things. It did little help. He took an aspirin.

                It’s a good thing people die all the time and they’re bloody good at it too. Apart from the customary “life-karma-cycle” which usually follows death talks, it would be prudent to say this: That the world reflects a miniscule sense of sanity could be owed to the dear Reaper. Death keeps the living one terrified, scampering lot, salvaging little bits and pieces of life they have left. Those who are alive are in a permanent stupor, high on cheap carnal desires and accumulating wealth. As if they could bribe Yama! No, the living envy the dead, envy the fact that while they are left hopelessly walking about the Earth with no real objective, the dead, well what were the idiots up to anyway? Nobody knew. What a mystery.

 Humans fear death just like they fear darkness and its somber depths. What if the grass was black on the other side?

His hand itched. He needed another hit, but unfortunately he didn’t have any left. He needed to get away from the vicious cycle of hits and cravings and that enough seemed like a good reason. His eyes jerked again towards the poison. Outside, the Habibganj Indore Intercity express was courteous enough to stop at the station.

 A moment’s pause. His life flashed before his eyes again. He had two minutes. He took it.

Later, as he stood at the vestibule trying to avoid the TTE and look as inconspicuous as possible, he thought about the small bottle on the table. He smiled. Need to work on that Sales Pitch.

-          Prasannaa Venkatesh