The blankets are thin and rough against my skin, and the windows are tiny grimy. I stare at my fingers intently and decide that now, I see a tinge of blue about them.  The tropical breeze rattles the window, like a breath at a suffocating lung. 

I lie on the bed and press my hands on my forehead, for I think the feverishness has begun.  And I feel like a piece of salmon that I popped into that tiny red Godrej refrigerator in the corner. The cold inches across parts of my body like a boiling ocean freezing into ice sheets. Frodo barks at the door again, scurries, yelps, and finally whimpers. He is a smart dog, but understands too much. Once again, I wish I hadn’t brought him along.

I need someone. Anyone. A friend, a neighbor, even my boss.

But a human being.

Someone in whose eyes I do not have to witness pain or terror. I want concern, but only moderately. A detached ear that would listen to me nodding, with their eyes and mind glued to their own problems. Just tagging along for the ride while my life slipped away. 

Perhaps this gave the idea. Apart from LinkedIn, I am barely a social media user. I have an Instagram account purely out of curiosity, just to connect with a few co-travellers. Now I carefully block the one over-enthusiastic guy I met the week before. I open the app now, and I type.  

“I have taken a total of six pills. This is a goodbye post. Also, a sorry post. Please someone take care of my dog Frodo. He is a sweetheart and is scratching my door.”

I hit sent. Five agonizing minutes pass with no replies. Nervously I edited the post for typos. ‘Please someone’ becomes ‘Someone Please’.

The first response comes in.  It’s from a girl I met at trek three years ago.

Message: “Is this a joke?”

I stare at this for a long time, considering what to say. I type, No.

The next message pops from her again.

Message: “Dude! Have you told your family?”

A guy I met at a café is next.

Message: “What is the point of this message?”

The third is a random person, who is not on my list.

Message: “How can you do this to your poor dog? He will be devastated for life! Don’t adopt if you can’t keep it together.”

Then the messages come in like a firing volley.

Message: “Attention-seeking much?”

Message: “Love failure aa?”

Message: “Livestream pls”

Message: “Yeah… show us you aren’t kidding around”

Message: “Then we’ll try to help your dog.”

I read these messages and seven more. It feels like a party of people are suddenly in my ears,  a crowded hall of screaming thoughts. I wince at some of these and can feel my heart emptying fast. Much like my lungs at this point, which is struggling for breath.  I had truly hoped to get Frodo adopted before this. But hadn’t found the energy or an adopter.  In the end, I just fled the city.

I type, “Sometimes, you do things you regret. And you can’t take it back. And it’s best to remove yourself from the world than torment your fellow beings. Yes, I am worried that Frodo will see me dead.”

I figure out how to live stream. Some of the audience guide me through this. With a bit of nervous twiddling (for my hands won’t stop shivering violently now), I finally hoist my phone upon a stack of books so that the world can witness my last moments. They see this disheveled shack I have rented in Goa, the dingy bedsheets and grimy windows. I don’t reveal location, but they see the row of pills on the table.

There’s a surge of curiosity about the pills – their name, the dosage – but I remain vague, merely providing details of my experience. My story they guess from the photographs that are lined on my bed, which I oblige and take them through.  Happier times, when Priya and I had been together, before she had decided that enough was enough. On request for further information, I decide to read some of our interactions. But first I must puke into the dustbin nearby: a thick mixture of my last meal of parathas and traces of blood. Some folks want to see this. But I think this is bad taste.  Instead, I indulge them by reading Priya’s message, “I cannot deal with this. This is destroying me. I love you with all my life. But I have mental health issues of my own. I beg you to leave me alone.”

I feel a wave of alternating of chills and sweating, a surge of palpitation that feels like a cross between a speed run and an anxiety attack.  There is metallic taste in my tongue, and the air is strong with a sudden smell of burning plastic. My eyes look upon a watery film, and then return focus. I feel the headache in my brain banging away like a rock concert inside my cranium.

My eyes struggle open, and i see seven humans around me in varying costumes. A white-draped angel with a wristwatch. A demon in corporate suit, giggling insidiously.  Two lovers in their 20s, and a dread-locked hippie.

They stand before and around my bed. Some look visibly anxious, the demon is clearly cheerful though, while the couple want to console me.  I hear them, “Hugs. Mental health issues are tough.” “Go to the hospital. Your lips are electric blue,“ says the hippie, “Who is the guy in the pic? Why can’t he talk to your girl?” asks a wasted man on the floor.

They refer to Nadal. “Nadal wouldn’t help,” I tell them, “He wants me to move on.”  The couple insist I read out a message from Nadal. I indulge. “She is too fragile. If you really love her as much as you say, then leave her alone. Move on! Do not inflict yourself upon her.”

They reply.

Message: “Some friends are worse than enemies.”

Message:  “Get some new friends.”

Message:  “What the fuck man? Stop victimizing yourself.”

The last voice surprises me. And I look up and see Nadal, whose eyes are red, his throat throbbing with righteous anger. The others begin whispering to each other. I feel my body jerk and convulse.  My breath is sharp as a knife, for he is right, and I can do nothing. I hurt her. And if I love her, I will at least stop hurting her. So now I hurt without her.

 I feel my mind drift in and out, suspended in a state between reality and dream. My phone is throbbing on the bed.  Priya is calling.  I have nothing to say to her at this point. Nothing kind, at least. I cut these calls. Someone grabs my hand. It is my sister, in parrot-green chudihar and peacock earrings. “Sindhu!” I say overjoyed to see my sister for a last time. “Did you come for the beach?” But my sister is weeping, she is crushing my hands into her face. She looks up, and tearfully says, “Bhayya what is happening? You are scaring me. Should I tell ma?”

“My poor Sindhu.” I say, brushing her head gently. She is the only human that will be tormented by this, I think. Other than Frodo. They spent their lives idolizing me. Poor fools.

The phone is throbbing again. And I see that it is a call from Sindhu. I cut it, and wipe the tears that have fallen on the mobile screen. I have touched a thousand viewers. Someone has launched a poll to see whether any of this shit is real.   Nadal screams, “You broke up with her. You hurt her. You found someone else. So why this drama? You just want sympathy. Bloody Narcissist!”

There is a spot quiz on whether I am a narcissist.  But people are angry. The beggar gets up from the floor and leaves the room, disgusted at having wasted his time.  The couple leave next, spitting at my frozen legs peaking out of the blanket. I feel a surge of terror, and gather enough energy to post a comment.  I know this is cruel both to Sindhu and Priya. My body is moving on its own accord now, carried by power beyond me.  The power of the grave or a hooting crowd, I do not know. But I am now merely body without a soul.

I type with trembling fingers, “Guess what poison I have taken?” I click send.

The angel, who had been quiet throughout, screams and flares his wings and takes off from the window.

The demon snickers, and lights a cigarette. He says, “Gotta go too mate. But one tip. Tell them you will answer your own question when the cardiac arrest sets in. That should keep them.” 

I nod and do as told.   The hippie has fixed himself a drink. He asks me why I brought Frodo with me. He says, “Don’t you think its cruel to let the poor beast see you this way?”

I think a moment, and say, “I guess I was too scared to die alone.”

.