Suicidal cases are on rise in our society. Our state, which once had the least suicidal rate compared to other states of India, is now ranked among the top 10. At least two cases of suicide are reported daily. The sad part is that most of these cases belong to the age group of 14 to 29, supposedly our future generation.
Every single morning we come across a suicide story in the paper. We shake our heads, lament a little over the end of another life and go on doing our chores of the day. For us folding the newspaper is the end of the story. But does the story really end there? What about the people in this persons lives? What impact does the suicide have on them? What about the mother who bore every kind of hardship for nine hard months justto bring a life, people so callously disregard, into this world? What kind of pain does she go through?
Rashida, a 44 year old, is one such mother, who still doesnt know the reason for her 20 year old sons suicide. She talks about the grief and the guilt that still burns her heart, 10 years after her sons death.
On the fateful day of November 14th, when everyone was busy
celebrating childrens day, Rashida lost her child forever. As usual,
she had left for her office in the morning. That day I couldnt
concentrate on anything. Something kept tugging at my heart for the whole day, a certain kind of uneasiness I couldnt understand, recalls Rashida with moist eyes.
In the evening, as I got home and opened the door, the unknown fear I had felt the whole day suddenly came true. My beautiful
boy, whom I loved more than anything else in this world, was hanging from the ceiling. The opposite wall had just one single word, SORRY, scribbled on it. Suddenly my whole world came crashing down and I was blinded by a strange darkness. The next thing I know, I was being consoled by people around me. The entire sequence of events is just a blur. The ride to the hospital, the call I made to my husband, the funeral, everything felt like a big nightmare I couldnt wake up from. The only thing I remember clearly is the anger. The anger I felt at everyone.
How could these people continue to be alive while my son lay buried deep in ground? What superior right did they have to be alive? How could God, whom I believed so deeply in, let this happen? Had I not prayed enough? How could he let me suffer like this? How could hes till let this world function normally? Shouldnt the world have ended with my baby boy? How could God betray me like this?
But then the anger paved way for grief and with it came pain, the kind I had never known before. Mind-numbing and devastating kind of pain. The kind of pain which neither goes away nor becomes dull with time, only keeps growing stronger. Every single day I would feel guilty, guilty to be alive in a world without him. Guilty for not being able to save him. Guilty for not realizing that he was in pain. Guilty for believing that everything was ok. Several times I thought about killing myself so that I could be reunited with him. I had fallen into an abyss so deep, nothing could pull me up. His death had not only taken him, it had also taken away my purpose of life. Nothing felt right. Living had just become going through the motions. Every passing second reminded me of my failure as a parent. I had failed him, I had failed myself, I had failed the very promise of always protecting him, the promise that I had made the first time I held him in my arms.
I continued to suffer more and more every day. Time, the great healer, too had betrayed me. Every passing day I would wonder
why? Why had he done this? To himself, to me? Had I not loved him enough? Didnt he trust me enough to confide in me? Couldnt we have solved whatever made him do it, together?
Everyone tells you that the worst thing that can happen to parents is the death of their child. But death of a child by suicide is even worse. You are always left to wonder if it was you who caused them to go down that road. If you could have stopped them? If only you had been more observant? There are too many Ifs and too many regrets with each If. It doesnt go away. Not after months nor even years. The guilt and grief just keeps growing. Every day you die a new death. Your once compassionate heart fills with hate. You are no longer
capable of loving anyone for the fear that your love might be cursed and kill them too. Every living being reminds you of your loss. You start to hate yourself, your husband, and everyone else just for being alive. Every breath you take seems like betraying your kid.
Burying your own kid shatters you into millions of pieces, it breaks you so bad that nothing can ever make you feel whole again.
No parent should ever go through such a pain, she says before
breaking down, crying. For once, words fail me. What can I even say to console her? Every poem and prose seem so hollow, so useless, so dead.
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