For Anahita

I heard you put a gun to your head last night, girl.

Girl, oh girl.......!

Vodka bottle, cigarette stubs and a few drops of dried blood on the wall. 
A green screen on my cell-phone's WhatsApp, that's been dumb since. 
A page 5 news of 6 lines, camouflaged between a PWD tender and someone's Uthala notice. 
Some lascivious gossip here and there, that's died out now.

Girl, oh girl....girl, girl, girl............................................

Vodka fumes, rings of cigarette smoke, cuss words and late, late nights: oh, you could have flaunted these right in their faces and watched them quake with indignation.
You could have let them slow-singe with impotent envy at your credit cards, fast cars and the sweet sweet jingle of the luscious balance in your bank. You could have blown away the solitude of your long-distance marriage, the bitterness of your disillusioned love and the sharp cravings of your empty womb like sunanda seeds blown in the wind; and laughed out loud in pure "couldn't-care-less"ness at the quiverings of their outdated righteousness.

But you put a gun to your head girl!
And now
There's nothing left to fight back for.








PS: I have called her Anahita here.
She was younger to me by more than a decade and we were separated not only by our years but by our values and mores. I had met her in the course of my work and in this initial first meeting itself, and notwithstanding our differences of opinion, we had taken to each other and within the short span of about three hours she had told me her entire life story. We had exchanged cell numbers but surprisingly in spite of the enthusiasm shown during our only meeting, she did not seem very inclined to stay in touch. I had not given her much thought till one night I was woken up at 2 am by someone informing me that she had killed herself.