Grains Of Salt #1.

The baigun bhaja-bhaath touches down base of my tongue and then I’m choking on my own tasteless lunch with an invisible noose around my neck.
My father makes a polite “I’m not hungry” excuse as he pushes the chair away and gets up and I see his invisible noose where he’s supposed to wear a tie. He probably choked a little on his baigun as well.

This household will self-destruct in 5 minutes.

The noose tightens uncomfortably around my throat.
I know at this moment,my mother is trying to loosen her knot, without consequence, as well.
“Arektu bhaath nibi?” She says. “Ato chinta’r ki ache?” She says.
Hangman’s knot. And its only supposed to get tighter as you struggle against it.
You’ll lose the fight the more you try to fight.
You can’t breath the more you try to breath.
You can’t swallow lunch the more you try to gulp it down.

4 minutes till debilitation.

The worst part about hanging is, that it’s still not accepted as a faithful prodigal son of rules for intended death by the churches and religious whorehouses.
They still call it a woman’s death. Like it matters. Or cares about cute names.
The last man to die by hanging in Britain was dragged through the streets for 23 miles and dumped in a landfill to feed maggots for someone’s gangrenous heel.
Like it mattered to his corpse. Or that it cared about niceties.
“What’s done is done. Akhon bhebe ki laabh?” Mother tells me.
Women are thrice as likely to commit suicide by hanging.
Men are twice as likely to succeed.
Efficiency begs to be calculated.
Let reason to suicide be X.
“It’ll be okay”, she says.

3 minutes to suspension.

The worst part about Hanging is,it works by either or all of 3 simple methods.
First, your spine snaps under the torque and the jagged piece penetrates the small baby creche at the base of your hyperventilating brain like the Chrysler building does a Godzilla with lubricant.
Takes your breath away. Literally.
Second,your carotid artery is crushed violently, shooting up fluid pressure in your arteries as high as the Lion King on Meth, causing them to burst internally eventually.
Ever seen a pipe burst in winters?
Now imagine them. Thousands of them.
Now imagine ten thousands of them.
Bursting.
Inside your drawing room.
All the sewage they carry spilled over your interior designer fuelled drawing room. Imagine spilled sewage on your Indian teak-German Saint Gobain Glass centre table.
Imagine frothy warm gooey shit on your beautiful ocean-red flower-etched sofa cover. Imagine it seeping through the plush cushion,staining it black and yellow and algae green,never to go away again.
That’s your body now.
Third, strangulation.

2 minutes to execution.

“Aajkei berobe toh? Jigess korechis toh bhalo Kore?” Says dad.
The worst part about hanging is,its not pretty.
You can’t fake a smile as if you’re gonna pop back 3 days later with a few scars and a million followers right where you turned stiff. You can’t cross your hands over your chest. Or let your eyes droop ever so slowly like portraits.
No,you can’t.
No,its not pretty.
Your jaw is distended under enormous pressure. Your tongue hangs out, licking the dry afternoon air desperately for the last time. Sometimes,your yellow porphyritic teeth bite into your tongue,and blood drips to the floor like paintbrush rollovers.
“Its of no use to not eat now. Its not the end of the world” dad assures me. People lie.
The worst part about hanging is,sometimes you spoil your pants.
Like babies.
Like terminal old men.

1 minute.

The worst part about hanging is,you don’t know how fast you’re gonna die.
It may take up to a minute to lose consciousness, four minutes to lose muscle tone, thirteen minutes to lose complete muscle functions.
If you’re unlucky,which of course you are,the suspension might sever your head.
If you’re lucky,you might get a turgid shiny erection, as blood starts rushing to your proximities.
The last thing you’ll know before you die,is the warm gushing feeling of release in your pants.
No voices. Or light at the end of the tunnel. Just an earth-shattering orgasm.

Its okay son, dad smiles. Its okay,you passed. Now take off the noose. Now more studies. Now graduation. Now a high paying government job.   Now living a life of futility.
Now breath.

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2 comments

  1. garimab13 · August 30, 2015

    You’ve got me! I am never leaving this blog ever now.

    Like

    • dyspeptalker · August 30, 2015

      I wouldn’t want you to.
      This blog is your place too. Make yourself right at home. 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

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