THE LAST NOTE

THE LAST NOTE

TODAY

The window was open and there was a cool gust of wind that came in from it. I became nostalgic and shed a tear at that moment. The weather was identical to the day when my friend and I travelled on the local bus in expedition for an adventure to the southern parts of the city. He was an enthusiastic guy. One that would jump at the whiff of a potential adventure. It was a Wednesday in the month of March.



In those months you donât expect any relief from the burning hot sun. We had our cameras in our bags and our earphones in our ears. These were the days we were hopeful idiots, dreaming of rainbows of opportunities. I remember exactly how Shankar was seated with his head rested onto the rails that ran across the windows of the bus, in deep thought as though he were just about to reach a stage of enlightenment. He was a bit down because of an incident that had occurred in our lectures a day prior. One of his stories of which he had a close connection was criticised. The conversation went something like this as I overheard.

A day prior to Wednesday March 17th 2004

"What exactly is the writer of the letter trying to communicate in this story Shankar?", interrupted Mr. Matthew Jenkinson, the head professor of creative and liberal studies. -----

"Well it essentially captures the curiosity and confusion of the individual who craves an intimate encounter with whom the letter was meant for.", justified the author,

"I don't think it goes well with the story, you'll have to think of another plot in here.", Mr. Jenkinson concluded with his exit from the room.

TODAY

Sometimes he thought of just giving up. It was an ambition that had made him lose a lot in life. Education was a safe bet, but aspirations were beyond the boundaries of safe. Countless rejections push a person to the edge of giving up. But there was still hope for him. In the bus as he thought to himself and I made sure not to disturb him he wrote something. It was a breakthrough of which I would read later. He smiled and that told me that heâs written his heart out. As we got off from the bus, he handed me his notebook and walked on towards the âPanwalaâ to purchase a cigarette which he smoked as he looked around, making sure to give me the time to finish his story. And as he was busy wandering about I read on.

*The Story*

All of this started on a bus. A young man traveling in the bus to the southern part of Mumbai. It was an early hour at which not many were active. Among the few passengers in the bus, the 17 year old stood out. Along with his bag, in which he carried his camera, a shaby notebook, a set of sketching pencils and a black book which he held in his hand throughout the journey. He rested his head on the rails that ran across the windows of the bus, he had a certain love and passion for the art of creation. It was like the obsession that the letter writer has for the woman he wrote to. He created worlds and lives and actions which would affect the universe he created with words, punctuation and some graphics while he enjoyed the shuffled tunes that played on his music player.



It was a routine for the bus driver and passengers who would know about every pot hole, sudden stop and some really angry travellers. That day was surprisingly cooler than the mornings of that season. The boy noted down a few thoughts in a short black book which was wrinkled and untidily kept, the loose pages often had a habit of flying off and the script was barely readable and resembled only scribbles. There still an hour to reach his destination and he was lost in a profound thought. There was a dialogue between the boy and a priest of the temple a few days ago which had begun because of a question that troubled Shankar. He questioned the separation that faith created; the enraged priest said nothing more but for him to understand the message of the faith rather than the acts of those who donât know any better. He thought a lot on that matter and decided to find out for himself what is the message that he wasnât understanding. The scribbles formed a small monologue which read.





I donât know if there is a god or a religion. But I know there are wars and there are deaths. I know there is hate but Iâm sure there is also love. And I know that there is a deeper knowledge but then I have many doubts. I know of those who are wise and I know all faiths preach the message of peace. I have questions and I am also have the desire to learn. I want to bow down and worship and be forgiven from the one who created all. But then I worry, I worry because worship separates us. Makes everyone into a bunch of someones. It creates fights and differences, judgement and hatred, wars and deaths. I know not if a faith can mend this, but I know that there are wars and deaths.





That was a defining moment, he thought as he read his own words in disbelief. It marked the start for his own curiosity of his skill which was evident as he stared outside the window through the rails and went into a blank stare which was all he did till he reached the last stop.

*THE END*

TODAY

He was a natural a man with a plan to create lives in pen and paper and prosper in reality. That was his first book which was published by a local media house, which for us was a really big deal. But today as that gust of wind blows in, it carries along with it the stink of the cigarette which lingers within. The smoker of it is down. There are three empty glasses which throw out a strong aroma of liquor. The white light gives perspective to the empty bottles of plastic bottles, spread across the coffee table. An old rusted guitar lying on the side of a sofa, while the other occupied by the slob of a man. Half-naked and cold. It was very quiet then and I seemed to be lost in nostalgia when I heard. âIt is evident what happenedâ, a voice that broke the silence which I lost myself and responsibilities in.





"What's the report?", I asked as my responsibility as the police commissioner.

"Sir, we've found a note.", answered a member from the forensics team.

"Hand that to me", I ordered.

"Sir, It seems the deceased was under the influence at the time. He used a .35 calibre pistol which was placed in his right hand. The report checks out and it is a suicide.", he recited.





I saw it all, a .35 calibre hole in Shankars head which gave way for the blood to flow out. The linen of the sofa stained red with a heavy thickness and the salty stink that filled up the room. A fly causing ripples on the pool of blood next to his head. While other microscopic carnivores group in order to consume the feast off the corpse, Shankar Tripathi.



I read the first thought of words he ever wrote and now the last he ever will.

THE NOTE

To all who matter and some who donât,



It all began with my struggle. Something that not all of you could understand. I tried to stay calm and pursue my passion, but little did I know it was a dangerous obsession in disguise. I always thought that creation is something that only the power of that all mighty, lord, allah, the savior or whoever it is that you may believe in had. But I found that power with a pen. I created a life when with the colour blue and ended it in that same colour. I wrote for years trying to give birth and murder people, pleasure and harass them, but now it has all lost its flavour.



I do not wish to breath life knowing that I and my destiny is being controlled. I am a creator myself and though my own existence wasnât my own creation, my end will be as per the conditions I desire. I donât know whether this was a curse or a blessing, but I am sure of one thing; when I pull the trigger of this .35 caliber pistol, there will be a hole in my head of the same size and my mortal departure will be inevitable.



I do not write this in sorrow, nor do I write it with vain. I write this like I write all my work, but this time I also write my fate.

THE END