Smashed skull, pool of blood, mangled limbs and lifeless eyes. That’s how Soumitra thought he would look five minutes later. But what did he care what he looked like once he was dead? And the morbid visual wasn’t some kind of daytime nightmare; it was just a writer’s way of seeing things. His mind still thought like a writer sometimes, although he wondered if he was even entitled to call himself that anymore.
Utter despair.
When Anagha left him two years ago – it would have been three in two days – Soumitra was devastated. His wife and his talent were all he had. Anagha had seen him through when he lost his mother in an accident. She was a lovely woman, Anagha was. Lovely, and caring. And he let her go. He knew it was also partly his mistake. He tried very hard to win her back, but she had mentally left him long ago. That year after Anagha left was the worst time in his life – until now.
Somehow, he stayed alive. After what seemed like forever, he finally decided to give himself another chance. He still had his words. He would write. Write for his readers, write for himself. Drown himself in his work, and he would forget her. And so he took pen in hand again.
But it was too late. He just didn’t know what to write. All he could think of were some obvious everyday observations and colourless characters that even he failed to remember the next day. It was terrible. This was not a mere writer’s bloc, it was a pathological paralysis of his creative faculties. He kept trying harder, but it just kept getting worse.
When he woke up that morning, realization dawned. It was almost two years, and he had written nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not a novel, not a short story. Not a word. Nothing had changed since last night, but his world came crashing down. He knew he had to accept his fate. He had lost the ability to write. He was nothing now. He had run out of money, he was alone, he had no talent and he didn’t even respect himself anymore. It was a waste of a life. There was no use living on, merely surviving. His life had to be ended. That was the only thing left to be done.
And there he stood, on the roof of his building, staring down at the road sixteen stories below. He waited a few seconds to feel his last feelings, but in vain.
Then he jumped.
Inspiration is a funny thing. Try as one might, it never comes when it ought to. It’s like cool breeze on a summer afternoon. One can sit at just the correct spot near the window or walk around in the garden, but one can never wish it to come. It comes at its own whim. It is thrilling when it comes, but one can do nothing but agonize till it itself decides to come.
A free falling object would take between three and four seconds to hit the ground from top of the sixteen storied building. Inspiration struck Soumitra after the first second. He had a full two seconds to get under the skin of his character. It was beautiful. It should have been obvious to him all along. Once he knew his protagonist, the story was easy. It probably ran in the back of his mind during those two seconds too, but in the fourth second he just knew what he had to write. The whole tale lay there, spread out on the road in front of his eyes.
During the fraction of a second before he hit the ground, Soumitra coouldn’t decide whether to die a happy man or a disappointed one.
