Suicide Note

Believe me. I’ve done nothing wrong. If you would’ve been at my place you would’ve done the same. Call it an error in judgment or my weakness but still I’ll say — I was not wrong, I was simply not wrong. I can still see the events unfolding in front of my eyes. It was another day and yet for centuries to come, I’ll be known for this day only. Sometimes I ask the great lord above that this was why I was born? I look for solace but can’t find it anywhere. Not even in the skies. In the dark when I walk through the streets the dogs do not bark at me, they think I can’t do anymore harm. Nobody questions me but in their eyes I can see the hatred. It swells up like a balloon filled with gas and then it erupts. And when it erupts, streams of tears flow. Now even that have stopped. Their cheeks look like barren lands. And I am the culprit. They say it. I’m the culprit. Their silence screams.

I cannot sleep at night. I hear voices. Shrieks, screams and whispers. People accusing me! For what I ask? For what? And then they become more silent. My head seems to be exploding and I weep. But there are no tears. I curse them, even I hurled stones at them but they stood their ground. Not a single soul moved. And they remained silent, as if testing my patience.

A few months back, everything was all right. I will not say that I was loved. But still there was this false feeling. The air was cool. The sunrise were warm. Those who now hate me felt for me. Or was it a farce? Night after night, I ponder over it, Think where did I went wrong. But as I said that was not my fault. They themselves are responsible for their plight. I cannot eat food anymore. Yesterday, I did not touched the chicken gravy. I used to relish it like anything. But now, it appeared human flesh with red blood. I was aghast. I think they plotted it. They want to kill me. I’ll not die. For I’m not wrong.

Today before writing this I’ve decided to confess. Someone told me that confessing makes your heart lighter. But what should I confess for I have nothing to hide. I set free all my pigeons, they came back. As if they’re also labeled like me. The sky is theirs but the freedom is snatched. In the afternoon, I sat down for my prayers. I cannot hear the muezzin call. Nor the once irritant temple bells gong. They all seem to have gone silent.

I’ll end my life. There is no reason to survive. I’m a loner in this world full of people. This is it. I call it a day. I know no one will weep. They will say, the traitor has died. But tell me, who I have betrayed. One can only betray if their is love, friendship or an agreement to honor. I never had one. I am not a traitor. Don’t believe me, ask Delhi.

— A suicide note by Illah Baksh, known as the traitor of Delhi, 1857 Mutiny.