Never Too Good
- Sunila Karir

THERE WERE two deaths reported on 24^th June. Both were suicides. Both were young women. But apart from that…things were very different. They both were miles apart. They lived in two different worlds. Neither knew the other one. But somewhere deep down within, you’ll see an ironical connection between both.

 A letter was recovered near the body of 25-year-old graphic designer Ratna which went as follows…

 “To anyone who may find this note, I hold no one responsible for my death.

 I am just so sick and tired of trying to be perfect. And I swear by God I’ve tried…oh my God I’ve tried so hard that I am tired now. So much that I cannot stand it any longer.

 I am sick of people making fun of me. I hate it when they suggest that I should travel in the luggage compartment of the train.

 I hate it when they assume that I will have the XL sized pizza when we go out for lunch.

 I don’t know why my weight bothers them. I am in perfectly good health. I can run, jump and walk as fast as any of them. I eat healthy and get my share of exercise. In fact, I am feel so much happier than all of them. Then why is my largeness so much of a problem to them when it isn’t to me?

 Mom, do you realise how I feel when you say that I look like a buffalo?

 Did you hear my heart breaking when you declared the other day that you will have a hard time finding a match for a ‘lump of lard’ like me?

 Can your other daughter paint as well as I can?

Can your Raman ever get an ‘Employee of the month’ award?

Can they both make you laugh like I can? And be honest. I am the only one in the family who can make you roll with laughter. Then why mom…why do your words make me shed silent tears?

 And that pig who I met at the interview today…the slimeball didn’t think twice before telling me candidly that he needed someone better looking for the job. He said that if I wanted the job, I should shape up.

 I thought I was a graphic designer…not an air hostess to be of a certain size to get a job.

 And frankly, all this is getting to me now. I am sick and tired of just laughing it off. The way I see it, no matter how hard I try, there will always be people telling me how fat I look or which diet I should try or which gym I should join or just how many crunches I should be doing to have a fabulous backside. Even though I am not, people around me are making me feel sick and ugly.

 I am always going to, literally, be a ‘burden’ to everyone around me.

 Be happy, stay well. And mom, I am sorry I couldn’t meet your expectations. I am sure your pretty Laxmi will bring you a wonderful son-in-law, being the beauty that she is. I’ll be happy where I am going. For the first time, I’ll be floating.

Ratna.

END OF LETTER

 A diary was found in the hands of the second body. There was an entry on 22^nd June which read as follows…

 
I am so looking forward to not being in this world that I am actually happy. And as I write this, there is a song in my heart and a smile on my lips because all this is finally going to end. The sleeping pills are calling out to me like they were my long lost pals.

I hate this pathetic place people call the world where I have to expose my chest to some hare-brained, lecherous production manager just to get a seedy role in a semi porn flick.

I know that most of my friends envy me when I go for all these glamorous parties. But I hate myself when I wake up in the morning in a haze in a strange bed in the arms of some strange man…or even worse…woman. And I loathe myself when people talk to my chest.

I feel that nothing at all exists in this world about me except the little piece of flesh between my legs.  

That s**thead producer who threw my script away…I hope he comes under a train. “Baby, come here. Sit on my lap and I will tell you a thing or two about scripting.” And months of my work went in his dustbin.

I can’t eat a morsel without thinking of the weight I will put on. And if I get a chance to eat something I truly love, I have to vomit it out.

I have to eat powders and supplements to keep up my muscle tone. I look healthy…but in reality, I am sick…very sick indeed. In body as well as in mind. I feel I am exhausted and that my brain and heart is going to burst. It seems to me that people are always laughing behind my back. Either my nail polish is not the right colour or my blouse is too daring or my shoes are too old fashioned. No matter what I do, I never just about get it right.

All those people who have laughed at me are responsible for my death. Sahni, the producer who threw my script away, Roopa, the journalist from Daily Tabloid, Tina Agarwal, the pimp in the guise of a rich bitch…there are too many names to list. I pray to god that you all rot in hell while you are still alive. As for me…I am going to have a great time dying.

Happy to be gone,

Jasmine