I still remember meeting him near a tattered tea stall in Kolkata. Young, shy-ish. The skin-folds falling on the denim edge near the hips, the mildly inflated cheeks, the rough curly hair, and the pretty-for-a-boy-coy smile instantly advertised him as the mama’s little squishy bub-bub.
We spoke. Movies, books, black t-shirts, 3 more cups of kulhad chai. A lot. At the ebbing side of 2 hours, I could see him being a part of my writing team. He wasn’t the glassy, flamboyant creative person you see skating in the corridors of ad agencies. But he had an observant, sensitive mind. That’s all you need to tell stories.
Living life in a closet
I told him the working hours and all he needed to get was a pen, scribble pad, and a smile. Shayan joined on a Monday. We worked together for four years. He wrote well, ideated moderately well, and made terrible choices in life. No, I didn’t pass the last judgment flippantly. There were ample instances. Like his drinking binges. A 2-drink meet on a Saturday evening would swiftly turn into a weekend-slosh party, coming to the office drunk on Monday. Ideas that would spark joy and delight once, started tasting stale and studded with fungi.
Twenty’s drama, I would remind myself every day. But somehow, the sinking was happening way too soon to take relief in the fault of the age bracket. The drinking hobby wasn’t the only crack.
Shayan was, as I mentioned, sensitive. I still remember how vividly he had described the popping open of a lotus – a beautiful ritual that Bengali women follow during Durga Puja. His nuanced explanation reeled me in. The way the women sit, the rims of their sari’s red borders spreading onto the floor, and their perfectly manicured, lean thin fingers stripping the flower open – Shayan described every move like an ode to the beauty of the festival and the women around. I remember thinking if he saw himself sitting with them, participating in a tradition that was not to be trespassed by men.
The moment went in a snap. The thought remained. Was Shayan gay? While I was juggling with the idea of asking him, he declared his love for a colleague. A female colleague and all my guesses were laid to rest.
It was time for a new life
The time came, and he resigned. His father was moving to Qatar, and so was he. Just like that, after a notice of 30 days, Shayan was gone. He would reappear like a shooting star.
Once after months in the form of calls, voice notes, and video chats. I remember he sounded excited about being married. I remember telling myself how stereotypically wrong I was. If a guy is a little sensitive, effeminate, in-touch with his emotions, and cries – he has to be gay. I felt a stab of shooting shame.
The marriage was to be held in Kolkata. A day after his wedding, pictures of smiling, delightful, tired faces lit up social media. I congratulated him and genuinely apologized for not being able to attend. After a week of regular updates and a string of wedding ceremony pictures, the glitter of his nuptials died down. Typical social media. He got busy with a new wife, a job, and a life that I presumed he was happy in. The calls decreased, the promise to visit Delhi and go binging with me was forgotten, and the occasional drunken video calls almost ended.
Fading into a memory
Life happened to both of us. I was dragging forward a relationship I was a quarter pint happy in, spending most of my time at work or along the footpaths of Delhi/ Gurgaon. If I had to be honest, Shayan had almost left my mind.
I didn’t feel the love, the connection, or the joy I was used to when we got talking. So that’s why when he called thrice in a week, I let the phone ring. I wasn’t busy, just uninterested.
The next day, I saw a message spark up on my phone from a colleague I hadn’t spoken to in years. Tired from battling the fights of my own relationship, the commute in Gurgaon, and my boss’s overflowing demands, I turned to the other side and let my mind rest.
But seconds later, I was inquisitive about the contents of the message and opened it. There were 4 simple words. Shayan has died by suicide. I didn’t kill him, but I did feel like the murderer.
Questions were flashing through my mind at a blinding, numbing speed. I heard and reheard the voice notes trying to pick up some form of a signal. A quiver in his voice, a choke – something to tell me he was depressed. But to what end? That wouldn’t bring him back.
Hundreds of friends’ and lost colleagues’ calls and messages later, I realized we all regretted not speaking to him about his sexuality. We all kept guessing and double-guessing Shayan’s life choices. But no one spoke to him.
After the barrage of calls ended, I knew he didn’t kill himself. We did. We didn’t step out of our comfort zone to ask uncomfortable questions. We didn’t drill deeper. We didn’t stop his marriage. In fact, we ate, made merry, and flooded his inbox with congratulatory messages.
Today I wonder how he felt as every message of ‘have a great life’, ‘amazing news’, and ‘you two look great together’ zipped in. I play and replay a lot of situations differently in my head. Situations where we could have saved him. Questions that would have given him a longer life. Except for one -would he be alive if I had picked up one of his 3 calls?
Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author’s own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of MyndStories.
