My story might be a bit difficult to comprehend. You might feel I am a useless guy. The good-for-nothing type. But, let me assure you, that’s certainly not the case.
I hail from The Democratic Republic of Congo. Don’t strain your memory, it’s in Africa.
But those heartless people threw me out of my own country. The reason you wish to know? I promise I will tell you. Not right away, though. First let me complete my story otherwise you might just close the page and desert me forever. Listen to this bit of information that I desperately want to share with you.
So when I left (read ‘was thrown out of’) my country, I had to decide on a new place to live. I had a multitude of options, almost 191 of them. But, you will be amazed to know I chose your country. India or Bharat as you love to call it. The reason you ask? Oh! Forget it. I’ll tell you later. Otherwise you’ll never get to the ending of my story.
Coming back to my tale, I arrived in India about 9 months ago. I was in a dilemma. India is a big country and again I had to choose between 28 options.
Oh, sorry! I completely forgot about Telangana. So, I had 29 options. I, however, chose a union territory. States were not my type. I chose the capital of your beloved country, Delhi. From the knowledge I gained through Wikipedia, I got to know it is a cosmopolitan. People from different walks of life lead their ever-so-busy lives in this ‘Dil walo ki Nagri’.
So I arrived at the Indira Gandhi International Airport on a Sunday morning at around 4 a.m.
Armed with my smartphone and unaware of what should be done next, I sat at the airport for almost about 5 hours. At this point, it is imperative that I inform you about my intense hatred for gizmos of any kind. I used to abhor smartphones.
After sitting idle and thinking about how my life has taken a 360° turn in these two weeks. From leading a life of luxury in Kinshasa, I was sent into exile. At that moment I could relate to Lord Rama of the famous Indian epic Ramayana. However, one minor difference, I had no lady in my life like Sita or a faithful brother like Laxman to accompany me. I had no confidante. In this country of unknowns, I became one. From this point forward, there started an entirely different phase of my life.
So with my android phone I first clicked on the Play Store. It popped open with the words- “Check your connection and try again.” ‘What do they mean by your connection? And I should check my connection with whom?’, I murmured to myself. I went through the process of clicking on the playstore icon again, the same happened. A mademoiselle sitting next to me sensed my uneasiness and offered to help. She looked like an angel. Big pretty eyes, pointy nose, fair complexion. She was just the kind my mom had ever imagined me to fall in love with. I am sorry if I sound a little racist but fair girls had always been her type. I saw her soft lips reaching out to me, saying the words,” Sir, let me help you out! What do you wish to open?”.
As soon as I could gather all my confidence and bonhomie to reply, something struck my mind. No longer had she blinked her eye, that I rushed like a cheetah, out of her sight. “You cannot do it”, said my brain. “ No one knows me here”, said my heart. This constant fight between the two most indispensible organs of my body had already ruined my life in Kinshasa.
I somehow managed to spend the next 2 years in this city trying to look satisfied. My days were mostly filled with doing errands for my landlord and using the small amount earned to eat and discover new places in the Delhi; rather, Old Delhi. I must admit I was enthralled when I saw the Mughal architecture. As a matter of fact, I rented a flat in Chandni Chowk because I was told it was the cheapest I could hope to find and had loads of Mughal influence. I prayed in the Jama Masjid every Friday. I hope Allah listens to me someday and gives me what will actually make me happy in life. It has been two years since I’ve been praying to Allah. I am tired now. With my hopes shattering with every passing second, I guess I have only two options left. The first is quite improbable. But I am not quite sure whether I will be able to gather courage to put the Plan B into action.
Two more years pass by. I try all the time. But I fail every time. What is my mistake, I ask? It wasn’t my choice after all. I look so dead that even my landlord took the pain of asking me about my plight. Yes, I am living a healthy life and have no deadly diseases. I miss my home sometimes, but I’ve come to terms with my situation. All this is enough for me to survive, not live. From being the happy-go-lucky guy in Kinshasa, I am afraid I’m nothing more than a slogging expat here. Misery seems to surround me these days. The purpose of my life is lost. “Why am I even alive?”, I ask myself.
One day, upon receiving no satisfying answer, I open the door of the room. Rush out. Take the stairs to the topmost balcony. Stand on the threshold of completing my Plan B.
“Boom!” Plan B accomplished. I have ceased to exist. I no longer breathe like you do. I no longer have to live those dreadful days. I am free from this cruel world.
You might ask why I did all this? Also, why do I have to leave this letter to you? I hope you would be able to spread this message through this letter to the whole nation and the world. Wait, leave the world, at least inform my mom.
I had to die because I have no one to look after me, no one to care for me. No one to cry when I was sad. No one to laugh when I was happy. Living in solitude in hell is better than living in solitude in your cruel world. I was abandoned by my parents when they got to know about the truth I had been hiding since 20 years. I was told I was not normal.
I was in love, madly in love.
But with a guy.
And that was my mistake.