Voice Of The Silence

A Student

The television was on but no one was on the couch watching it. The light emanating from the screen provided only a dull illumination to the living room. Through the open door leading to the kitchen, a dull yellow light flickered on and off. Looking carefully, one could see the dark silhouette of someone sitting on the counter.

In the kitchen, a young boy sat with a lighter, switching it on and off, contemplating his next move. After a few moments, he picked up a photograph from beside him and brought the lighter closer. As the clock chimed twelve, midnight, the light of the lighter fell on the photo. The photograph was of a young couple, the woman cradling an infant in her arms while a young, four-five year old boy clung to the man's leg.

The boy slowly put one edge of the rectangular piece of paper to the fire. The increased light momentarily brightened the otherwise dark place. Once three fourth of the photograph was engulfed in the flames, the boy let it fall to the ground where there was already a small pile of ashes and half-burnt objects.

Picking up the next paper, the boy scanned it. His eyes flared and fist tightened. That yellow paper was the cause of all his troubles. It was his report card. He had stared at it for so long; he had every word on it memorized. He closed his eyes momentarily and a single tear spilled out from the corner of his eyes.

The result, marks and rank, if shown to a stranger would have surprised him. It was not a bad result. No, the result was never bad. What hurt the boy in question was his parents' reaction to it. No matter how good or bad the marks were, the reaction was always the same.

That morning's conversation came to his mind.

Math – 93

"Mrs. Sharma's son got 99. I met her just outside your classroom."

Science – 86

"You haven't even got 90% in Science! Look at Arushi, Mr. Malhotra's daughter. She never gets less than 95% in any subject."

English – 98

"This is not an important subject. Stop wasting your time on this. Focus on Science and Maths! You want to be an Engineer. English will not make you an engineer!"

He did not want to become an Engineer. He wanted to be a lawyer. He had wanted to take up Arts.

"Arts is for those who don't get admission in any other stream. Take Science. That will sound good. 'Yes, my son is studying Science. He will be an IITian'. Don't ruin your career and my image by taking up Arts!"

As he looked up at the ceiling of the kitchen, he clenched and unclenched his fists. It was no use talking to them. He had tried countless times. Every time, it was the same.

He was a kid and did not know what was best for him.

If someone's son was not aiming for IIT or Medical then surely he must not be very bright. It was no longer a matter of what's best and what's not. For his parents, it was now a matter of prestige.

Rank 2nd

It did not matter that he did better than sixty other students did. What mattered was that he did not do as well as one other.

Did he do better than he last did? It was irrelevant.

Did he do better than the children of his parent's social circle did? That was what was more important.

His thumb pressed the lighter and the small wick of flame came to life once again.

Nothing was in his control anymore. His subjects, his career, his future, nothing was in his hands. He wanted some form of control. Something that was in his hands.

He bought the lit lighter in front of his eyes. It was a suggestion from one of his friends. He was doubtful in the beginning but in the end, he had acted upon it. He found his escape from reality in destruction. Bringing the report card up, he once again put the edge in flames.

As the flames burst to life on finding more fuel, they lit up the boy's face. Watching the flames slowly eat up the paper brought an almost animalistic glee to his face. This was in his hands. He was putting an end to it. At least for those few moments, he found pleasure in thinking this. Once the flames had turned the paper to ashes, he hopped down from the counter and stepping onto the ashes, walked off into the living room.

As he passed the couch, the light from the T.V. reflected from something sharp and silver. However, that glint disappeared as the Television was switched off. It was a dark path he had started treading on when he took his friend's advice and he knew it. Sadly, he had also stopped caring.

Feeling controlled and suffocated, he had realized that nothing that he did was a permanent solution, be it the ashes in the kitchen or the dull, half-healed scarlet scars on his forearm. Tonight, however, he planned to permanently solve his problem. After tonight, he would not have to face any difficulty.

No disappointment in his parents' eyes.

No smug grins on face of people in his parent's social circle.

No more fear.

Lying down in his bed, he pulled the sleeve of his shirt down his forearm. Those angry, red lines were another escape. They gave him a measure of control.

He could not choose his subjects. He could choose how many times he slashed himself.

He could not choose his career. He could choose how much pain he inflicted on himself.

He could not control his life but he surely could control his death.

Tonight, he knew, he wouldn't have to worry about hiding all the evidence of what he did from his parents in the morning. He knew it for he did not plan on seeing the sun rise over the world again.

This time when he placed the knife point on his hand, it was not on his forearm but right on his wrist. Summoning all his courage, he pressed the knife deeper.

There were times when he hated his parents. He hated their expectations. He hated their disappointments.

However, as the first drop of the dark red liquid oozed from his skin, he did not hate them. The final slashing movement that he made with the knife on his wrist was done with nothing but thoughts of how much his parents loved him.

He did not want to be a failure. He did not want to be a disappointment. He wanted to make them proud. But he was a disappointment. He was a failure.

It was quite a few minutes before he breathed his last. They say your life flash before your eyes just before you die. However, just before he closed his eyes forever, all he saw was his mother's face.

He saw his mother's face as it looked when she held him for the first time.

He never saw his mother's face as it looked when she held him for the last time.