Fiction pick: What goes through a person’s mind as they contemplate jumping to death?

From where I was sitting, I could see the sea. Far away. Really far away. Which means, if I were to go down, get out the car, and drive, it would take roughly an hour or an hour and a half to get there. That’s taking into account the 5:30 p.m. fuck-all traffic. But that’s no surprise. When you’re going from Point A to Point Anywhere in Mumbai, you’ve got to take the traffic into account.

Anyway, the sea. From here, it looks a little pathetic, framed by buildings on both sides. There is the island of the Haji Ali mosque too. In the heat and dust of this city, it shines in the warm light of the evening. The fun of it is the sun is directly overhead. The rain may begin at any moment now. The sun over Haji Ali isn’t concerned about the threat of rain. It shines, lost in its own world. On the other side of the sea-face, the new stadium is visible. It catches the eye because of its peculiarly designed dome. The area beyond it is like some weird urban design experiment.

Two cities stand side by side, resolutely refusing to converse with each other: the old Mumbai and the new one that wants to compete with Singapore. Even if you stare, you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. For an architecture student like me, this is very interesting. Almost like witnessing the death and the rebirth of the city.

In one glance, I can take in a few last remaining two- and three-storey buildings of Parel-Lalbaug, the ruins of the mills that have been closed down, a few eight- and ten-storey buildings of the middle period when FSI was relaxed a little, once seemingly huge but in comparison to the monsters of today, almost invisible.

Those monsters, all glass grins and concrete teeth, have eaten up the sky, each one blotting out a little more of my sea view, but how can I complain? I live in just such a monster, in one of the three or four ats Dad has bought as investments.

And anyway, I’m not here for the long run.

No way, José.

I tapped the ash off my cigarette and tossed the empty.

Then my phone, which I had placed on the parapet, rang. “Ramya, is that you?” Harsh was squeaking.

Harsh: classmate, from school and now in architecture

school. Harmless sort. Well brought up, well meaning. Panics easily. From his voice, panic was happening.

“Ramya, answer me, are you there?”

“You called me, right?” I tried to calm him down. “Your text just now. What did you mean?” Harsh’s voice was getting higher.

“Was it not clear? ‘I’m tired of it all’? It was meant to be a suicide note. Or a suicide text.” I said and up to that point I kept my calm. “But what did you think? I sent you the text and then immediately went and jumped? Be reasonable, man!”

I did my best imitation of a sane person. Then I looked down.

No one had gathered yet. That’s Mumbai for you. Everyone has something to do. Whether anyone else lives or dies or is going to die or seems to be about to die, they don’t have the time. Now shouldn’t someone have noticed me, sitting on the parapet of a twenty-three-storey building, dangling his feet in the cool evening air? But who has the time?

Had I pulled this stunt in a decent city like Nashik or Pune, a gratifying number of people would have gathered by now. Mumbai? Such a spoilsport. If someone were really trying to kill himself, he would have been miserable. I almost felt happy that I had no intention of doing something that stupid. I was just trying to get into the spirit of things.

“Where are you?” Harsh was in no mood to listen.

“At home. Where else?” I swung my legs over the edge and got down on the terrace. Without an audience, what’s the point of sitting here?

“No, you’re not. I called you on your landline.”

See? That’s why I told Dad I don’t need a landline. “Arre... I was sleeping. My cell was on a side table.”

“Don’t tell lies.”

What can I say? He knows me too well. But then again, if he did, he should have known I was joking. “I’m on my way. Be there in ten. Should I call Riddhi?”

“Arre, why call Riddhi? She has nothing to do with this.”

“Okay. I’m coming. Don’t do anything stupid,” Harsh shouted in my ear.

“Depends on your definition of stupid, right?” I said with a laugh.

“You know what I mean,” he said and hung up.

I could see Harsh in a panic, buttoning his shirt as he ran out of the house, thundering down the steps, ignoring the lift. Luckily, his car has just got back from the garage. In his excited state, I can’t imagine him trying to find a cab. But in his excited state driving might also be a problem.

Whatever. His problem. Not mine.

Waiting for Harsh, I thought about calling Riddhi but it made no sense. It wasn’t even four days that I’d broken off with her against her wishes. Actually, I enjoyed her company but it was getting too serious for me. Anyway, what’s done is done. Now there’s no going back. Even if there were, what would she do here?

The first drops of rain hit and I ran into the shelter. I really hate this shelter. The space between its four pillars is narrow and the pyramidal roof, disproportionate. I cannot believe how so-called landscape designers can use such hackneyed features. It’s a waste. Just think: if you have come up on the terrace for a breath of fresh air, why would you huddle under one of these? Is it even likely?

Okay, there are moments like this one but these are rare. And who would come out here in the rain? Wouldn’t a sane person take his mug of coffee – or beer, as the case may be – and sit in his balcony? Which is what I ought to be doing.

Now even the magnificent Haji Ali sun had acknowledged defeat and, from the terrace, I could see nothing beyond a kilometre or so. And the rain was coming down now, in earnest.

I went down and got a fresh cigarette out of the pack and lit it, with the rough-and-ready gas lighter. And then I closed the doors and windows and put some old sobfest music on the Bose system. I put two mugs full of water into the microwave and perched on the counter, smoking. By the time Harsh arrived, the coffee would be ready.

You have to understand one thing if any of this is to make sense.

People say I feel nothing, care for nothing and in a way, they’re right. I’m not terribly keen on this emotion thing. It’s a waste of time. That doesn’t mean I don’t like to play with emotions. It’s good fun. You should try it sometimes. Of course, I don’t do it all the time. No one would believe it. And then what would be the point?

Today too I wasn’t going to try anything. But my parents have been screwing my head so much, I really needed some cheering up. Harsh’s panic attack had been worth it. Now I’m almost back to normal.

“What the fuck, Ramya? What the fuck?” Harsh’s opening lines.

I took a gulp of coffee. Sugar. I should have added some sugar. I thought for a moment and then decided against it. Dad has severe diabetes. So the family doctor insisted that I should take care, even at this stage. In his words, “The signs aren’t good.”

“You frightened the shit out of me. I saw your text and thought you’d already...you know.”

“That’s nothing. I was just pulling your leg.”

“Fuck you,” Harsh started forward and pushed me. The coffee in my hand splashed around and some fell on the dhurrie. “How can you say that? Don’t say these things casually. I’ve told you a thousand times. Now that you’ve expressed the idea, it’s out there. Now it’s a possibility, something inside your head. You won’t be able to erase it.”

“Rubbish.” With that vote of confidence, I took Harsh to the living room. He cradled his coffee as he lowered himself into my big cappuccino beanbag and I went and stood at the door of the balcony.

The sea and everything else, the design experiment of the city included, had vanished. Now it could be any city, from New York to Hong Kong, glittering in the night. The lights of the city had filled up the darkness in front of the building.

Excerpted with permission from Half-Open Windows, Ganesh Matkari, translated from the Marathi by Jerry Pinto, Speaking Tiger.