when your life begins to resemble a movie script (and you don't want it to or maybe you do)
tw: this prose poem references death by suicide
I realised something recently and it is truly bizarre. There were four of us in that flat in Mumbai. We were strangers thrown together by circumstance and we made that place a home. Then, I got the college hostel and our lives began to diverge. Two of them chose to end their lives. At different points of time. For different reasons. Or maybe, they thought they had no other choice. I will never know. They are both beyond all questioning now. That leaves two of us. I don’t even remember the name of the other girl. Or know where she is now. But I hope she is doing ok.
And that is what happens, right? There are usually one or two who figure it out and manage to stay alive. I am still not sure what it is that I have to figure out. But us surviving and thriving is the ending I need.
Ronita Chattopadhyay finds refuge in words. She is lucky to make a living out of it while working with not for profit/non government organisations in India. Her poems have appeared in The Hooghly Review, Roi Fainéant Press and Howard University's Power: An Ode to BIPOC Excellence, Mystic Owl Magazine and Streetcake magazine. She loves books and tea and travelling. She currently lives in Kolkata in West Bengal, India.
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