Bizarre things happen these days!
Vincent Van Gogh was looking out the window of his Worli Sea Face apartment. The monsters were back, teasing and beckoning him from the turbulent waves crashing on those horrible tripods. He just had had a fight with Sharmila and he couldn’t understand why she was not able to pierce the fog around his mind and figure out what was going on. He couldn’t take it anymore. He took out his pistol and shot himself. Sharmila came back in the evening to find him dead and called the police. The police found “disturbing” paintings and an online blog that spoke about his troubled relationship, not just with Sharmila, but also with other friends and family. The next day, Sharmila was arrested for abetment.
Neelam couldn’t bear it anymore. Each time she moved, flashes of unbearable pain wracked her body. She could picture those cancer cells eating away at her bones and liver. Her last scans despite all possible chemotherapy, had shown so many cancerous lesions that she finally realized it was only a matter of time. She made her decision. She spoke to her husband, Sanjeev and her children and a Mahasatiji, all of who agreed with her. She stopped eating and drinking in an act of “Santhara”, knowing that leaving the world at this stage would be far better than later. As people came to know of her decision, friends and family from far and wide came to be beside her and lend moral support. When she died six days later, peacefully and without trouble, she was surrounded by all her dear and loved ones. The next day, the police came and arrested Sanjeev for abetment of suicide…someone apparently had made an anonymous call to the police station calling her death an aided suicide.
Virginia Woolf knew she was screwed. Leonard was also not able to help her. The words were still there but her last book hadn’t done too well and she couldn’t understand why. Some days were just so dark and bleak, there didn’t seem to be a single ray of hope, despite the bright Mumbai sunlight streaming into her Juhu Village apartment. She made her decision. She walked out of the building, onto the beach and into the Arabian Sea and never came out. Her body washed up to shore the next day. Leonard was inconsolable. In the evening, the police came and arrested him.
Each time someone commits suicide, it is as if our men in uniform are just waiting to pounce on whomever they think might be responsible for the death. A good number of those who commit suicide are disturbed…either in the short term, or over the long run. The final act itself occurs either due to the proverbial last straw or is a final culmination of a series of small events that by themselves may not seem relevant. To book and arrest people near to or in love with or related to or in troubled relationships with the suicidees and to ask questions later, is complete madness.
Sharmila, Sanjeev and Leonard were eventually all released.
Only if there is hard, concrete, incontrovertible and unequivocal evidence of wrongdoing and abetment, following a thorough investigation by experts from all related fields, should an arrest be made. Those alive and involved are anyway going through “shit” because of the loss of a loved one, and the additional trauma of having the police breathing down their necks, just makes it all worse.
Seriously! This is all just so completely bizarre and insane.