When Charlie decided

When Charlie decided to die, his bagpack lost its painful weight of monotony and helplessness. A man standing behind him shoved his way to the front, nearly pushing him out of balance. Strong stench of tired armpits spread across the bus, mixing with the smell of diesel and something rotten. But Charlie had decided to die. So it was okay. 

So how should he die? 

When he reached his room, he undressed himself to nothing and looked around. His clothes were either dirty or unfolded. Ramita didi who would have to clean them tomorrow. Surely, she’d be the first to know about dead Charlie, but why would she clean the clothes of a dead man now? 

He washed his dirty clothes and hung them to dry. The rest were ironed and folded neatly. 

The day they find Charlie’s body in the room, Paale dai might look around and see these untouched pairs of shirts and pants, then decide to take it for his son. 

He opened his fridge. The old broken machine smelled of milddew, with nothing inside it but a small jar of pickles his mother had sent him last week. Mother likes her containers returned on time. He threw out the pungent pickles and cleaned the entire jar and placed them on the counter top to dry.

Mother can take her jar home now. She’ll cry at first, a lot, when she realizes that her son is dead.  She will lose her hair and happiness. But she can take her clean jar home now.

He was 26, but his bathroom smelled like that of an old man. There he found a jar of serum that promised to hold his hair together. A fairness cream that promised to make girls fall for him. A toothpaste that promised to make him smile more often. 

Hem uncle from the downstairs space could probably use all of these. He properly sealed and cleaned the lid of all these products and put them in a bag. 

No one wants to rent a space that smells like a sad old man. So he uncapped his room spray and sprayed it on his light old curtains. The room smelled like what people think lavender smells like. 

Had Charlie ever seen a real lavender plant? He didn’t remember. 

He found a cigarette on the window sill and lit one end of it. The sweet slender stick was at comfort between his fingers and the fire danced down his throat. Cigarette wasn’t scary now. It was delicious, and blooming across his lungs. He smoked like a thirsty chimney. 

His dad loves mountain biking. When Charlie moved away from his parents, without a license or even a vehicle, his father gave him the only mountain bike he had, and Charlie barely rode it. But there it was, in his room, smelling more like his room and less like an open road. 

Maybe dad would like his mountain bike back now. 

He cleaned it with his towel, scraping bits of dust he spotted around the tires, and put it on an angle. It looked nice. Father would feel nice. He would go mountain biking again.

And now, more and more belongings needed to be addressed. 

Watch. Dad. Shoes. Cousin. Tie. The colleague from work who covered his shift the last week. Wallet. Dad. Money. Mom. Socks. Dad. Bagpack. Paale dai. Books. Hem uncle’s children. Water jug. Ramita didi. Laptop. Dad. Phone. Mom. Charger. Mom. Gold Chain. Dad. 

By the time all the belongings were addressed, they had been neatly recorded in a register, which, in the end would belong to his mom. Charlie wanted a tasteful death. He’d probably be lying in a pool of blood, in his best clothes, or hanging on the noose of a rope while playing Woody Allen’s movie soundtrack in the background. 

Classic soundtrack. But do people know it is a classic soundtrack? 

No one listens to it, so no one would care for it. So…should he play….Coldplay? Maybe Hem uncle listens to it. 

Or not, no one listens to Coldplay these days. How would people know his death was tasteful then?

But there was another problem. If things don’t go his way, he can’t change it, because he’d be dead. What if dad doesn’t take the mountain bike? What if his cousin throws his shoes out and grabs his old clothes? What will paale dai take home for his son? What if mom takes his phone but not the charger? What if she takes the charger but not the phone? 

And what if…after all this…she forgets to take that stupid jar home? 

Things could get worse. They might call him Chiranjivi and not Charlie like he wants them to. Charlie was supposed to be his death name. 

Then there was another problem. It was already morning. And he hadn’t died yet. 

It’s okay. Things like these happen. He’s a first time suicider. It’s a brand new day. He can die in a much better way. In a more perfect way, if it is possible. 

So he pulled his bag from the corner and shoved in some of his identity documents. He was hungry. He was tired. But he could sleep when he finally died. The first thing he needed to change his name altogether. Then he could ask his friend for some money so that he can hire a lawyer. The lawyer would see to it that his demands are met. As simple as that. 

But Charlie is forgetful. He was on his way to change his name when his cousin gave him a call. She wanted to meet him about something. So now he'd meet her, then he’d get hungry. He’d grab a nice sandwich, then head to his office. His boss would yell at his for being late, but he’d ignore it. He’d work his heart out and leave the office. He’d smell the armpits on the bus again and remember what he had gone out for that day, in the first place. And his bagpack would drop a painful weight of monotony and helplessness.