For all who have been living in a well or so busy in the rat-race, to care, this is the full transcript of the last letter written by V. Rohit, a Ph.D. scholar who killed himself on 18th January.
Funny, it took me 3/4th of an article to figure out what his name was! All I could read in the headlines, all over social media, was a ‘Dalit Scholar killed himself.’
I was sad, I read the suicide letter, he wanted to be a writer. How good a writer he could have been!
Then I logged on to Twitter today, again. I saw the trending hashtag to be: #BJPKilledDalitScholar
[pullquote align=”left”]BJP and Dalit. Good job guys. That always sells.[/pullquote]
Then came a current of the Pro-BJP guys, sharing the part of Rohit’s letter where he mentioned – I forgot to write the formalities. No one is responsible for my this act of killing myself.
The BJP media team is spot-on with this sort of a defence, and then the advocates carry it forward. Still, not the point.
This is what really happened:
What disgusts me is,
- the first headline I read called him a ‘Dalit’ – his only identity, remarkable to them.
- the first support he got from social media was not of sincere sympathizers but a horde, hungrily looking for any issue they could turn around and bite the ruling party, in the ass.
- the first image I formed of him, was a Dalit student leader, eyeing the dream of making it big and in the pursuit made enemies, he shouldn’t have.
But it was so wrong. I was so wrong. V Rohit was so wrong.
He was wrong when he said – No one is responsible for my this act of killing myself.
We, a nation of 1.2 billion are responsible for this act of V Rohit, killing himself.
Read the letter he wrote before he died and judge for yourself.
I would not be around when you read this letter. Don’t get angry on me. I know some of you truly cared for me, loved me and treated me very well. I have no complaints on anyone. It was always with myself I had problems. I feel a growing gap between my soul and my body. And I have become a monster. I always wanted to be a writer.
A writer of science, like Carl Sagan.
At last, this is the only letter I am getting to write. I always wanted to be a writer. A writer of science, like Carl Sagan. I loved Science, Stars, Nature, but then I loved people without knowing that people have long since divorced from nature. Our feelings are second handed. Our love is constructed. Our beliefs colored. Our originality valid through artificial art. It has become truly difficult to love without getting hurt. The value of a man was reduced to his immediate identity and nearest possibility. To a vote. To a number. To a thing.
Never was a man treated as a mind. As a glorious thing made up of star dust. In every field, in studies, in streets, in politics, and in dying and living. I am writing this kind of letter for the first time. My first time of a final letter. Forgive me if I fail to make sense. My birth is my fatal accident. I can never recover from my childhood loneliness. The unappreciated child from my past.
May be I was wrong, all the while, in understanding world. In understanding love, pain, life, death. There was no urgency. But I always was rushing. Desperate to start a life. All the while, some people, for them, life itself is curse. My birth is my fatal accident. I can never recover from my childhood loneliness. The unappreciated child from my past. I am not hurt at this moment. I am not sad. I am just empty. Unconcerned about myself. That’s pathetic. And that’s why I am doing this.
People may dub me as a coward. And selfish, or stupid once I am gone. I am not bothered about what I am called. I don’t believe in after-death stories, ghosts, or spirits. If there is anything at all I believe, I believe that I can travel to the stars. And know about the other worlds. If you, who is reading this letter can do anything for me, I have to get 7 months of my fellowship, one lakh and seventy five thousand rupees. Please see to it that my family is paid that. I have to give some 40 thousand to Ramji. He never asked them back. But please pay that to him from that.
Let my funeral be silent and smooth. Behave like I just appeared and gone. Do not shed tears for me. Know that I am happy dead than being alive. “From shadows to the stars.”
Uma anna, sorry for using your room for this thing. To ASA family, sorry for disappointing all of you. You loved me very much. I wish all the very best for the future.
For one last time,
I forgot to write the formalities. No one is responsible for my this act of killing myself. No one has instigated me, whether by their acts or by their words to this act. This is my decision and I am the only one responsible for this. Do not trouble my friends and enemies on this after I am gone.