Suicide

Not every suicide you can see with your eyes.
Not every suicide gets a postmortem!
 
That boy—scored ninety-four in Madhyamik.
Still ran to basic training,
so the Primary School job don’t slip away.
Silent Suicide!
 
Boys and girls with Master’s degree,
waiting, waiting like thirsty chatak birds—
crossed the border of age.
Suicide in Broad Daylight!
But no postmortem was done.
 
That fresh twenty-two-year-old,
proud B.Tech in his pocket,
applied in thirty-two private firms
for a 4,000-rupee job.
Now gaming PUBG in tea stall.
Happy Suicide!
Suicide in Delight!
 
The farmer who grew potatoes on three bigha,
sold at five rupees kilo—
today buys at thirty-five a kilo.
He decides,
“No more farming next year.”
Clean Suicide!
 
Four, five hospitals—he knocked all doors.
No bed for him anywhere.
An eighteen-year-old left,
slapped the whole System on its face.
Meanwhile, intellectuals swallow cyanide
to “protect” themselves.
Open Suicide!
 
And yes—
there will be postmortem.
Not inside morgue—
but open fields, broken streets, everywhere.
Thousands of dead bodies will rise and shout:
We didn’t die—
We were killed!