He had only two cups in his apartment. Sometimes he even used to joke about it. “That one is mine, and that one is mine too. If you want tea, bring your own cup. Unless you are a guy. In that case, you aren’t invited.”
That night was different. He reached home late that night. He knocked the door twice, giggled and took out the key from his pocket to open the door. After entering the house, he shouted to check if someone could make him a coffee. He giggled again and went to the kitchen to make some coffee. There was no one at his house. There never had been. He was single. At the age of 47. “Which cup?”, he asked himself. “This one looks rather dirty”. He poured the coffee in the second cup and sat on his couch. He stared at the other side of the sofa and asked, “Can you pass me the remote?”. He giggled. Again. He got up and grabbed the remote off the sofa, making it look almost as if he were snatching it from someone. Nothing good was there on the TV. Is there ever? He stared outside the window which was right behind his TV and looked into the sky. It didn’t take him long before he got completely lost in his own thoughts.
His car was rather old. He purchased it when he turned twenty four. It was his birthday gift to himself. The car turned 23 that night, almost the same age as what his son would have been that night. He didn’t love his car, but over time, the car became an important member of his family. Two cups, one car, a diary and an ash tray. His family was unusually small.
He woke up in the middle of the night. The TV started making some strange noises. He went to his bedroom and sat at his desk. He started writing. He was a famous writer. A renowned satirist. A booker prize winner. But he had quit writing when he was 43. A decision which was covered by the mainstream media. A decision that he never regretted. But after almost four years, he wanted to write. Again. The only difference being, this time he wanted to write for himself.
He wasn’t tech savvy. He stopped using his mobile phone and laptop when he was 26. The only gadget he had was an old Apple iPod. The one which never had a screen. He had been listening to the same songs since 20 years now. He had a catholic taste in music and his library had more than 19k songs, varying from Pink Floyd to Coldplay. He never bothered to add new songs. The new bands are for teenagers, he often used to say. He hadn’t called anyone in seven years and the last time he connected with his friends was through Facebook, 13 years ago.
He tried writing something but he couldn’t. He remembered that one time his mother told him that not everything is funny, especially life. That was the last time he spoke to his mother. It was 7 years ago. Using a public telephone. His mother died three years ago, and his dad died a year later. He didn’t go to their funeral. Not that he didn’t love them, but he felt that it was pointless to go to someone’s funeral. That night he remembered her words and started writing them a letter, addressed to his home back in India, where his parents used to live. He left the letter on his table and took out a gun from his drawer. That was his last night. Those were his last words.
“Life isn’t funny, not even a bit.”