A leap of death

I saw, I tried, I waited; it never came to me. Later I saw that times had changed. It was hard, but I had to change too. I had to let go.

The world is a better place if you know the tricks to mathematics and science. If you know that 2,4 Dinitrophenylhydrazine can separate carbonyl compounds from the rest. If you know that a projectile fired at 45 degrees to ground reaches the farthest. You can differentiate rates of change and integrate to calculate the continuous sum of functions.

You freak people out by making TNTs in the backyard. That is from a 98 percent concentration of fuming nitric acid, added to three times that amount of sulphuric acid and (in an ice bath) adding glycerine—drop-by-drop—with an eye dropper to get nitro-glycerine (which works better) than pounds of TNT. This is all to say that logic and knowledge are respected everywhere. If you master them, you can tame the world.

While at the edge, I opened my eyes and embraced the cool wind that had been calling me since an hour. I didn’t know if it was a great height, but it would surely qualify as a life-taking bungee. I would not have waited before taking the leap of death. The delay was due to a mirror in the grey skies. I swear I saw it, and I saw my reflection too. It was so clear, so vivid.

How It Started

Maths, physics and chemistry were my speciality. I had grown in a world of four dimensions—geometrically, logically, intellectually and ‘actually’. Differential equations and linear algebra were my allies. I could solve daily life problems in specs of a second.

But I also was a social being. I cooked thirty minute brownies in twenty minutes. I climbed trees better than monkeys. I ran onto severe inclines with unflagging speed. I could hurl stones at narrow targets like electric poles and goal posts with deadly accuracy. I had friends on Facebook who had worked with me, on trying to hack Facebook itself.

Like thousands of other aspirants, I applied to MIT in the fall. There was no better place to go than this Mecca of geniuses. I knew I would fit in. More than that, I was sure I would stand out. I was confident.

The alumni interview date came. A guy called Lewen was generous enough to take mine. Things were all set. We chose a quiet restaurant nearby Durbar Marg. The day was warm and I was all set to send a sharp chill through this man’s body with my intellect and wit.

But things came over in a way that I had never imagined. This man came in a yellow blazer, pink shirt, no tie, and a pair of white canvas shoes—just as a clown comes from the tent to amuse his crowd! We placed our order. While the food was on its way, perhaps my first question came. “What’s the time?” he asked.

“Time?” Was that even a question? ...

“Half past twelve,” I replied.

“Are you ready?” he asked ‘one more’ weird question.

Oh boy, I came to this table all because of it! How could I not be ready? This ‘yellow coat’ was probably trying to piss me off. And by this time, I had all become rather excited.

Soon we were at our food. The conversation continued.

“What would you do if they rejected?”

“I would commit suicide!” I said, half jokingly.

“That’s all I wanted to find out. Thanks.” he said, picked up his bag, and left. I sat alone by the table, dumbstruck, unsure of whether that was even an interview! Perhaps this joker wasn’t my interviewer at all, I thought. MIT loves pranks. It could have been one. So I waited for another hour in the restaurant. Nobody turned up. It wasn’t a prank. So that was it.

 In a month’s time, I received a call from the guidance counsellor. The envelope had arrived. According to college folklore, there are two types of decision envelopes, thick and thin. You wouldn’t want to get the latter one of course—it means you’ve been rejected.

With high hopes and a big heart, I reached the office to collect what I had been yearning for. KC sir handed over a brown package to me. Since I didn’t know what was considered thick, I was in a cold sweat already. As soon as it landed on my hands, I could feel that it was heavy, and hopefully ‘thick’ too. But I didn’t want to open it in front of anyone. I took a vacant place by the waiting hall and tore open the paper wrappings.

It was a ‘no’, a straight-forward ‘no’. I felt my haemoglobin cool to its freezing point. MIT was gone. It wasn’t my world. I didn’t belong anywhere. What I had worshiped for so long suddenly vanished, abandoning me forever. I suddenly recalled the interview, and what reply I had given to that sole question. Shivapuri was nearby.

Somebody had once mentioned to me, “If you can’t scale Everest, climb Shivapuri.” The peak isn’t high enough to be included in any list of mountains. But it is roughly the same height as Mt Etna. And climbing it wasn’t a tough task; my pains had been diverted. The peak never looked so beautiful. It was quiet at the top. Nobody would ever notice my body falling off that enormous height.

Minutes changed into hours. I had still not moved. It is true. In the face of death, everything is secondary. Life becomes precious. I couldn’t jump off the cliff. I kept gazing at the city beneath. It was amazing. I looked at the mirror in the skies. Then I looked at my teen figure in it. He was smiling. The smile gave me the impression that I was alive. That I still had so much to accomplish. That I had options left. Life is limitless.

Later that evening, I returned home with the torn package and a broken heart. Before going to sleep, like always, I wrote in my diary. That night was something to remember. I turned to the date March 15. And there I wrote: “I saw, I tried, I waited; it never came to me. Later I saw that times had changed. It was hard, but I had to change too. I had to let go.”

- Anik Yadav