Attempt One – Her Brother
Pune, July 2000
Arushi had never heard a body fall like that.
It was a wet thud, as if someone had dropped a sack of rice from a height. Then silence. Not the dramatic kind, but the stupid kind—where your brain stutters before it processes the sound.
“Abhi?” she called out.
No answer.
She climbed the stairs, two at a time. The bathroom door was half open. A towel lay crumpled on the floor. Water still dripped from the tap, soaking a copy of Frontline magazine someone had left by the sink.
Then she saw it.
His body. Curled. Face pressed to the tile. His arm bent behind him at an impossible angle.
“Abhi!” Her voice cracked, raw and thin.
She ran to him, shaking his shoulder. His eyes fluttered, then rolled back. Foam streaked the corners of his mouth.
“Ma!” she screamed, “Come up! It’s Abhi—he’s not—he’s not okay!”
Her mother’s slippers slapped the staircase like a slow metronome. She appeared in the doorway, eyes widening before she dropped to the floor beside them.
“What happened? What did he eat? Call your father!”
Arushi didn’t call her father. She called emergency. She didn’t know what else to do.
***
The hospital smelt like boiled milk and Dettol.
Arushi sat on a plastic chair, hands clenched. Her shirt had blood on the sleeve—his nose had bled when they moved him. The nurse said he was lucky. Her mother didn’t speak.
Later, a doctor came out. He looked young. Too young to know things.
“He’s stable. We pumped his stomach. It was phenyl.”
Her mother gasped. “Why would he drink that?”
“I don’t know, ma’am,” the doctor said quietly. “He’s conscious. You can see him.”
Her mother didn’t move. So Arushi went.
***
The room had a single fan, rotating slowly as breath.
Abhi looked smaller than he was—withered, pale. His lips were dry. He turned his head when she entered, but didn’t meet her eyes.
“You’re not dead,” she said. Flat.
“No.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t think you’d be home.”
“That’s your excuse?”
He closed his eyes.
She stared at him for a long minute. “Do Ma and Papa know?”
“They know I’m a disappointment. That should be enough.”
She crossed her arms. “I know.”
“You don’t.”
“I do. I found your notebook. The poems. The letter.”
He opened his eyes, sharp now. “You read it?”
“You wanted to die, Abhi. What did you expect—that I’d respect your privacy?”
He looked away.
“You wrote about that boy. The one from school—Vishal.”
Abhi flinched.
She kept going. “You said you liked him. And then how everyone laughed when they saw the note you passed. That was last week, wasn’t it?”
He didn’t respond.
“You thought dying was easier than being laughed at?”
“It’s not just that.”
“Then what?”
His voice cracked. “I’m tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of hearing Papa say things like ‘don’t walk like that’ or ‘speak like a man.’ Tired of being told I’m wrong for feeling what I feel.”
She sat on the edge of the bed. Her voice dropped. “You think I don’t know what it's like to carry their expectations like boulders? To constantly perform for them?”
“Not like this,” he whispered.
“No,” she said. “Not like this. But I’m still here.”
He turned to her. “Do you hate me now?”
She blinked. “I’m angry. But not because of what you feel. I’m angry you didn’t talk to me. You made me find you on the floor. I thought you were gone.”
“I’m sorry.”
She stood. “You’re going to have to say that to Ma.”
***
They never spoke of it again.
Arushi’s mother told the neighbors it was food poisoning. Her father didn’t ask questions. He stood by Abhi’s hospital bed, handed him a cricket magazine, and said, “Rest. You’ll feel better soon.”
Arushi watched it all. How the house returned to normal like nothing had happened. How Abhi learned to smile more carefully. How the silence between them thickened over time.
Two weeks later, she saw her mother throw the notebook into the backyard garbage pit. She didn't stop her.
But that night, Arushi dug it out.
Burnt pages, blackened edges. But some of the writing was still there.
“There are five people in this house.
But I feel alone in all five rooms.”
Arushi folded the page and slipped it between the pages of her biology textbook. She never showed it to anyone.
Attempt Two – Her Father
Pune, August 2005
It started with the lamp.
Her father switched it on, then off, then on again. “Flickering,” he muttered. “Need to fix it.”
“Not now,” her mother said. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not,” he snapped. “It’s flickering.”
He sat down. Turned it off. Then reached over and turned it on again.
Arushi, just back from her college hostel for a long weekend, watched from the sofa. Something was off.
The news was playing low volume in the background. A flood somewhere. Politicians arguing.
Her father stood again. “I’ll fix it.”
“It’s 10 p.m.,” her mother said. “You’re not fixing anything tonight.”
“I can’t sleep with bad wiring.”
Arushi looked at him. His shirt was buttoned wrong—one off, so the collar tilted. His hair was flat on one side, sticking up on the other.
“You slept in the day?” she asked.
He didn’t answer.
***
Later, Arushi found him in the kitchen. The fridge door was open. A broken egg lay cracked on the floor. Yolk running like a clock melting.
“Papa?”
He was staring at the egg.
“You okay?”
He looked at her. Confused. “Did I drop that?”
“Yeah. It’s alright.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“It’s just an egg, Papa.”
He blinked. “I didn’t mean to.”
***
The next morning, he didn’t come out for breakfast.
Arushi’s mother knocked twice, then opened the door.
He was still in bed, eyes open.
“I’m not going in today,” he said.
Her mother raised an eyebrow. “But the board meeting—”
“Tell them I resigned.”
“What?”
“I typed the letter last night. Left it in the study.”
She glanced at Arushi. Then back at him. “What are you saying?”
“I don’t want to be there anymore.”
“You worked there for twenty-eight years.”
“Exactly.”
***
That evening, they sat outside on the balcony. Arushi had made tea. Her mother hadn't said a word in two hours.
“He won’t talk to me,” her mother finally said. “He just sits there and stares at the wall.”
“I think something’s wrong,” Arushi said.
“What do you mean?”
“Not physical. Mental.”
Her mother stiffened. “Don’t say that. He’s just tired.”
“No, Ma. He forgot where he kept his socks this morning. Asked me the same question three times. And last night, he called me ‘Neha.’”
“Your cousin?”
“He hasn’t seen her in ten years.”
Her mother looked down into her tea. “You think it’s that dementia thing?”
“I don’t know. But we need to see someone.”
***
It took three days to convince him to go to a doctor.
The diagnosis came back: Early-Onset Alzheimer’s.
He was 52.
Her mother wept quietly in the cab ride home. He just looked out the window.
That night, he took a walk after dinner. Said he needed air.
***
He didn’t come back.
Arushi found him five blocks down, on the footpath outside the old printing press. His wrist was bleeding, shallow cuts across the skin.
“Papa!”
He looked at her, blank. “You’re here.”
She dropped to her knees. “Why did you—what were you thinking?”
“I thought it’d be quieter this way.”
“You thought wrong!”
He looked confused. “Don’t shout.”
She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wrapped it tightly. Her hands were shaking. “We’re going to the hospital.”
“No need.”
“Yes. Need.”
***
At the hospital, a nurse cleaned the wounds.
“Superficial,” she said.
The psychiatrist came in. Tall, thin, and practical. No nonsense. “This is the first attempt?”
“Yes,” Arushi said.
Her father didn’t look at either of them.
The doctor nodded. “We’ll admit him for observation.”
“He won’t like that.”
“He doesn’t have to. You’re listed as next of kin?”
Arushi looked at her mother, who just nodded blankly. “Yes.”
“Good. You need to stay strong.”
***
Later that night, Arushi sat by his bed. He was half-asleep, breathing unevenly.
“You always told me to face things head-on,” she said softly.
He didn’t respond.
“You said I couldn’t run from exams or decisions or breakups. You said I had to stay. And fight.”
Still no response.
“I’m saying it back to you now, Papa. You stay. You fight. Don’t make me come find you bleeding again.”
His eyes opened. “Do I still have a job?”
“No. But you have a family.”
“Don’t know if I want that.”
“Well,” she said, “we didn’t get a vote on wanting this either.”
***
He stayed. Slowly unraveled. His handwriting changed. He forgot their landline number, then his own birth year.
Some mornings he thought Arushi was his sister.
But he never tried again.
And that mattered.
***
One year later, Arushi asked her mother a question over tea.
“Do you blame me?”
“For what?”
“For not seeing it sooner. The signs. The things he said.”
Her mother looked at her. “You were twenty. Studying. How could you have known?”
“You always notice when something’s off.”
Her mother sipped her tea. “Not always.”
“What do you mean?”
She looked away. “You remember when you were thirteen? When Abhi got sick?”
Arushi’s heart skipped. “Yes.”
“I knew it wasn’t food poisoning. I lied. To everyone. Even to myself.”
“Why?”
Her mother didn’t blink. “Because it was easier than saying my son tried to die.”
***
Arushi stood and walked to the sink, rinsing her cup. “We’re a family of liars.”
“No,” her mother said from behind. “We’re just very good at surviving.”
Attempt Three – Her Best Friend
Mumbai, January 2010
Five hours before the engagement.
Arushi stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the pin on her saree for the fifth time. Her reflection looked unfamiliar. Too much makeup. Earrings that weren’t hers. Hair tugged too tight.
A knock.
She opened the door to find Prerna, her flatmate and oldest friend, holding a plastic bag and biting her lip.
“You forgot your sandals,” Prerna said, holding them up.
“You saved me, Prerna. Thanks.”
Prerna didn’t leave.
“You okay?” Arushi asked.
“Fine. Just tired.”
“You sure?”
Prerna nodded. “Big day.”
***
They sat in the shared living room, half-dressed, half-numb. Arushi scrolled through her phone. Prerna stared out the window.
“He’s nice,” Prerna said.
“Rahul?”
Prerna nodded.
“He is. Steady. Kind. Checks all the boxes.”
“That’s what you want?”
Arushi hesitated. “I think so.”
Prerna turned to face her. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“Does anyone ever feel one hundred percent sure?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been proposed to.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Is it what you want?”
Arushi looked up. “Why are you asking me this now?”
Prerna’s voice dropped. “Because you keep saying what he is. Not what you feel.”
Arushi didn’t answer.
***
An hour later, Arushi’s phone rang. Unknown number.
She answered anyway. “Hello?”
“Is this Arushi Iyer?”
“Yes.”
“This is Dr. Mukherjee from Mumbai General. You’re listed as an emergency contact for Prerna D’Silva?”
Arushi’s stomach turned. “Yes. Why?”
“She’s here. She’s stable now. Took too many sleeping pills. We found your number in her wallet.”
***
The hospital was two blocks away. Arushi ran.
The nurse stopped her at the entrance to the ward. “She’s conscious but drowsy. Don’t overwhelm her.”
Arushi nodded and stepped in.
Prerna lay in bed, IV in her arm, face pale. Her eyes opened slowly.
“You idiot,” Arushi whispered.
Prerna tried to smile, but it didn’t stick. “You look nice.”
“You tried to kill yourself and that’s what you lead with?”
“I thought it’d be the last thing I said.”
“You scared me.”
“I know.”
Arushi pulled the chair closer. “Why, Prerna?”
Prerna stared at the ceiling. “Because I couldn’t say it out loud. And I didn’t want to watch you walk away.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m in love with you.”
Arushi froze.
“I have been for years,” Prerna said. “You never saw it. Or maybe you did and just didn’t want to.”
“I—”
“You don’t owe me anything. I know that. But I couldn’t sit in that hall today and watch you get engaged. I felt like I was disappearing.”
Arushi took a long breath. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
“Because I didn’t want to ruin what we had. But I ruined it anyway.”
Arushi didn’t speak. She didn’t know how.
After a minute, Prerna whispered, “You’re not saying anything.”
“I’m trying to figure out what I feel.”
“You don’t have to. Just… tell me you don’t hate me.”
“I don’t. I could never.”
“Then go. Get ready. Don’t let this mess your day.”
Arushi stood slowly. “I’ll be back.”
“No, please—”
“I’m not going to that engagement, Prerna.”
Prerna’s eyes widened. “What?”
Arushi’s voice was steady. “I can't stand on a stage smiling while you lie in this bed thinking you’re unlovable. I can’t lie like that. Not again.”
Prerna blinked fast. “You’re not leaving him because of me?”
“I’m pressing pause because I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not abandoning you or choosing someone else. I’m choosing clarity.”
“You’ll hate yourself later.”
“Maybe. But I’d hate myself more if I stood there pretending everything was fine.”
***
She walked out of the hospital with her phone in her hand. Five missed calls from Rahul. One from his mother. Two from her own mother.
She called her mother last.
“I’m not coming,” she said.
“What are you talking about? The mandap is ready—”
“I’m not ready.”
“Arushi, this is not the time—”
“There never is a good time to be honest, is there?”
Her mother’s voice hardened. “We agreed to this match. The families are here. This will shame us.”
“This isn’t about you, Ma. I have to do this for myself.”
“I didn’t raise you to be impulsive.”
“No. You raised me to survive. I’m choosing to live.”
***
Back at the apartment, she took off the saree. Took out the pins. Wiped the makeup.
She sat on her bed, blank, until the sun began to rise.
***
Two weeks later, Prerna came home. They didn’t talk about what happened right away. They cooked pasta, watched reruns, and walked to the grocery store.
Then one night, Prerna asked, “Do you regret it?”
“Leaving Rahul?”
“Yes.”
“No. I regret not seeing you sooner.”
“You still don’t see me.”
“I’m trying. But not because you want me to. Because I want to.”
Prerna nodded.
They never dated. Never kissed. But something between them shifted—honest, real. Like breathing without holding back.
And for the first time, Arushi didn’t feel like she was running away from something. She was running toward herself.
Attempt Four – Arushi Herself
Bangalore, October 2015
It was a Tuesday. An ordinary day.
The dishes were done. The laundry machine was humming. Arushi had watered the jade plant on the window sill. She was working from home, logged into an Excel sheet filled with vendor names she didn’t recognize.
Five minutes before her calendar showed a 1:1 with her boss, she shut the laptop. Not out of frustration. Just… done.
She stood, walked to the bathroom, and locked the door.
She didn’t cry. She wasn’t angry. She moved with the slow certainty of someone folding bedsheets.
She opened the cabinet. Pulled out a strip of sleeping pills, another of ibuprofen. Then paused.
It was quiet. The kind of quiet where your thoughts are louder than traffic. Louder than memory.
She sat on the floor.
One pill in hand.
She stared at the pill, not afraid, not dramatic. Just curious.
Would anyone really notice if I disappeared for a while? Not died. Just… stopped being the one who holds everything, everyone up?
Then a knock.
Soft. Then louder.
“Didi?”
It was her neighbor’s daughter. Six years old. Anu.
“Didi, Mummy’s calling. Your parcel came to our house.”
Arushi didn’t move.
More knocking.
“Didi?”
She stared at the pill. Then flushed it.
Then another.
Then the entire strip.
Then stood, opened the door, and forced a smile.
“Sorry, I was… on a call.”
Anu handed her a small Amazon box. “Okay bye!” She ran off.
***
That night, Arushi couldn’t sleep. Not because of guilt. Because she hadn’t gone through with it. And that confused her.
Why didn’t I?
What stopped me?
***
Two days later, she called a number she'd written down months ago.
“Hello, this is Dr. Iqbal’s office.”
“I’d like to make an appointment.”
***
Dr. Iqbal was in his late forties. No warm smile. Just directness.
“What brings you here?”
“I almost tried,” she said.
“Tried what?”
“You know.”
“I’d like to hear you say it.”
She looked at the floor. “Suicide.”
He nodded. Wrote something.
“When was this?”
“Tuesday.”
“Why?”
“I was just… tired.”
“Of?”
“Everything.”
Dr. Iqbal waited.
She filled the silence. “Of being the fixer. Of holding my mother through my father’s decline. Of losing my brother to silence. Of watching my best friend almost die in front of me. Of never knowing if I'm allowed to want something that’s just mine.”
He didn’t interrupt.
She added, “Of being the one who always seems fine.”
He finally spoke. “That’s a heavy mask to wear.”
She laughed once, dry. “I can’t even say I’m depressed. I just feel… used up.”
“Sometimes depression isn’t loud. It’s just erosion.”
She looked up.
“That quiet peeling away of self,” he said. “You still function. Still smile. Still answer calls. But the light’s gone.”
She didn’t cry. Just nodded.
***
She saw him every Friday at 6pm
They didn’t talk about suicide every time. Sometimes they talked about small things. Her job. A memory from school. A recurring dream she kept having where she was trapped inside a glass elevator, rising endlessly.
Once, he asked, “What’s the one thing you’ve never forgiven yourself for?”
She thought. Then said, “Not hugging my brother that day in the hospital.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I was angry. And afraid. I wanted him to apologize before I gave him comfort.”
“Did he ever?”
“No. And now I don’t even know where he is.”
“What would you say if you met him now?”
She hesitated. “I’d ask if he still writes poetry.”
Dr. Iqbal smiled for the first time.
One day, Dr. Iqbal said, “I’d like you to write a list. Five things you want. Not need. Want.”
She frowned. “That’s hard.”
“Exactly. You’re good at surviving. Let’s try living.”
***
Arushi wrote her list:
- Sleep without guilt
- Write something that’s not a resume or a cover letter
- Take a weekend trip alone
- Learn to swim
- Speak to someone without rehearsing first
***
She didn’t complete the list right away. But she taped it to her fridge.
Every time she reached for milk or water, she saw it.
Months passed. Then a year.
She started swimming lessons.
She took a train to Coorg alone and didn’t check in with anyone for 48 hours.
She wrote one short story. It wasn’t good. She submitted it anyway.
She slept. Not deeply, not always, but better.
And one evening, standing in the corridor outside therapy, she called her mother.
“Ma?”
“Yes?”
“I’m okay now. Not perfect. But okay.”
Pause.
“You scared me, Arushi.”
“I know.”
“You always seemed so… strong.”
“That was my mistake.”
“You didn’t tell me, Arushi.”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
Her mother’s voice cracked. “You’re my daughter. I worry anyway.”
They stayed quiet for a while. Breathing.
Then her mother said, “Come home for Diwali.”
“I will.”
***
Arushi still kept the empty pill blister in a small tin box, tucked in the back of her drawer. Not as a trigger. As a reminder.
That the quietest moments can be the ones that matter most.
And sometimes, a child’s knock on a door can pull you back from the edge more effectively than any grand speech.
Attempt Five – Her Mother
Pune, March 2020
The letter was inside a recipe book. Madhur Jaffrey’s Indian Cooking. Arushi hadn’t seen it in years.
She found it while cleaning the kitchen shelf. Her mother had been forgetting things lately—spices stored in the fridge, milk left on the stove. Arushi had taken a week off work to help. One morning, while sorting through old cookbooks, the envelope slid out.
Her name was on it.
Arushi. If you’re reading this, I’m already gone.
She sat down slowly.
The letter wasn’t long.
I don’t remember names anymore. Sometimes I call the maid by your name. Sometimes I think Papa’s still alive. Yesterday I forgot how to tie my own saree.
I know what comes next. I watched it happen to your father. I’ve seen that blankness in the mirror. I don’t want you to go through that again.
I can’t do this to you.
This is my decision. Please don’t think I gave up. I just wanted to leave while I still knew who I was.
I’m sorry for not being better at loving you in the ways you needed. You deserved more softness. I hope you find peace—because I finally will.
Love,
Ma
Arushi stared at the last line.
Then at the time.
10:17 a.m.
She ran.
***
She found her mother on the temple steps.
Not inside.
Not gone.
Just sitting.
For a full second, Arushi froze. Her feet wouldn’t move. What if I’d come ten minutes later? Would she be gone? Would I carry that timing for the rest of my life?
Eyes closed. Face tilted to the sun.
A thermos beside her. The cap unscrewed.
“Ma.”
Her mother didn’t move.
Arushi crouched beside her. Picked up the thermos. Sniffed. Water. Just water.
Her mother opened her eyes. Blinked twice. “You found it.”
“The letter?”
Her mother nodded slowly. “I wrote it last week. But I didn’t drink anything. Not yet.”
“Why?”
“I wasn’t sure you’d care.”
Arushi exhaled, controlled. “You think I wouldn't care if you disappeared?”
“I thought maybe you'd be relieved.”
“That’s cruel, Ma.”
Her mother looked away. “You were always tired around me.”
“Because I was trying to hold everything together. That doesn’t mean I didn’t want you here Ma.”
“Sometimes love looks like duty,” her mother whispered.
“And sometimes love means dragging someone off temple steps before they ruin your entire life.”
Her mother laughed softly. “You sound like me.”
“I should.”
They sat quietly.
Then her mother said, “Do you remember your father’s final months?”
“Of course.”
“He forgot you first. That destroyed me more than when he forgot me.”
Arushi didn’t respond.
“I didn’t want that for us.”
“We’re not there yet.”
“Maybe not.”
***
They went home. Her mother napped. Arushi sat at the dining table, the letter beside her.
She didn’t tear it up.
She didn’t lock it away.
She typed it out, word for word, on her laptop.
Then she added a note.
This is what people don’t talk about. That choosing to live is sometimes harder than choosing to go. That goodbye letters don’t always mean death—they can be a plea. Or a pause. Or a question: Will you still love me if I forget your name?
She posted it anonymously on her blog, which had barely ten readers. She titled it: The Fifth Try.
She didn’t expect anything.
***
Three weeks later, her inbox exploded.
Hundreds of emails. Then thousands.
A woman from Kochi wrote: My mother wrote a similar letter. I never knew how to respond. You helped me find the words.
A nurse in Hyderabad wrote: We share this with patients in palliative care. It opened up conversations we didn’t know how to start.
Then one message stood out.
From: Aish Iqbal
Subject: Your blog helped me understand my father
The message read:
You don’t know me, but I think you knew my father. Dr. Iqbal. He was your therapist. He passed away last year. Suicide. None of us saw it coming. Your post was shared by someone at his old clinic. It made me cry—for him, for myself, for people like you. I thought you should know—your words reached someone who desperately needed them. Thank you.
Arushi stared at the screen. She read it twice. Her chest tightened—not because it was new, but because it was too familiar. We never see it coming. Not when it's real.
She closed her eyes.
Breathed.
***
Later that month, she sat beside her mother, feeding her pieces of guava.
Her mother chewed slowly. “I don’t remember your father’s favorite fruit.”
“It was guava.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Her mother smiled faintly. “Good. Then I remember something right.”
Arushi wiped juice from her hand and said quietly, “I started a group.”
“For what?”
“People like us. Survivors. Caregivers. Those who stayed. Those who almost didn’t.”
“Do they come?”
“Every week.”
Her mother patted her hand. “I’m glad you stayed, Arushi.”
“I am too.”
***
Five years.
Five attempts.
And finally, a beginning.
*****
Author’s Note: This story is not about suicide. It’s about what survives it—guilt, silence, love, and the quiet work of staying. Each chapter reflects a moment where someone almost gave up, and someone else chose to stay beside them. I wrote this not to offer answers, but to honor the people who keep going, even when no one sees how hard that is.
If it made you pause, remember someone, or feel less alone—you’ve already done more than enough.