Five months have passed, yet there is no peace of mind, no tranquility. Five months is not enough for me to outdo this haunting feeling that feeds in on my mind. Perhaps another would have surpassed it, but I cant, for inside me there is a turmoil of emotions: guilt, fear, disbelief, sympathy. And a yearning for serenity deep inside.

Faraz was not my closest friend. He was not my confidant, although yes, many a time I have shared my personal problems with him, and also have listened to his. He was a young man with a wiry, thin body and stooped shoulders. He had unkempt hair, stained clothes, and half closed lids because of which many mistook him for being intoxicated much of the time. It might have been difficult for a stranger to actually like him at first glance, yet below that cover of sludge, there lay a kind person, a lover of animals (something rarely found today), lamella after lamella of patience for those who insulted him or were rude to him, and most of all a person, who loved and respected his friends and longed for them to be with him often. He was also a difficult person in the sense that he did not always listen to people's advice, regarding his personal habits and sometimes was too direct which offended some. But the truth was, Faraz was a good human being, who had a conscience, and perhaps it was this conscience of his that led him to the position where he was. A conscience that often troubled him. For even while accepting life, it seemed he could not let go of many things that were deep in his mind.

Deeply indulgent in philosophy, classical music and Jaun Elia, Faraz was a thinker more than anything else. He spent much of his time conversing about life, the meaning of existence, and yes death. He loved trying to interpret verses of poetry that appealed to him, in as many ways as he could, sitting with his friends and smoking on a good Hi-Lite or Gold Leaf. Light hearted, as he sometimes seemed however, the dark truth was actually inside of him. Lingering in him, nagging him, prodding him, sometimes hurting him, even physically; Faraz was a serious depressive. Many might think it is all rubbish of course, this depression business, but what can one say about those who believe so. I know, because I have seen it and felt it and heard it, perhaps if not in myself, then certainly in Faraz.

Early in 2004, I heard of his folly of overdosing on toxic substances. He was admitted in hospital and recovered soon. His friends of course strictly told him off for acting such a way, and he, with his usual know-it-all expression that popped up suddenly on his face in situations such as these, smiled. How many times I have seen his face come up in my mind, with that very same expression, only I know. It was an expression of quiet triumph, yet at the same time a shade of disappointment flitted for perhaps a spilt secondƒ{disappointment in being defeated. Dejection at being cheated after working so hard to achieve something.

We did not understand. I strove to try and recognize this ghastly face of death that he wanted to pull over himself all the time. But I could see nothing for he did not want me to see. You see, Faraz and I sometimes had a very strained relationship. Although we did care for each other as friends of the same circle do, there was something in our personalities that often conflicted, and for this reason, we had somehow become slightly polarized. I felt sorry about it sometimes and at others I would fight with him without thinking. It was as if I fought only to get rid of my bad spells, and yet Faraz would not fight back, except for arguing for a short period of time. After that he would remain silent and would choose not to speak. And then I would feel a tinge of shame for being rude and say sorry. But there have been times when I, myself, have chosen not to say sorry because I wanted not to.

As I write this, the same choking fear rises within me. I do not know why it is that I am afraid. And I don¡¦t know of what I should be afraid. But I cannot describe it as an emotion other than fear. Or maybe a mixture, of remorse, dread and helplessness. But it is terror that is the predominant emotion. Plain, red terror.

November tenth, had to be one of the worst days of my life. In fact it was.

Two weeks before the tenth, I met Faraz outside his class and spoke to him for five minutes or so. His mouth was completely dry and his lips looked almost parched, as if it had been days and he had not had water. He had lost more weight it seemed. His eyes looked tired, unslept, and slightly worried even. There was also a taste of fear in his eyes, and while I was talking to him, I chanced to think that he was hiding something. I became slightly suspicious and even mentioned the fact to him that I didn¡¦t like the way he was acting lately but he waved it off and changed the subject. The next day, when I called his house, I found out he had run away from home leaving behind a note, which said nothing about where he was going. Everyone was worried, but helpless. However, once again, like his suicide attempt, he was traced through a phone call he made, and was forcibly brought home.

Unexpectedly, the dust never settled. Because two days later, he disappeared again, this time without any of his clothes, and he did not leave a note behind either. Nevertheless, he reappeared after two days and life for some time went on as though nothing had happened. I say ¡¥some time¡¦ because it was then that whatever had to happen, happened.

On the night of the eighth (coincidently Elia¡¦s death anniversary), Faraz disappeared once again. No one had seen where he had gone, and he had told no one when he would return. He had simply disappeared. Since he had returned a night before, even though, it was after a couple of days, no one was that worried. I might add, that it was one of Faraz¡¦s most irksome habits to disappear somewhere without leaving any information with anyone, and then returning casually the next day or so, as if nothing had happened and it would be discovered that he had been staying at a friend¡¦s. And so people were used to his sudden ¡¥disappearances¡¦. This time also it was taken for granted that he would return. Two days later, on the morning of the tenth, a dead body was recovered from behind the building of the office where we all worked together.

As told to me, his face was totally mutilated, and in the most gruesome way possible, so badly that no one recognized him until after some time. Evidently, Faraz had jumped off, most probably from the topmost floor (which in this case was the eleventh) and had ended his life. His bones were broken, his face was badly disfigured, and there was blood on the wall near which he lay. I could not believe it. I did not want to. And I¡¦m glad I wasn¡¦t there.

I did not want to see Faraz¡¦s funeral. No one did. And when his face was shown for the last time, I refused to look properly and caught sight of only the underside of his bloated face, that was white yet blue at the same time. I am sorry I cannot go on. Whenever I imagine his death something inside me collapses and I cannot cry yet at the same time I cannot think straight. There does not remain any peace in me. It seems sometimes that there never will. Does anyone who has seen the body of a ¡¥suicidee¡¦ ever dare to think that his depression was a joke? A drama? A reason to grasp attention? I don¡¦t know what happened. I never will know the trigger cause of Faraz¡¦s choice to kill himself, but I do know that it was real. It was more real than anything I¡¦ve ever seen before. No one but I would know how much his death haunts me every night, and every day. Only I would know that I can never seem to escape it. The truth hits me deeply each time like a stab from a knife: Faraz was so desperate to die that he jumped off from an extremely high level.

And he used to say he was scared of heights.