“At the stroke of one midnight hour when the world slept, the Indian democracy was born on 15 August 1947,

At the stroke of another midnight hour when the world slept again, the Indian democracy was caught napping, over the murder of ‘Rohith Vemula’.

At the stroke of this midnight hour when Rohith heads from shadows to the stars, it is time for pseudo-stars of Indian democracy to come out of their shadows, Or continue to live a life in shame.”

What a shame: What a shame that ‘Rohith’ is no more. What a shame that a young, smart, intelligent, intellectual and talented researcher, writer and activist died… correction – ‘murdered’. Murdered not by one person or one institution but murdered by an entire country. A country that continues to sleep on a multi-layered mattress of casteism, regionalism, religious sectarianism and hypocrisy softened by a layer of apathetic and a pathetic governance, covered by a comforter called pseudo-democracy that has nailed into coffin, the Indian nationalism right after the clock struck twelve on the night of 15 August 1947. Without going into a blame game, a detached look into the event and aftermath sadly reflects the evolution, rather devolution of a nation that was born out of the dreams of many, shed blood of many more and survives today on the hope of a billion more. Death of Rohith Vemula mirrors how deep-rooted the country’s beliefs are in the many institutions that we have constructed around for years, called religion and religious tolerance, linguistic states, caste system and reservation and the likes that are the progenitors of today’s political parties. In his death, Rohith has shaken many out of a slumber, hopefully, and if not, then what a shame…

Rohith, the Dreamer: I personally do not know Rohith Vemula, in fact had never heard his name till three days back when the news of his suicide splashed across news media sources and social networks. But then while reading his news as a passing glance with absolutely no sense of shock or surprise whatsoever but rather with a casual preconceived impression of “this happens in my country every day”, I chanced upon Rohith Vemula’s suicide note. At first read, I laughed… seriously? Is this a media blunder? This is not a suicide note, they got the wrong document uploaded. I had to reread it at least two more times to then realize… What a shame? What a shame Rohith Vemula is no more. Rohith Vemula, a scientist, activist, writer, philosopher, leader and most definitely a dreamer, died attempting to live his dream. A dream of hope, of equality, of liberty, of rights, a dream of a just life just as the preamble of the nation reads: “WE, THE PEOPLE OF INDIA, having solemnly resolved to constitute India into a SOVEREIGN SOCIALIST SECULAR DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC and to secure to all its citizens: JUSTICE, social, economic and political; LIBERTY of thought, expression, belief, faith and worship; EQUALITY of status and of opportunity; and to promote among them all; FRATERNITY assuring the dignity of the individual and the unity and integrity of the Nation; IN OUR CONSTITUENT ASSEMBLY this twenty-sixth day of November, 1949, do HEREBY ADOPT, ENACT AND GIVE TO OURSELVES THIS CONSTITUTION”. Sadly, it was not yet the right time to even dream of fulfilling the preamble of the Indian constitution, not yet, even though it’s over six decades now. It will remain a dream.

Until the last word: If a normal human with a few extra brain cells, than an average person, who may be just even little close to one standard deviation on the right side of the Gaussian curve for ‘human-intelligence-distribution’, reads Rohith Vemula’s suicide note, the first feeling that will come to his or her mind is, a feeling of overwhelming awe, of respect and reverence and of complete stillness of time, given the clarity, style and extraordinary depth of the contents that have such a huge meaningful message cutting across boundaries both natural and man-made, physical and meta-physical. It surely did not read like a suicide note, surely not until the last paragraph, until the last word is read. It in fact read more like a literary article by a scientist who is both well read as well as deeply experienced by the veracities of life, banalities of rationality and travesties of Indian democracy, a democracy that has been nothing but a majoritarian vandalism ridden with feudalism, nepotism, casteism and religious bigotry, irrespective of which government has ruled the country, from the night the we received freedom. Or did we? By the time I completed the first draft of this article, I have read the letter over twenty times and each time it hits me, new and harder, waking me up and hopefully every Indian reader, to ask if this is just a suicide note or a commandment of a departing soul to what man should heed to. Until the last word is read, until the last leaf is turned, the letter reads like a soulful, mystic musical composition of words that tell, ask and challenge the human within the monsters that we have become, to try and become normal, become humans. As I turned the leaves of his letter, I was reminded of the composition by the maestro Yanni, “Until the last moment”, a stirring soulful composition many years back that does poetic justice to Rohith’s life even before he lived it and lends music to Rohith’s letter, until the last word.

From Shadows to the Stars: ‘The Final letter’ as it is called now, Rohith Vemula’s suicide note so completely and poetically reveals many faces of Rohith. A son’s love for family, a friend’s respect for friends – “family you loved me very much”. A confession that takes the blame onto himself and complains or blames no one – “I have no complaints on anyone. It is always with myself I had problems.” A youth dreaming of his goals and ambitions, of sky being the limit – “I always wanted to be a writer, a writer of science, like Carl Sagan.” Of everything that a parent would train his child to dream of. A poem on his romance with science and the stars – “I loved science, stars, nature, but then I loved people…” A sincere critique who is challenging mans conflict with nature – “…loved people without knowing that people have long since divorced from nature.” A philosopher who viewed and understood the depth of relationships in their true meaning – “Love is constructed, our beliefs are colored. Our originality valid through artificial art”. A writer with incredible vocabulary who could use the words to play into the reader’s mind with such visible clarity that reading the letter seemed like actually watching the writers ideas displayed in motion on a three-dimensional canvas, right in front of my eyes. The beautiful threads of words used to, so effortlessly yet so powerfully and meaningfully, connect ‘life with death’, ‘stars with dust’, ‘soul with monster’, ‘love with pain’, ‘identity with vote’, ‘man to a number’, ‘birth to a fatal accident’, ‘from shadows to stars…’ this would have been a beautiful poem that I will have ever read! I would have called it “from shadows to the stars”. Alas, it is not a poem. Every word and sentence written compelled that it be read, connected, understood and awed at; every emotion in that letter begged to be smiled, laughed or cried at; every idea conveyed deserves respect, reverence and standing ovation; every unasked question in it demanded a clear and complete response, every criticism provoked anger, aggression, pain and hurt; no sense is left untouched. The clarity in his pristine mind just before his death, the stillness within his wobbling thoughts, the silence emanating from the noise of many voices of his many faces, the hidden-inside-the-heart anger within his soul, an undeniably undying attitude finally humbled, all so loudly clamored for attention in his life, and Rohith in his last moments was able to so methodically do justice to it all, by bringing them all together in this one note, before he departed from shadows to the stars.

The Final Letter: What has the country come to? Counting every death as another statistic, using every event like this as an opportunity to harvest, for personal and institutional benefits, digging into the pie before it is all taken, and then moving onto another breaking news because this is old the next day. I am certain that Gods, if they do exist and if they live somewhere out there, certainly take turns to watch over and to command over the mankind, although unfortunately in a very non-interfering manner. And for this oversight, they surely do need help. Today Rohith Vemula offers them that much-needed help. If ever Gods were to exchange notes while handing over their duties from one to the other, this letter would easily be the one single document that so completely and so accurately describes mankind and nature’s relationship on the brink of a separation so calculatedly and callously authored by the man himself. “Where the mind is without fear” reverberates as the desire that Rohith might have inherited from Rabindra Nath Tagore, begging his God “Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.” And surely the Gods need help too, help, as they work towards taking the country into that heaven of freedom, a freedom where the head is held high, knowledge is free, narrow domestic walls are fragmented, words are true with a clear stream of reason and words lead human mind forward into thought and action. The Gods surely must be thrilled that they now have a one-pager handover document on issue they have at hand. It is called Rohith Vemula’s, ‘The Final Letter.’

At the stroke of midnight: It is indeed a shame that the author of this complete and accurate scientific work is no more and the reason he is no more is because of the very contents in this document that he so magically molded and carefully poured onto a papyrus piece. Sadness and pain are the two most profound feelings that I am currently going through. Sadness at the loss of such an intellectual genius he would have been and pain that he did not commit suicide but an entire country murdered him, under the dark shadowy cover of democracy that is more equal to some, than to the other. “At the stroke of one midnight hour when the world slept” the Indian Democracy was born and “At the stroke of another midnight hour when the world slept again”, a pseudo-democracy that has shaken the foundations of the same democracy, murdered Rohith Vemula. A murder not by accident, not by fate, not by a non-interfering attitude but clearly by a conspiracy hatched on the shoulders of the many systems within the same democracy, systems that identify Indians not as Indians but by their color, caste, language, state and richness. When the first prime minister of the country authored his “Tryst with destiny” on the stroke of midnight when Indian attained freedom, little would he have realized that he had nostradamically foretold another tryst with destiny, the one that Rohith chose to live and chose to embrace, at the stroke of another midnight.

The Sun has set before it rose: It is even more poignant and poetic that a twenty-five-year-old adult died just at the time when he was about to take that big leap of faith into the world of real-politics, starting a new life. The Sun on his life set just about when it was rising. Rohith died in the portals of an Institution and under the shadows of the teachers that were meant to lay the foundations of higher knowledge in many like him, meant to lay the path of right directions to make right choices for many like him, meant to sow the sprouting seeds of wisdom in many like him, meant to spread the message of humanity to many like him and an Institution that is deemed a center of excellence for the country. What a shame that an Institution died in Rohith Vemula today within the ramparts of the very Institution that was meant to, one day turn him into a man, a scientist, a writer and perhaps a true democratic leader. Or perhaps that’s what the institution and the country were afraid of…felt threatened by, a true democratic leader in the making, in Rohith Vemula. With this death, the Sun has set today but sadly, even before it rose.

Wake up India: The predictable and incredible display of so picture perfect petty politics, that is worthy of nothing but disdain, anger and outright rejection, in the aftermath of this murder further puts to utter shame, the very shame in this loss. Every politician and every leader, who are by default opportunistic, worthy or unworthy of his or her salt have come into this limelight, to make hay while the last rays of Sun still remains on Rohith Vemula’s remains. The bright spotlights radiating from the star-dust of Rohith’s spirit have overnight moved over from his remains to these opportunistic stars of Indian democracy. Not pained about the loss of such a precious life; not saddened at the loss of a scientist, activist, writer, leader or a human; not concerned about why it happened; perhaps not even aware of the contents of ‘The final letter’ and if aware; unable to fathom the depth of the same, every one of the adaptable principled politician of the nation has displayed a perfect spirited show of blame-game. It may be caste, it may not be or well it is; it may be a personal problem, really? Some calling it a non-issue and others calling it the death of a terror apologist… seriously? There are arguments, there are counter-arguments, there are contests, there are clarifications, there are investigations but unfortunately, there are no lessons. No lessons learned from this carefully written chapter that has already gone down in the annals of literary works as ‘The Final Letter’. A chapter that will perhaps, albeit unfortunately, stand taller than the author himself. Confidently but very sadly, I could say that those benefiting out of this ‘another breaking news event in India’, the propagandists, the hypocrite nationalists, and even the casteist hate-mongers, not one of them will ever be able to cross to the right of the third standard deviation on the left side of the same Gaussian curve I referred to earlier. Really, is this a suicide? That too a suicide due to personal problems, is it? Wake up India, wake up… And these, my friends are the leaders and lawmakers of the free India, of our democratic country. Indeed time to wake up.

Hope: Yet, the letter ends with love and forgiveness, as it displays Rohith Vemula’s humility in his parting statements – “No one is responsible for this”, “Do not trouble my enemies after I am gone.” It felt like reading ‘The Ten Commandments’ right from the stone tablets held up by Moses. Another incredible display of maturity and wisdom on the backdrop of hope… of a hope that he could not see in his little lifetime but yet in his death he remained assured that people whom he left behind would see, see hope someday. A picture perfect composition that even captures the left over works on his personal front to be completed; apology notes and thanksgivings offered to the concerned; powerful deep messages to rest of the readership; and somewhere touching a personal chord deep within me; this letter by a twenty-five year old is a reflection of what the country has lost and what we are losing every day. In his death and in his final letter are lessons for each one of us, as citizens of the nation, as leaders of the country and as humans, we have a learning from Rohith Vemula’s life, a life that we did not allow him to live but a life he so well authored it in his final letter. Let us desire to live that life… What a shame he is no more, but we can surely desire and hope to reach him in the stars one day where, he is the lone worthy placeholder today and proudly tell him the story… a new story of “from shadows to the stars” – A biography of Rohith Vemula.

PS: A copy of the original letter is below

Rohith Vemula’s suicide note (The final letter)

Good morning,

I would not be around when you read this letter. Don’t get angry on me. I know some of you truly cared for me, loved me and treated me very well. I have no complaints on anyone. It was always with myself I had problems. I feel a growing gap between my soul and my body. And I have become a monster. I always wanted to be a writer. A writer of science, like Carl Sagan. At last, this is the only letter I am getting to write.

I loved science, stars, nature, but then I loved people without knowing that people have long since divorced from nature. Our feelings are second handed. Our love is constructed. Our beliefs coloured. Our originality valid through artificial art. It has become truly difficult to love without getting hurt.

The value of a man was reduced to his immediate identity and nearest possibility. To a vote. To a number. To a thing. Never was a man treated as a mind. As a glorious thing made up of stardust. In very field, in studies, in streets, in politics, and in dying and living.

I am writing this kind of letter for the first time. My first time of a final letter. Forgive me if I fail to make sense.

May be I was wrong, all the while, in understanding world. In understanding love, pain, life, death. There was no urgency. But I always was rushing. Desperate to start a life. All the while, some people, for them, life itself is curse. My birth is my fatal accident. I can never recover from my childhood loneliness. The unappreciated child from my past.

I am not hurt at this moment. I am not sad. I am just empty. Unconcerned about myself. That’s pathetic. And that’s why I am doing this.

People may dub me as a coward. And selfish, or stupid once I am gone. I am not bothered about what I am called. I don’t believe in after-death stories, ghosts, or spirits. If there is anything at all I believe, I believe that I can travel to the stars. And know about the other worlds.

If you, who is reading this letter can do anything for me, I have to get seven months of my fellowship, one lakh and seventy five thousand rupees. Please see to it that my family is paid that. I have to give some 40 thousand to Ramji. He never asked them back. But please pay that to him from that.

Let my funeral be silent and smooth. Behave like I just appeared and gone. Do not shed tears for me. Know that I am happy dead than being alive. “From shadows to the stars.”

Uma anna, sorry for using your room for this thing.

To ASA family, sorry for disappointing all of you. You loved me very much. I wish all the very best for the future.

For one last time,

Jai Bheem

I forgot to write the formalities. No one is responsible for my this act of killing myself. No one has instigated me, whether by their acts or by their words to this act. This is my decision and I am the only one responsible for this. Do not trouble my friends and enemies on this after I am gone.