DEAD BOYS

There were many dead boys in my hometown.

First there was Jiten Mehra. Age 12. Floating in wards lake. 

And Aaron Umdor. Age 14. Frozen and coughing on a cold November night. In his little cave of an outhouse where he lived alone. 

And many before. 

And many after. 

Some died at 10. At 12. At 14. 

Some died when their father drowned in a bottle of alcohol at age 9. Then they died again at age 17 in a bottle of Gilbeys Green Label (Make Shillong Green). 

Some died the first time they felt fear. 

The first time they took a punch. Then the second. Then the third. Then the hundredth.

Some died when they hit someone the first time. And the second. And the third. And the hundredth. And every time they beat someone down and felt invulnerable till the adrenaline washed away, and then they died a little more when they still felt the empty deadness inside. 

Some boys joined the underground and died. 

Some boys died on their desks surrounded by the red stains of kwai on white lime washed walls. 

Some died of aids like my friend and brother, or alcohol like my uncle.

Some died of rock and roll. With a red guitar, three chords and the knowledge that truth is not romantic. 

Some died trying to get away. 

Some died because they thought they got away. But you never really do. And you never really can. 

Some died because they lost God.

Some died because they found God. 

Some died because they were always dead. 

There were many dead boys in my hometown..

Post script:
After I shared this, my classmate and friend reminded us that Jiten was killed. In class 5 I think. In Andrew’s words “ His hands and legs were broken and a huge blow to the head. Then he was thrown into the lake.
He was just coming back from football practice on a late Friday evening.”

Post script 2:
The other boys who died. Hanbin. Drugs and booze in class 10. Harold Warjri. Jintu Chetia. Sugat Dutta. From the ones we know of