An Old Man’s Suicide: Is His Death On Our Conscience?
I can't sleep anymore. Every night, the image of Mr. Sharma haunts me. He was our tenant, or rather, my family managed his tenancy for years. He’d lived in that apartment for over two decades, nearly twenty-four years, practically a lifetime for an old man. When my family took over managing the property in the early 2000s, he was already there, paying a ridiculously low rent of just ₹5,000. In this city, even a tiny studio goes for ₹40,000 now. The owner never once increased his rent.
He was 73, a retired *mistri* who lived alone, his body too frail for work. We knew he struggled; he was often late with rent, but we always found a way to work with him. There was a quiet understanding, an unspoken bond almost, that he was simply *there*.
But things changed. The owner finally decided it was time to take back the property. We were instructed not to renew his lease. Delivering that news felt like a betrayal. I remember his face, etched with a deep sadness, a silent plea that broke my heart. He had nowhere else to go, no family, no savings. We told him he had to vacate.
A week later, we heard. Mr. Sharma was found… gone. He took his own life in that very apartment. The police called it an unfortunate incident, but I know it wasn't just unfortunate. It was our decision. Did we, by simply asking him to leave, snatch away his last refuge, his very will to live? The guilt is crushing me. Did we commit a sin? I can't shake the feeling that his death, in some way, is on our conscience. What if we had just let him stay?
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