Essay: Myth of Sisyphus and a conversation

Debashis Chakraborty’s essay is a cross-cultural exploration of existentialism and the human will to endure with an imaginary dialogue between the Greek mythological figure Sisyphus and Jibanananda Das’s Banalata Sen.

Every time, the rock rolls back toward Sisyphus—he pushes it away. But like a recurring nightmare, the rock returns to him again. Now, imagine in the gentle murmur of spring, a conversation unfolds between them—Jibanananda Das’s Banalata Sen and Sisyphus of Greek mythology.

What would their conversation be like? Let’s say, due to the swinging yorkers of time’s relentless change, Banalata now wears jeans. Sisyphus, perhaps, stirs a storm on the keyboard, writing poetry. In that delicate darkness of their meeting, let’s imagine Sisyphus gazes at Banalata unblinkingly for a long time. Then, the conversation begins. The hero of Greek mythology asks Banalata, “Do you read poetry?” In response, Banalata says, “With the rustic moon and rustic stars, / Awake alone in the night of Aghran(a month of bengali calendar), / That bird.” She adds, “Sisyphus, are you that bird? The one who must forever push the rock alone?”

At this question, Sisyphus comes alive. Before his eyes, he sees storms, floods, meteor showers, the deaths of loved ones. Through all these, for ages, he has had to push the rock without ever tiring. Yet, his heart carries the exhaustion of lifetimes. His mind burns with the urge to speak something entirely new. Within the dewdrops of that longing, there might be the image of a woman, one who perhaps looks like Banalata Sen herself. Suppressing this reality, Sisyphus says, “Look, even in the eyes of exhaustion, if one finds refuge, if one finds a reason to live, then even a tired person walks. Goes to the office. Does the shopping. And pushes the rock again.” What Banalata said next, I can’t quite recall. Nor do I remember how long their conversation lasted.

But I can see this: when a person, battling the adversities of reality, loses the will to live, they turn to suicide. Today, in India, this problem has taken the form of an epidemic. In every three suicide cases, one bears an Indian name.

It’s not just India—across the world, suicide has emerged as a boundless crisis. Orhan Pamuk’s Snow begins with this very issue. In a region of Turkey, the rate of suicide among women has surged alarmingly. The novel’s protagonist, a journalist, goes there to uncover the roots of this problem. Gradually, he comes to understand the story of a stifled homeland. Perhaps Pamuk suggests that every suicide is, in essence, an unfinished letter—a letter that cannot be fully understood.

Globally, women are increasingly taking their own lives compared to men. If we probe the reasons, one thing becomes clear: the more women challenge the patriarchal system, the more they are attacked by that very system.

It’s almost like the anguished cry of Nita in Ritwik Ghatak’s Meghe Dhaka Tara, echoing in different forms: “Dada, I wanted to live.”

Europe views these suicides differently. Thinkers like Michel Foucault explain that, at one time, Europe witnessed a grand festival of suicides. Many eminent thinkers, artists, and writers willingly chose the path of death, asserting their individual right over it. From this, a narrative emerged in Europe: why shouldn’t an individual break the rules? When religion and other institutions declared suicide a grave sin, why shouldn’t an enlightened citizen challenge that decree?

On the other side, India or Asia perhaps offers a different message. Indian culture and its established religions don’t provide explicit prescriptions about suicide. Instead, they silently point to a stream of profound compassion. In Satinath Bhaduri’s Dhorai Charit Manas, we see that even amidst extreme poverty and suffering, life speaks with the beauty of the first light of dawn. Dhorai’s father dreams only that his son will learn to read and write, and one day read the Ramayana himself. With this dream, the man dies. Dhorai’s mother marries Babulal, but Babulal accepts her, not the child. Left behind, young Dhorai grows up under the care of a wandering monk, Bauka Baba. The monk is amazed by the boy’s beautiful singing, which brings in more alms. In this way, India creates an astonishing sense of life. Lives intertwine with lives, like flowers with leaves, forming a bond. In Pather Panchali, after Durga’s death, Harihar doesn’t abandon life—he tries to start anew.

In the search for this new beginning, death also arrives, but in a different form. In Akira Kurosawa’s Dreams, a boy visits a village and sees a procession carrying a corpse, filled with joy. Furious, he questions the villagers, “How can you be so cruel? Can death ever be a cause for celebration?”

A villager responds, “Listen, in our village, no one dies before ninety. After fulfilling all duties, responsibilities, and joys, only in ripe old age do people here find refuge in death’s embrace. For us, death is not a matter of sorrow, as it is for you.”

Thus, on the flip side of suicide, like the flowing tales of a river, Asia weaves an extraordinary story of life and death.

Short footnotes

Jibanananda Das – Bengali modernist poet (1899–1954); his Banalata Sen symbolizes rest and solace after long existential wandering.
Albert Camus – French-Algerian thinker (1913–1960); in The Myth of Sisyphus, he uses Sisyphus to explore the human struggle against meaninglessness.
Sisyphus (Myth) – A Greek mythological figure condemned to roll a stone uphill forever, often used as a metaphor for repetitive human struggle.