A cold, wooden almirah full of old bones.

A dresser full of clothes that are choked by more clothes.

A gray river full of emotions that are dumped carelessly to the sea.

A toasty morning full of morsels of depression in a cereal bowl.

A lighthouse full of people that vanished one day and never came back.


The calling is almost visceral.

The disillusionment gnawing at you like hyenas nibbling flesh out of

a carcass.

The only truth seems to be the mirage of a past

that never was, never will be. It’s like a saudade

for the ether.


Picture Courtesy: Blendscapes by Oriol Angrill Jorda


What’s in your mind, #1

We live in a world that is devoid of privacy. You don't need to be an expert to tell you that nothing you do is hidden anymore. The adrenaline rushes now for things that were once considered laissez faire, like the sparkling stream of water in a little brook that dreams of tasting brine of a vast ocean, only to find out once it leaves the blessing of the mountain that there's a steel and concrete dam waiting for it to lash onto and fade. But we are not as vibrant as a river. Or we are, maybe, maybe I'm too cynical to see the warmth. But there has been a fundamental shift to the way we operate, if I'm allowed to say the word operate at all. Human beings in general love to gloat in the pointlessness of superiority, and hence the fancy terms are reserved for only them – thus behaviour becomes religion, operation becomes characteristics, and lust becomes


The sneaky ways of love; the pleasure of holding hands during a public ceremony; the quick sweep of eyes with a single second or two of overlap between all four; riding the same bus, amidst a sea of people, standing or sitting a few paces apart – nervous smiles if a parent is nearby, telling all sorts of creative excuses to bunk school or college (one of my excuse-friends would have built at least ten computers with the parts he supposedly bought during those two college years that he, again, supposedly, had to be accompanied to buy them from Chandni Chawk- the sprawling electronics ghetto of Kolkata. What I would invariably end up doing is to swap trains at a junction, wrestle in the queue to get a subway ticket, ride the metro and then arrive at another Mecca of getting spotted by our relatives – Exide More), these things are rarities these days. People thrive on revealing their personal lives- vlogging is in rage, you Snapchat every moment of your existence, and in an especially morbid example a woman videoed an accident and her sister dying, without any remorse whatsoever. There is an almost alien nonchalance rampant in us these days. Like we don’t care. People are happy to let go of life’s tiny surprises, just to check another box that doesn’t mean anything in the long run. Dumb nostalgia it may sound like, but during my initial struggling days in office, my respite used to be the faint tolling of wind chimes from a dark,obscure, sleeping balcony – in a sweep it used to take my mind off the grueling day. I used to write a lot of poetry back then, a lot of nonsensical hapless romantic stuff : stuff I realized came from my innate longing for love.

The 'Knight in Shining armour' syndrome in me had made me a magnet of sorrows, I told to a dear friend of mine, and she shuddered with the thought that her plight would make me slip a few more steps in that endless spiral that I've been climbing all my life. I saw a warmth that was unmistakable, since during my life of continuous good-boy struggles I had received quite a few jar-fulls of them. These are those little wind chimes now that I seek after every crushing blow to the gut, after the panic attack I thought I had conquered decides to come back one day unannounced, wrecking an otherwise perfect afternoon. Movement has been limited for me; I can’t go to a movie theatre, I can’t go on long drives – the list is endless. The fear in the unconscious is relentless. As much as my distractions work, there’s a feeling inside me that this comes from a very different, primal place, that somehow saps the juice from my little stash of happiness. It’s a different beast.

A monster that I need to subjugate.

Welched in a bog, our feelings of togetherness is a rotten memory. The civilization is too fragmented to stand together, and the only bond is nature. Not just any nature, our nature. We seek comfort in each other. We seek validation from others. This inner feelings need to come forward to sew this planet together. Before it all falls apart. Before everybody goes to the rapture.

We must try.

Nothing really matters

Ultimately, nothing matters.

All these efforts you put in to make your life happy, your loved ones content – just burns down one day, in one moment’s brisk wind, and then the ashes pile up on you and you choke. Mercy, never comes. What comes is a fourth degree burn, looking at the watery eyes and a face in so much pain that your soul writhes. Yet you are a creature of habit, a slave of conscience that is bound to make mistakes. And ultimately those mistakes form your hell, your doom, whatever you call it.

Better snuff the lights, man, it’s getting too bright in here – said nobody, yet at times the scorching rays of the sun char your skin and you can’t protest. Not because you’re mute – you’ve given it all and you’ve come short. The end result is that you’ve become such an asshole that now the world you built around you has thrown you out to the dogs. You, you alone has to fend of the harshities of life now, all alone, watching your loved ones in pain because of you and then not because of you. Both of them hurt equally, and make you bleed.

Ultimately though, nothing matters. You’re but a cosmic mistake, a blatant blasphemy on this speck of a planet, a vile scoop of soul sundae. Your arguments are invalid and out of date and shape. The long walks through the shopping malls through jungles of amused people makes you realize that they don’t matter either, that they just exist as background noise, to give your story of imperfection some color and a palette, as do you for their novels. Friends are just as convoluted messes as you are, some fake, hiding under a facade, and then some that are truly lost, believing they can save a drowning existence.

But you’ve already drowned. The tar is in your lung, the rotten carcass is already showing. You’ve just put on a new coat. You’re already dead, you just don’t know it yet.

My head becomes lighter, my visions dizzy. The water drops, warm and still poisoned with feelings – from the eyes I am watching. Those eyes mean everything to me, but I know in the end everything is going to consume me, like love does, and leave nothing but dust.

I’m slowly walking towards nothingness, and she is too.


Do we understand depression? In our mind we have a picture of a depressed person, and we stick to it – media plays a big role in keeping this idea alive. The idea of shallowness is bred inside us slowly from childhood, so we tend to believe if a guy or a girl ‘looks’ normal, he or she is normal. That’s a lie that people with depression have to endure.

There is no perfect life. We always tend to think somebody is living a better life than ours. More often than not, the measuring stick is money. A rich person is happier – that idea comes naturally. Then why does Japan, a country with far greater per capita income than India has more depressed people than anywhere in the world? The answer is simple – money can never buy complete happiness, neither can it give you perfection. Those terms are relative, that means they always change. Whatever you thought would make you happy when you are ten years old won’t make you happy anymore. Money can buy materialistic parts of happiness. Sure, shiny gadgets, a swanky house, a trophy partner, deformities fixed with generic doses of botox and silicone would make you covetable to a large part of the society, but in the end, it never takes you closer to the perfect life. It just creates a bigger bubble. When it bursts, you are left with your showpieces that laugh at you.

Depression comes in many forms, but expectations are by far the biggest cause. Our society has reached a point where the load of expectations that come with your status are manifold – some apparent, and some hidden. To keep up with those expectations push us to the brink of sadness, and depression, because those expectations do not honour a person’s existence. Regardless of what or who you want to be, you are burdened with things. A big list of things. And then one morning you wake up and you realize how stupid you have been following the norm, trying to be perfect in the eye of the society. Only the society doesn’t care. Like a well oiled machine, it continues rolling. Faces and identities and existences and souls are words that poets and writers write and singers sing about, but in reality, all that matters is your mask, and the list written inside it that you see every time you put it on.

A perfect guy or a perfect girl can be a victim of depression, because he or she never talks about it and people don’t come to know of it. Deepika Padukone, a celebrated Indian actress have been vocal about her depression. I had a chance to talk about this to a couple of my friends, and we all knew what she was referring to – to the masses, she had a perfect life : she was beautiful, successful, rich, had a great boyfriend (who’s also an actor). Why would she be depressed?

Why wouldn’t she be?

I have been battling my depression for quite some time. It has never reached its peak, but at times the pressure is overwhelming. I can understand it slowly eating me from inside, because depression gives rise to anxiety, and anxiety soon turns into panic. I first experienced my panic attack three years back. I thought it was another health issue altogether, but when it happened a few more times, I made a point to go and see the doctor to have my body scanned. Nothing was found, and the doctor gave me some anti-anxiety medicine. Dumbfound, I asked him what these were for, and he told me not to panic much and take the meds till the issue went away.

The issue really didn’t go away. It was subdued for a moment, and crept back in again next year, and then the same pattern continued. I had to convince myself that my life wasn’t in shambles; that I wasn’t falling apart or going insane. That the existential thoughts that popped up in my brain every now and then weren’t signs of my gradual rejection of society. The doctor also asked me if I had any suicidal tendencies off late. No, I answered. I never had the thought of ending my life. But the panic attack that started as a result of my overthinking about my life, and depression, made me reflect on my life a lot more. I saw people around me battling depression and PTSD as well, some winning, some losing, some stuck, and it gave me hope. There was a way to fight this. I understood Deepika’s condition perfectly because I heard the same phrase from many of my friends, that I had a ‘perfect life’. Because I had a good job, I could scribble, sketch and sing (?), looked decent enough (read moderately fat), and had a stable relationship. Why was I depressed, why was I talking about a disease that the World Health Organization said would be the biggest epidemic in the world in 2020? They didn’t understand. People still don’t understand depression very well.

Depression is not what TV shows and movies tell you. It has many roots, and can happen to anybody, regardless of their faith and origin. There are many ways to battle depression. Some go to the doctors for help, others turn to spirituality and religion for solace. But the best medicine always lies in you. My depression came into existence because of expectations as well : I wanted a happy medium between being an introvert and being an extrovert. Only there wasn’t any. I lost friends along the way, and gained no new ones. People were there around me, but they only befriended me for their own reasons. The lack of people with whom I could speak my heart to dwindled. Even when I had a bad day, I had to come and swallow my feelings. Writing helped for a while (and it still helps a lot!), but in the end the burden started to overpower me and things started to overflow.

I made new friends now. A couple of very good young kids have formed a group around me, and some old friends have reestablished connection with me. Pleasant surprises are always welcome, because it keeps the depression away for quite a while. Like meeting my ex. Though we never had the courage of discussing our past, the meeting was good enough to keep my mind away from the depths of darkness, because I talked and talked and let my heart out with her. It felt like a big rock had been taken off my chest.

One thing I’ve understood is that the power lies within us. Everybody doesn’t get to do everything. Where’s the fun in doing everything? But nobody’s live is worth giving up, no matter how bogged down he or she is. And nobody is perfect. The beauty of life lies in its imperfection. Everyone’s life should be different, and we should accept and manifest that difference in us. Therein lies our greatest asset – diversity. Depression is a disease that needs our attention, but the root causes of depression should go away first. We should stop worshipping the ideas of perfect lives, the notions that money can buy everything. Mass depression is very hard to control. Japan has a proof in Aokigohara. We surely don’t want jungles to be famous for suicides now, do we?