I have been reading, reading a lot and as far as I can remember I have always related to the characters, no matter how good or grey, a sense of empathy had always gotten the better of me. There have been instances when I would lock myself up, weep and feel the pain, relate to the good guy going through his ordeals of life and love, perhaps I failed to realise it was just but fiction. But, then I was too young to understand that life had harder storylines to offer.

Tragic endings had always fascinated my mind, I always understood that Macbeth was a tragic hero, not everyone at the tender age of 8 could feel the same, although that made me nothing extraordinary, I could feel the pulse of the character to an extent. Perhaps, my solitude: something that I loved even as a child helped me in connecting a few dots, but this turned out to be a blessing in the long run.
Often, my imaginations were fueled by the desire to attain the kind of perfection as found in the books, Baba had to once break open the loo to get me out, I had locked myself inside, too busy reading David Copperfield, I was. The struggles of David as a child and his love for Dora: something that fascinated me at 10.My parents had always tried to inculcate the habit of reading in me, little did they realize that it would go on to shape my imagination and my thirst for achieving something as tragic if not glorious.

Happy endings and fairy tales, always seemed superficial, but there was something about a tragedy: a kick; a thrill and an unfulfilled desire that drove ambition, fired the soul to carry on and made the mind to stay focused. It kept the reader and the character grounded, in touch with the realities that existed. No good over evil, no love over hatred; plain truth without any pinch of salt. Salt of the earth, ahh !! The good being crippled by the bad, no tales of heroic glorification, just an ending that would make the mind wander and wonder: why and why not.

And, then the affair began: the admiration of anything tragic, a loveless lover or a jobless loner, cut off and away from all the gloss that life and luck could offer, living their lives and battling their fate. As far as I could remember, I dreamt of being something of a tragic hero too, being applauded seemed too superficial, for it would be curtains down any time, how about living a life loving and longing, the mind being fed by this constant drip of assertion and evaluation.

And, a tragedy did strike, I might well be on the course of living it; nothing unrequited, nothing cursed by the Goddess of destiny. The doing of all that I read, the assimilation of all the characters I romanticized. She’s here, we won’t stay, but the words will. A story etched on my soul, I shall pass it on.
The books that I read, the characters my mind immortalized, the tales of unfulfilled desires I so admired have finally rewarded me with something blissful, the presence of someone whose presence wouldn’t manifest into reality. The 10 year old in me would have cried his heart out, I now know why books just don’t shape your mind, often they shape your destiny too. I wouldn’t have been happier.

P.S: It was time when they both loved each other best, without hurry or excess, when both were most conscious of and grateful for their incredible victories over adversity. Life would still present them with other moral trials, of course, but that no longer mattered: they were on the other shore.

~ Love in the time of cholera, Gabriel García Márquez

Ashtami – Perhaps, the most significant day of Goddess’s stay at her earthly abode. A lot to write, a lot to think and ponder and a beautiful episode to revisit.

There haven’t been many occasions when my heart stood still, and skipped a beat and this was one such day a year ago. She besides me, hands folded in prayers and eyes shut, her lips unmoving; as if She was evoking The Goddess within her. All that I could see apart from her seemed jaded in her light, She shining bright; her light and The Goddess’s merging into one as She prayed. The crowd which then seemed unnerving had vanished as all that my eyes and my sight could gaze and remain transfixed to remained She, a sight and a dream: all of it had then felt real.

More to think, more to write and a whole lot better to pray yet, this time though there’s this vacuum, but then again with her in mind I know, She’ll be praying somewhere too; the vast expanse of the skies reaches out to her and so do my thoughts: She the prayer and She the blessing, what better way for me to evoke the Goddess than by thinking of what She had been, and had done: the boon and the bliss, the urge and the surge of my mind now rests in her.

The mind does wander, it wanders into the by-lanes which now seem distant, but who can hold it’s reins, not me certainly! The mind gallops into a territory where it can feel numb, vulnerable and delight itself at the same time. This affinity with pain and longing and the pleasure of holding on to whatever remains, although now in ruins: it does feel good. Someone had once rightly said: “There’s something beautiful about things in their ruins.” There’s no coat of superficiality over it, nothing to hide the flaws etched over the surface, there’s something really surreal. Perhaps, the mind is now grazing at a vast field looking over one such gigantic monument: something that could have been, but it is no less beautiful.

As, I now sit by the sea and watch the waves hit the shore; my mind wanders off to the distant land. It is seven seas across, thousands of miles away; yet the pull of it: it is as strong as it were when I had last visited the place. It were home to me, it is home to me; and each time I feel lost, I know there’s one such place, perhaps now within me; where I can seek refuge.

There is but a hint of delusion, but for now I shall let it be: the peace amidst the chaos, the serenity I experience each time my mind walks through the now barren lanes of my heart, it knows all misapprehensions would be taken care of, there would be rest and refuge for the weary soul.

The waves keep crashing as Beth Hart plays in the background..

“You know me better than the poison in my veins
So, remember when God forgets my name
For you and you alone I’ll lay my monsters down
And I’ll watch the sun come up over….”

P.S: Ending lines from the song – My California, by Beth Hart.

October’s here, and there’s this nip in the air already, the night jasmines blooming in all their glory and the sun’s rays feel devoid of it’s heat, as if celebrating the homecoming of The Goddess. The time is reminiscent of the days bygone, a chest full of bittersweet memories now lay buried deep within: nagging and niggling me, a tussle hard to contain, but what better occassion than now to be thankful, to be grateful that life and The Goddess did bless me with my most treasured possession; the remanent of which now lights up my grey skies, lightens the gloom and provides the much needed solace which my soul seeks.

A year ago it were different, there was an undying zeal which seemed all conquering, as I now look back all that remains is just a mere fraction of the passion I had back then. To have lived through, to have experienced and to have felt a thousand different emotions: the summation of it all now showing up on the surface, holding me and forging me; making up for that now remains, all my deficiencies now don’t seem like a bother. A blessing yet again, a blessing bestowed upon by The Goddess.

It is that time of the year again, although I am cut off and cut away from all the hullabaloo of the festivities, I know to myself that there’s a celebration brewing within, with the remains of all that I have, the things now past and still beautiful; shall I deck myself up, set the stage again: this time though; it’s all within, all by myself. The thoughts and the prayers all leading to none but one source, one person and The same Goddess.

And, as I look up at the heavens above, there’s a stretch of clear blue skies, the season’s here.The embodiment of all things bright, all things beautiful: the autumn shade, the blooming jasmines and the early morning mist; She’s here, and so is The Goddess. A blessing She were, and a blessing still.

P.S: More to seek, more to write, and a lot more to capture; perhaps, Some other time…

And, not everyday do you get an opportunity to do something you liked doing, not everyday does work seem interesting and not everyday do you get mails from your corporate office asking you to volunteer for a cause you believe in.
I had always loved teaching, tutoring kids and helping them in their academic pursuits. In fact, I had always secretly treasured the idea of being a teacher someday.

It was my pursuit of happiness that led me there, into teaching and into volunteering earlier, I thank my counselor for helping me, enabling me back then: I would go and teach slum children, they would teach me too: to live, to hope and to stay happy, to seek and find happiness in everything that came along. Life had been a great teacher, they too were; in them I had found my way out of the turmoil.

And, to experience the same bliss again: I would trade anything for it, to be amongst people who in many ways are more privileged than we assume them to actually be, not everything in life can judged on the basis of all things material, there are things which are infact far greater; and of greater good.

A person had once written about the ordeals the slum children face, the kind of everyday struggle they go through, I had then given her my perspective on the same, my firsthand experience of being there amongst them. As, I write this, I can well visualise myself, those were hard times and those were good times too. A conversation over coffee, on stuff that mattered and had to be documented; I am glad that She did, and as I set out to experience the bliss allover again: I know to myself that I’ll document it this time around.

A loss is a loss, you can grieve and be sad about it; but life moves on. It was one such loss, I hadn’t lost anyone or anything, my team had. The team I had been supporting for 17 years had lost out on being the Champions of Europe. It had made it to the finals after thirteen years, and although a majority of us knew that we were the underdogs, but chose to be optimistic about the whole thing: that we would conquer the odds and make it the sixth time.

A sixth European title did come by this year, the perseverance paid off finally, but the journey had been far more romantic in the last season, it had also to do with the fact that I was in the company of someone who kept consoling me and shared my grief while I was grieving and sobbing at the loss of my team.

This is what football does to most people, if you happen to be a football fanatic you’ll probably understand the passion and relate to it. There is perhaps nothing in the world as romantic as football, as tragic as it is, as unifying and as beautiful as the beautiful game itself. Although, She was beautiful too; nothing like the game though, but She knew her game well, on point most of the time She would be.

“Mo Salah, is left footed God”; She had once remarked; it did catch me surprise; here was a person whom I had known for ten months talking about a footballer who had taken Anfield by storm. I hadn’t discussed football with her ever, She did know about my love for the game though, I was genuinely amused by the effort She had made in getting to learn about the club I supported and the players on whom my hopes lied.

And, that was the beginning of another course of discussion; another subject we could converse upon over coffee or beer or both. I would tell about formations and playing positions, managerial tactics and rules of substitution; She never really understood much but She wasn’t disinterested either. I would sing the chants to her, make her sing it too and She would happily oblige. There’s something about women who take interest in football, and there was more than just something about her: She would get me like no one else, She was the perfect false nine: She had multiple skills, life skills, life saving skills.

Love. Life. Liverpool; I would say; and She would say the same. Perhaps, I hadn’t found anyone who would ever understand the feeling I had for the club, what it meant to me. I could never cry and sob like a baby at a loss in front of anyone; with her: I could be me; I could let it all out. Everytime my team dropped points, I knew I would have her consoling me, She knew me and my team well.

With my team now defending the title, I hope She at least keeps a tab on the fixture, the scoreline, and the points table. With her on my mind, I know to myself; my team will never walk alone.

#YNWA !!

“Estella, to the last hour of my life, you cannot choose but remain part of my character, part of the little good in me, part of the evil. But, in this separation I associate you only with the good, and I will faithfully hold you to that always, for you must have done me far more good than harm, let me feel now what sharp distress I may. O God bless you.”
~ Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

And, she was no ordinary woman; the ending perhaps wasn’t something that Dickens might have thought of, but nevertheless She was my Estella, will forever be.

Reading Dickens and relating to the characters crafted by him had always been a thing for me, from being pulled out of the washroom where I was engrossed in reading David Copperfield to weeping myself to sleep when I connected to the character of Pip in Great Expectations, Dickens had always something to offer to my soul which craved for a little love, suffering and a conquest which seemed hard.

A Tale of Two Cities, opened up an entirely different perspective for the mind, the years leading up to the French Revolution and the contrasts between London and Paris, and the book symbolic of possibility and resurrection. And, the character of Lucie Manette. Blue eyes and golden hairs, her compassion and loyalty.

I had always been driven by the way Dickens portrayed the way love happened, the backdrop of at least something holding it back, clashing ideals of virtues and evil; at times. I had often in my mind fallen for the women crafted and created by Dickens, be it Dora, Estella or Lucie Manette, so much so that I had envisioned falling in love and tearing my heart open for a woman with traits like them.

But, life is no story plotted by Dickens with a happy ending, although I did go on to find the Woman, who would personify all the three characters, but life being life had a different plot. Not all characters of my life were straight out of Dickens’ stories, I had my Estella, my fate Ms.Havisham.
She now remains confined to a compartment which now beats and pumps and does nothing good.
The sun that shone Dora, the wind that blew Dora, are engaged in doing the same, they play the same game, but with Dora now but a figment of my memory, it seems to be a bit jaded; it’s beautiful nonetheless.

Separation it was, Dickens would have been happy too, and that’s the saving grace. His words, characters and my childhood doesn’t seem like a myth I lived, all the words I read, all the tales I romanticised, I am finally living it all. And, now as I sit and flip the pages over, all that I find marked in between the yellow stains is a reflection of me, me aged 14. Estella, I had loved you since then, and perhaps in this separation too, I believe you shall be loved, held and found every time I turn the pages, Dickens shall bring you back to me.

The South wind will blow Dora, the wild flowers in the hedges will be Dora’s again.

“I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul.”

Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

“She was yet to be written”; She said, She wrote the same, well I would agree too, for She was just too stupendous to be contained in words. She wasn’t ordinary, She was just another being with an unfathomable soul, too deep to be understood and too vast to be held.
She couldn’t just be written about, She couldn’t just be thought of as well, for my thoughts would tire under the sheer load it would feel everytime I would try to evoke her in them.
She was white and black and shades of grey, myriads of colour infused in her; She was dull and sad and happy and glad: often all of it at the same time.

“She was yet to be written”; She said, very well said indeed, for no one could could do justice to her being and presence and now the absence. She was soft and She was loud, She was pretty and She was proud; all her weaknesses suppressed deep within, lay within her the vulnerability filled to it’s brim; yet She was ordinarily extraordinary, She would gallop and scamper yet put to rest all the chaos that flew around.

“She was yet to be written”; She said; She said it very well indeed, I am at my wit’s end to trace her: to find her origin and decode her end, She like herself is bounded by innumerable possibilities, akin to her they are varied too.
She’s the light and She the gloom, She the summer shade and the winter noon; the start of my thought and the very end of it, in her I find my own trace: She’s up over there amidst the dark clouds.

“She was yet to be written”; She said; very well said.

I had always celebrated people who walked into my life and made a difference, added a different dimension to it, gave me a new perspective. I had always written about people who made their presence felt, gave their two hoots for what I was doing and going through.
This piece isn’t me glorifying one such person, it is just a note about someone who did leave a mark, perhaps left a sketch; that would sound more appropriate.

I had never understood the arts, although I knew who Picasso was; art to me was just music and comedy. Sketching and painting and drawing lines on paper: they all seemed the same. Foolish of me, foolish still; one can’t expect more from a person who can’t draw a straight line, she could though, she could draw and sketch and paint; and did it really well.

It was just another friend request notification on Facebook, she did look pretty although the dp showed some odd black and white sketch, and going by the kind of person I was back then: who preferred networking to reach out to potential audience of his comedy, I went ahead and clicked the accept button. The beginning of a friendship it was, over art: which I didn’t understand and comedy: which she never enjoyed. The one common thing that connected us both was depression, sad thoughts and mental health. Well, I have always believed an artist can’t be genuinely happy, there has to be this unending sense of loss and deprivation within a person to be able to do justice to art. We still have our arguments on the same, she paints when she’s happy but she paints better when she hits her lowest. She’s hard to convince, but I’ll take it anyway.

Mental health and art aside; she did paint for me once; something which only she could pull off. It was perfect to the ‘T’, yet another instance of her understanding what I wanted her art to be like; the green and the yellow and the white: all merged into one to create a piece which made the receiver emotional too. Sheer brilliance!!

She’d call me to discuss her projects, discuss art and discuss life. She’d talk of unrequited love and the bliss that it promised, that surely made her the artist she were; the person she is: her ability to withstand herself and the travesties of life. She like her obsession with charcoal art is all white and black: her shades of grey suppressed deep within her, not showing on the surface.

She’d console me and counsel me on life, relationships and art obviously. She’d try to help me in seeing sense in the chaos I so much loved, a friend; philosopher and guide she’s been. From putting sense into my head to helping me realise that pain can be an ornament: she did influence my form of art too. While, I always had my muse; she helped me understand the importance of it. The process of letting go and the enchantment that came along, she the artist and the friend did teach me stuff.

The sad thoughts can linger within, the joy of art will forever stay. Thank you artist, you did etch a line that’ll forever stay.

Disclaimer :  The write up is purely a work of fiction, the author does not advocate the idea of suicide under any circumstances. It is his firm belief that people dealing with anxiety and depression need professional help along with the support of their near and dear ones. The author has tried to portray suicidal tendencies just the way he had experienced them, having been in a state of depression in the past. He in no way, suggests ending one’s life as a wise decision taken by a healthy mind. The author believes that numerous lives can be saved if we are more aware of how common it is for depressed people to feel suicidal; and come to the rescue of those who suffer without being understood.

And, it wasn’t a relapse, it certainly wasn’t; just a phase maybe, when the mind wanders back in time. There’s no bondage, no trail of the gloom that had once set in to disrupt what seemed to be a life worth dying for. Dying for, did I say that? Well, it did turn into one, not dying for actually, but not worth living to be precise. Existential crisis looming in the mind, paralyzing everything that I held. Emotions dissipating and feelings?? Well, who cared a dime? None, not even the soul which was waiting in the wings to flee. 

Cut to the present, there’s hope, there’s a will but nothing at stake, just a solitary mind that ventures into the corridors of the past, unlocking the door that it had shut by itself, with a resilience that was then a combination of anti-depressants, alcohol and prayers of my well-wishers. No!! Not again Abhishek; the heart screams but the voices in the head are too busy at work, suppressing those scary thoughts is no big deal, it isn’t? Or is it?? And, just as I decide, this fraction of second is all that it takes for the floodgates to open. The low tides are here, flooding it all up, the horrid screams of the past just too loud, sinking me all in. 

Boom! And I am back in time, those pills, that night and an attempt to put an end to all the miseries that seemed to have conquered my will to live. Not an embarrassment certainly, but the head hangs down in shame and remorse – Yes I did.

Pills popped, the hands trembled and I let out a sigh and a prayer, this is it – I win. As if, I had flipped the bird to the ongoing tussle within, my fate seemed powerless for a moment. And, a black out, the light fading away, it seemed like a relief at last. But, fate had a comeback in store, a terrible one so to say, I survived, the existential crisis just didn’t cease. Waking up after a good 28 hours, the miseries welcomed me back to my senses, the body had given up, and the soul didn’t. Perhaps, the soul hadn’t gotten over the affair it had with the cage that had held it captive. 
The mind and the heart had nothing to scream, the war had ceased as the body sought water, some energy; to take in that shit again. A new ordeal awaited, my soul had rejected my idea of doing away with it. A rejection again, a brand new depression to suffer, “I had failed”!! 

And, what I a marvelous failure it was, it injected life back into me. No, this isn’t me glorifying my lack of tenacity, but a confession, a horrid one from the vault of my past. Lesson learnt – Suicide isn’t the answer, it isn’t a remedy nor is it an act of cowardice as most people assume. The mind ruptures at times, the will to give it all up seems more profound. And, the drive within is crazy, no control can be exercised when all vital organs seek redemption, it’s all in the mind – they say, and there lies a reason. 

Gates Closed – the floods have receded.