"I'm so depressed."

The world uses it too lightly. For a movie that's house-full. For a cancelled appointment. For an extra kilo on the paunch. For another way of saying, "I'm bored, I'm lonely, I'm pissed off."

So when I say, "I'm depressed," I can hardly expect people to respond with anything but the usual well-meant, unasked for suggestions, advice, and opinions: it's just in your mind, if only you'd pray, other people are worse off, you have nothing to be depressed about, etc, etc, ad nauseam.

Here we are in the 21st century, and yet very few people actually know that depression is an illness. And beyond knowing on an intellectual level, one needs to understand and truly believe - just because something is true and we "know" it, doesn't mean that we accept it.

In dealing with my depression, I'm like that. I often see it as a sign of my weakness or ingratitude. For all my reading, knowledge, intelligence - I find it hard to accept that this is a medical condition I have, an illness.

I'm working on it. I'm trying to tell myself that like diabetes or asthma it's a condition that requires a combination of medical treatment, professional help and lifestyle changes. That it's something I can't pretend does not exist, that I must be watchful and take enough care of myself to prevent those otherwise inevitable episodes that are so easy to fall deep into, and so difficult to climb out of.

I'm currently climbing .. and while taking some time off for just this, I did some de-cluttering at home. I went through a lot of old papers and journals, threw a lot out, kept some for keepsakes, some to rework and edit, and some to share. Here's what I had scrawled on a little scrap of paper some years ago when I was going through a depressive episode:

I grieve deep within
a place where
nothing grows
where there are no
beginnings
and just one end.

Something for Richa.

I haven't been writing for a while, but my dear friend and die-hard blog fan Richa's Facebook comments made me feel like picking up my pen again (actually it was a pencil). I'd had a difficult couple of days, stressed out and unable to sleep. The thought of having to wake up at six to take Dad to hospital for his cataract operation was not a jolly one. The resentment of always being the one who gets roped in for these things, didn't help. I was tired and grumpy, doing my best to smile my way through and be pleasant, but I wasn't a very happy person today. Finally, this evening, I got away and took some time for myself, and that's when this bit of writing happened. It's not exactly a poem, but I think it's poetic. Thanks Richa, for pushing me to write!

Crescent

The day dawned ugly.
Anger, fear, grief, rage
dragged me through.
Bruised by irritation and guilt,
I crept away to be alone,
not hoping for comfort or understanding,
just silence, stillness and some semblance
of what it is not to exist.
But then I happened to glance up,
and found the moon was smiling down at me.

DEAR ME: How dangerous to love ..

This is a poem I wrote about a decade ago, the day I heard the news that my nephew Sameer had been killed in a motorcycle accident. I found it in my papers and wasn't sure if I wanted to share it, but after the recent events in Bombay, I thought there may be someone out there who needs to hear these words.

How dangerous to love
to fill your heart with hope
to invest in dreams
to care
to share precious moments
and create happy memories.
How dangerous to gamble with joy
that sorrow can snatch away,
when death, that one surety of life,
can take in one swift move
the hopes the dreams the moments -
and all one is left with
is the love and the memories,

and the fear that one cannot forgive
the Hand that moved
against the one you loved.

I cannot hope to understand
so how can I explain?
I know only that life is here and now
and so is death
and their balance follows no law we know.

With one Hand He gives us life.
With the same, He takes it away.
This Birth is Mine, perhaps He says.
This Death is Mine, perhaps He says.
Between the first wail
and the last breath,
is My gift to you,
and your gift to Me.
Live it well:
love, hope, care, share, create.

I dreamed Him once (and this is true)
and He told me:

There is a Hereafter.

Perhaps it was an answer
to a question I haven't asked yet.
We can ask Him for time and for love
and for mercy and strength.
But we cannot ask Him: Why?

So I still cannot explain,
and I still do not understand the answer.
But I know that He does,
and I can take comfort in this.

Infinity is everywhere
Before the first breath, beyond its ceasing,
Before the seed, beyond the sealing,
is a secret arc we may not know,
till we gather our gifts and
step forward into His reality.

"The mirror's shattered ...

Here's another embarrassing one - also scratched out with the words "iddhu yena" scribbled underneath! (That's Kannada or perhaps Tamil, I'm not sure, for what amounts to "what the hell is this crap?"

I have realised that at this point, I have moved on from tortured adolescence into not-much-more-mature tortured adulthood. I was 21 when I wrote this. Oh dear. I mean, iddhu yena.

The mirror's shattered.
The spell's broken.
The unspeakable has been spoken.
No use for charms and amulets now.
Where have the gentle caresses
And soft whispers gone?
Is everything over?
And am I really and truly alone?
I am so very lost
Without you.

(Written on 29/1/1987, 4.10 p.m. Presumably after some wrenched-apart-from-Bops time of my life. I wonder why I always insist on writing the exact time I finish a poem?)

"I'm an orphaned child ...

This poem I found scratched through rather viciously with with the words, "Yuk not worth reading!" scrawled underneath. But I'm being brave enough to post all my poems, even the ones that bare soul and secrets, so I shouldn't be scared of adding this. So here it is. I don't actually remember what it's about, but I'm assuming that I must have had a fight with Bops, or perhaps broken things off with him in an attempt to get off smack. Or perhaps he just went away to Coorg and I missed him. Who knows. Maybe the poem wasn't written for him at all. Maybe I was turkeying and wrote this to smack?

I'm an orphaned child,
A widow.
A bottle floating endlessly in the sea.
I'm the last lost dinosaur
Crying and calling for no one to hear.
I'm the final dry leaf
That falls from the withered limbsof a tree
Come back to me
I don't want to be free.

(Written on 29/1/1987. 4.20 pm.)