I feel pretty stupid about titling this blog with a number. WordPress wouldn’t allow me to title another work (sounding very pricey, aren’t I?) / article (but this is far too close to my heart to be labelled so clinically) / confession (finally!) with the same name because I’ve already posted a confession, titled ‘Confession’ (please do not judge me for this failed joke), last year. And WordPress allows only one confession per blogger. I’m planning to reread and change the settings tonight.
I remember having signed my last Confession off with a sense of inadequacy about myself and my abilities (still clueless about the same). This one however, is not entirely about I, myself, and me.
One of my juniors has clinical depression. When she first told me about it, I thought she was confusing anxiety and stress and sadness (and a sense of inadequacy which I’m quite familiar with) with depression. But most importantly, I was mad at her parents, although I’m not quite sure why. She stopped taking her medications altogether because she thought they were taking too long to work and now, she pretends to be okay and holds her head up high when she walks. However, very few people know what it is that makes her slouch , and the physical exhaustion every day amounts to and ends in.
When I was in Class 1-C, Sampath ma’am taught us science and moral science. I remember having learnt two words in standard 1 – difficult to spell, but easy to pronounce (thanks to Enid Blyton reads) – “neighbour” (a chapter whose illustrations had successfully convinced me that I lived on a pukka road, in a pukka house, whereas my neighbours lived in a kuccha house because they were poor), and “confessions” (in a Value Education class, where reading aloud was a compulsion, and I had pronounced it as confection, only to learn that one is sweet and the other, bittersweet).
Last week, I saw a man lying on the platform in the metro station, near the Ladies’ Compartment. A pit developed in my stomach when I looked closely and saw that his stomach was still. Some men were dragging him across the platform, grabbing a limp arm and a foot. I don’t know if it was morbid curiosity or genuine concern which caused me to rush towards him, and ask the onlookers – “Yeh thik toh hain na? (He is fine, isn’t he?)” One of the older men informed me that the man was drunk and had passed out after having vomited all over the platform. That was when I noticed the stains and lumps on the man’s clothing, and disgusted (and disappointed at ordinariness of the matter), I got up on the metro and blasted The Lumineers into my ears.
In a Castle episode (Season 3, if I’m not mistaken), Rick Castle and his mother, Martha Rodgers, discuss the former’s strained relationship with his ex-wife, Gina. Castle, the best-selling novelist, tries to look for a word to describe what he thinks is missing in the relationship and Martha says – “Magic.”
I am not aware what experiencing magic feels like, but I have a vague idea. Everything (anything at all) that is a cut above what you expect, or quenches your thirst for whatever it is you wished to drink (knowledge, gossip, or soda), and the act of pulling a rabbit out of a hat, most definitely is – magic.
I hope my friend (she qualifies as my younger sister now, to be honest) who is suffering from clinical depression, finds magic.
A classmate once told me – “Either way, realism matters.”
I responded – “Not really.”
And on that confessional note:
Across these miles I wish you well.
May nothing haunt your heart but sleep.
May you not sense what I don’t tell.
May you not dream, or doubt, or weep.
May what my pen this peace-less day
Writes on this page not reach your view
Till its deferred print lets you say
It speaks to someone else than you. (Across, by Vikram Seth)