Depression Diary - Log VI

And so one day I thought I would start writing. I don’t know where the thought struck me. I was like I should write a novel. Maybe that will make me famous. People might recognize me and not look at me as if I was a bum, when I walk into the superstore to buy grocery. So I went out and bought a notebook. It had a black cover, with two white birds flying to the extreme right. I liked the design. It spoke of higher things in life. I imagined that if I wrote in this notebook, my life would take a flying course as well. It was during the time when we and Sarah were living separately. I thought maybe I could win her and my daughter back too. I remember paying too much for the notebook. They said it was because of the cover. It was a painting by someone. I was like, do I care? It’s a notebook, not the painting. They made me pay for it, anyway.

I remember sitting and staring at the pages in this very room. I was like, what do I write about? I thought of the various novels and books I had seen in the stores. How on earth do people write about things? Such thick books? For a few days I used to come back from work and sit and stare at the pages, thinking about what to write. Nothing struck me. Then one fine evening I was like, I should write about myself! I should write a novel about someone who goes on to commit a series of mistakes and ends up regretting about things in his life. I would take incidents from my life, my mistakes, and write it all up as a novel. This seemed to me a brilliant idea. I am sure not a lot of writers would have thought of that!

And so I started. Laboriously. Every day I would come back from work and sit and write in that notebook. It was tough. Very hard on me. I would stay up late till night, trying to frame sentences that I thought the readers would like. Because of this I was constantly late in the morning or else sleepy at work. They used to tell me off, even threaten me that I would lose my job. I kept cursing them in my head. You guys wait till my book is published. Then I will be the one grinning while you will give me the respect I deserve.

And then came that evening I was so hoping for. I finished writing it. I was so proud of myself. I was so happy. Almost as happy as I was, the day I married Sarah. I went out and bought a bottle of “good stuff” and drank it in celebration of my success. Of course I could not go to work the next day. Woke up late and then I remembered that I had to send my novel to the publisher. I went out and gave the notebook to get it typed, so that I could mail it to the guys at the publishing house. I went to job the next day but they had kicked me out. I was outraged. I told them to wait and see and that they would come begging to me asking me to join work again. They laughed at me and sent me away. I was so furious at them. I came back and saw that my notebook had come back with nicely typed pages. The front page read “Bum and his Bummer” in bold letters and beneath it in italics “A story of a lifetime”. I was so proud of my creation. I immediately sent it to the publishers.

I waited for almost a month before the reply came. It was an envelope with my novel in it. Along with it was a single page reply from the editor. My hands were trembling as I opened it. What did he have to say?

“Dear Mr. ____

Thank you for sending the manuscript of your novel Bum and his Bummer: A story of a lifetime. We have gone through the contents of your manuscript and we regret to inform you that our publishing house cannot accept it.

Your book, for all practical reasons, is “obvious”. We do not see the reason why someone would spend money on buying a book that from its very first line itself seems so obvious. We do not believe that there are people in the world who would be interested in reading the accounts of everyday life of a street bum.

We are sure it must have taken you a lot of time to write the manuscript, putting yourself in the shoes of a street vagabond and writing such a dreary book. We appreciate the effort you have put in but for all practical reasons, we terminate the conversation about it and reject the manuscript. We have sent the papers back to you.

We would welcome any future manuscript that you would write (which is not so “obvious”). Till then, we wish you good luck. Hope creativity sows its seeds soon.

Yours sincerely,

_______”

I was outraged. How could they insult me this way? They called it obvious! What the hell? How could they? It was the work of my life. The hardest I had ever worked. I thought I should sue them for insulting me. I drank myself silly for the next few days. I was so upset. I guess I still am. Had to go back and beg those guys for getting a job again.

I don’t know how I remembered all of this. It was sometime in the past. Don’t even remember how long back. Perhaps it was not all that long time after all. I was trying to get some sleep last night when I suddenly remembered that cover. The birds flying. I want to find the guy who painted that and smash his face into his own canvas. I want to find that editor and throw the notebook at his face. Couldn't he see that he ruined my life?

I am angry. I am disappointed. I am tired. I want a drink. Later.

- U. E

05:05 AM, Varanasi

May 19, 2013

Lemon Pips

He knew she had only a little time left with her. He sat beside her bedside, staring at her hollowed cheek. The doctor had told him yesterday that she would not last long. He had pocketed his fees with almost an apologetic look, as if he did not want to take the money but was forced to. “Professional”, he thought with a grim smile. “They perhaps teach it at the medical school, how to collect money even from dying people”.

The light was dim in the room, curtains drawn. This was how she liked it. Dark and comfy. Only that she was not comfortable. He put his hand on her brow. She was feverish. He gently wiped the sweat from her brow, smiling at her. She in turn smiled, despite her pain. “I torment you too much” she said weekly. “The world, for you”, he replied, gently holding her hand which were crossed across her chest, fingers entwined as if in prayer.

Though their years together as a married couple had been marked with poverty, their love for each other had never dwindled for an instant. She was content in his company, he in hers. Every evening, when he returned from work, they would sit and look at the evening sun, talking to each other or enjoying the silence being exchanged. It was a custom they never broke. After dinner, every night, they would sit outside their small home, gazing at the stars. It was always him who felt sleepy first. Then she would let him place his head in her lap for a while where he would lie, almost like a child. She would caress his head, ruffle his hair a little, and take away his tiredness.

“Would you do a little something for me?” she asked him presently, trying to get up balancing her frail body on her elbow. He made her lie down again, straightening the pillow. “Anything. Absolutely anything”. She smiled and he knew that smile. He had seen it many times, especially during the summer months. “Lemonade?” he asked, smiling to her, almost grinning. She closed her eyes indicating a yes.

He got up and went to the kitchen. She loved lemonade, especially when he made it. In all their years of marriage, he was the one who always made it. He found a lemon, hiding among the vegetables and fished it out. “Come now”, he said, talking to the lemon. He sliced it neatly into two and took a glass. In went sugar. She did not like it too sweet. A tablespoon full. Another tablespoon. And then came the final amount. A little more than half a tablespoon. It was this last bit that was the tricky part for it made the difference between making it just right or tad bit too sweet. He squeezed the lemon halves into the glass, over the sugar, letting the pips fall in. Then he took a bottle of cold water and topped the glass. Then methodically he stirred till the sugar crystals dissolved, leaving a slight bit lingering towards the bottom. Just the way she liked it. Finally he took a spoon and fished out the lemon pips, swirling in a little whirlpool he had created. He took the pips out and placed them in his left hand.

He came back to the room and stood at the door as tear drops started to fall down his eyes. As he stood, he could feel the slippery lemon pips, sliding in the palm of his hand, like strands of treacherous Hope. She was dead, her hand crossed across her chest, fingers entwined as if in prayer.

- Parekh, Pravesh

May 19, 2013; 03:55 PM

Lament

Remember me sweetly
For my time is soon to come
Don't resent my anger
For I am sad deep inside
Soon I will not be able to provide
To look after you
To kiss you good night
Revel in your warmth
Or lie by your side
And stare at the night sky.
And when I am soon to be cold
Will you one more time hold my hand?
Comfort this anguished soul
Like you have done a million times.
There is a shadow I see
Just beyond the corner
I see it waiting and lurking
Coming closer to me
I fear it not
As long as you are by my side
But what shall come after
When I leave your bedside?
Recall me then in your dreams
As I shall wait on the other side
Oh you have given me joy
Alas I have only returned sighs.
With honesty and truth I plead
For one last time
Before death whisks me away
To terrible silence and loneliness.
Come and sit near me
Let me look in your eye
Cling closely to you
And love you forevermore.
Depart then, I, with sweet pain
As you hold me in your embrace
I take my last breath in Heaven
Before we stand, together again.

- Parekh, Pravesh

May 17, 2013; 08:45 AM

Child

Come here little child

Come and sit with me for a while

Talk to me and tell me things

And disclose to me your newfound dreams

Prattle a little and croon a bit

And laugh with mirth as in a playful dream

Look at me with your beautiful eyes

And indulge me with your lovely smile

Unburden that weight from your heart

Give me a kiss and then we part.

- Parekh, Pravesh

May 15, 2013; 09:30 PM

A Walk

Oh let us take a walk
Down the road and beyond the gate
Through the woods and the alleys
We glide across the galleries.

Through the long corridors
And on the beach
Through the gentle waves
Now running between your feet.

And let us not talk
But find solace in harmony
You mull on my thoughts
And I cherish your company.

-Parekh, Pravesh

May 08, 2013; 11:05 PM

Meera

It was dark as he stumbled in the room, feeling his way around, until he came to his familiar spot and sat down on a footstool. He let out a sigh, as his tired legs found respite from too much strain. He liked it here. There was a sense of solace that he found nowhere else. The spot was in the back of the store room in the house, a cool and silent spot. Not even the rats ventured here, they preferred to stay in the front part of the room. The walls were thin, like all the walls in his house. And beyond the walls, was another house, another landscape, another set of people, ones he had never met. His mother had once asked him why he preferred to sit at this spot and he had replied that he didn’t know and that he only liked it here. However, he had concealed the real reason from his mother. The reason he sat here was that the wall was very thin at this spot and he could hear what was going on in the room beyond the wall, in the other house. Usually, in the afternoon hours when everyone was sleeping, he could hear someone come in stealthily, and then close the door. For a while everything would be quiet and then it would start. The dance. He could hear the sound of the anklet in her feet as she danced, the rhythmic sound like heavenly music to his ears. He did not know her name but he guessed that she was called Meera. Once he had been listening to her dance and then suddenly she was interrupted and someone called out, “Meera”, rather too harshly in his opinion. She did not dance for the next one month almost and he had been so depressed then that his mother had begun to wonder if something was the matter with him. And then one fine day when he had decided to stop coming to his spot, she had come again. More stealthily, more silent than ever. Ah! What bliss!

He sat there in silence, waiting for Meera to come. He was very tired today. He began to feel drowsy and perhaps he did fall asleep when he was woken up to the sound of ghungroo as Meera started to dance. He immediately sat up in attention, as if to honour the dancer. He sat there and wondered how lovely it would be to look at her as she danced. He imagined a hall, decked for the occasion, full of connoisseurs and admirers, and musicians from exquisite places. They would play their music while Meera, his Meera, would spin and dance and sway the entire crowd off their feet with the sound of her ghungroo. He imagined her in shades of vibrant colours, a bright jade green one day, and deep blue the other. A shining purple or a rich yellow. And he imagined her face, a face of concentration and immense beauty with a circlet around her forehead, and dangling ear-rings in her ears. Oh! What grace and what beauty! And as she would dance, the crowd would cheer and applaud her and with every applause, her dance would get better and better, till the crowd, so overwhelmed by her performance, would start to weep tears of joy and thank the Heavens with fervent prayers for their good fortune at seeing Meera dance. His heart swelled in joy. Ah! Meera, the Lovely. Meera, the Gracious. Meera, the Charmer. Meera, the Queen of His Heart.

And thus he would sit, all afternoon, watching Meera dance in the eye of his mind. Then Meera did not come for one day and he was heartbroken. The next day, she came. But something was different. He heard her come in but something was different about the way she put her feet to the ground. He could immediately sense that something was wrong. Previously, whenever Meera was not in a good mood, or was angry at something, he would immediately get to know by the way she set her feet to the ground and by her dance. There would be a change in the rhythm, her motions almost angry. Yet today he could not discern what Meera was feeling. It was as if his Meera had ceased to exist entirely and someone else had taken her place! His heart started beating wildly. What had happened to the love of his life? What had cruel Fate thrown in her path? Meera started to dance but it was a dance so alien to him that he could not enjoy it even for a moment. 

Then it stopped abruptly and he could feel someone sit next to the wall. At first he heard nothing, but then he could make out the faint sound of someone crying. He went mad with grief as his heart burst into wild palpitations. Meera! What had happened? Why was she crying? Yet his throat was dry and his tongue tied. He could not say anything. He placed a hand on the wall, where he thought her shoulder would be, hoping to console her, but the weeping stopped abruptly. It was as if she felt someone’s presence. Then he heard the sound of someone moving and then the door closed. Meera had gone!

And so it continued for almost a month. She did not come some days. And when she did, her dance was foreign to him. Most of the time, she would not dance. Or else stop abruptly and sit and cry. His heart went out to her but he could not do anything. He wanted to go to her, to place a comforting hand on her shoulders, to make her feel that someone cared. That there was someone who loved her, loved her more than anyone would ever love someone. He wanted to place a hand on her cheek, to make her look at him, to wipe the tears from her rosy cheek and whisper consoling words in her ears. But of course, he could not.

And then after a month, she stopped coming altogether. He sat day and night in that spot but she never came. He grew mad in his grief and cried and called out to her, but she never came. He prayed to all the Gods he had heard of and he prayed in vain. He longed to listen to her dance one more time. But she never came.

And life went on for everyone else. Little did he know that Meera had been married off to someone in a different city. She was lonely and unhappy in her marriage. Often during the day time she would sit and cry and hope that there would be someone who would love her and make her feel loved. And little did Meera know that there lived a blind boy who sat day and night, in the darkness of the store room, hoping for his Meera to come back.

- Parekh, Pravesh

May 04, 2013; 01:50 AM