Short Story II

1589 AD

The calm of the night was broken by a loud shriek of pain and the sound of growling of an unhuman nature. The Sukhwali village at the foothills of Himalayas, nestled in a valley, was a peaceful and serene place. The villagers ran out of their huts in disbelief that their sleep was disturbed by sounds so ugly and violent. They all stood staring at the cave from where the sound seemed to be emanating from. The echo of the cry seemed to be still hanging in the nighttime air, as the growling kept growing louder. The entire village stood there, stunned still for a few moments and then started noticing the fear hanging from the eyes of the men and women around them. A few men murmuring to each other in one corner started running towards a hut at the far corner of the clearing. As those men had suspected, Jaaka was not in his home and neither was his goat. He had seemed to left behind all his other meagre belongings like his rice bowl, his leather tote, his writing quills and even his beloved brass pot.

Jaaka was the village outcast who lived alone and loved his goat the most. The young populace considered him mad and wanted him removed from the village; the more matured citizens were more sympathetic towards him and considered him sick and a simpleton; then there were some who considered Jaaka to be enlightened and a psychic. Since the last new moon night, Jaaka could be seen walking around the village with his goat, warning people about the spirit in the cave. Now, he was nowhere to be found.

The growling noise from the cave kept increasing in volume and in intensity; and then seemed to stop for just a few seconds before the loud explosion that spewed fire, dust, smoke and debris from the mountain all over the valley. The bodies were instantly flung meters away, the skin barely hanging from the bones. Everything in the village was on fire- the trees, huts, animals- even the well had flames leaping from the water below. Then another explosion happened and the entire village was under rocks and ash. There was no sign that life ever existed in that small hamlet. All was buried, the hopes, the aspirations, the memories, the sounds; what remained was only a pile of glowing stones near the cave, the amber light casting dreadful shadows all around in the dark moonless night.

--

2022 AD

Paul walked out of his office and into the canteen with a big smile and a hop in his step. Everything was planned and ready for his long overdue vacation. The leave had been granted, bags had been packed, tickets had been booked and the Airbnb had been paid for. His bus was to depart at 7:30 PM from ISBT for Bhuntar and from there he had booked a cab till his destination, Dilwada in Himachal Pradesh. Paul, better known as Pulastya Mallya, had been looking forward to taking a break after all the overtime he had to put in because the bank he worked in was merged with another bank, which led to massive paperwork and changing of assets in the books of both the banks etcetera.

Paul reached Sikhwada at eight in the morning, surprisingly well rested in the gently rocking bus ride, winding its way through the Himalayas. After spending most of the day in the local shopping street, he had an early dinner and went to bed at nine in the night excited about the next day’s trek for which he had travelled all the way from New Delhi. It was a three-day trek in which he would cover close to 47 kms and a change in altitude of about 3700 ft.

Paul was ready with his backpack and his trekking gear, eagerly waiting for the rest of the people, having reached the earliest. There was a small kiosk serving hot tea and soupy noodles near the meeting point and Paul was helping himself to a quick breakfast, watching the light drizzle fall diagonally in the strong wind. Soon, people started to arrive for their respective treks and Paul got busy getting to know others. The weather kept getting gloomier and it started to really pour. The mood in the camp, however, was upbeat and full of excitement. There were groups of boys and girls sitting with their respective tour leaders understanding the route they were going to take and the dos and don’ts of the journey. Paul’s party of trekkers included a married couple, a couple of girls from DU enjoying their summer break and a group of three men. Being the only person who had come alone, he quickly chose to walk with the DU girls in order to have company for the long and arduous task they had all undertaken. The girls, Meenu and Ria, were happy to have Paul’s company as well- he was a funny guy and also had a Bluetooth speaker which he had inserted in the bottle holder of his bag and was playing the latest Punjabi Pop.

The first break they took was after two and a half hours of climb at a small village where the fierce river they had been following upstream became calm as it took a turn around the village. The green river banks gave Paul an opportunity to open his shoes and dip his aching feet in the cold water and to wash the sweat from under his cap. The guide advised them to eat a hearty meal as the next village was at least four hours away. All of them sat on a big table, talking about their big city lives while waiting for the meal to arrive. Weather had turned really ominous in the meantime and dark clouds had completely engulfed the sun. By the time they finished eating, it was raining heavily making all of them decide to wait till they proceeded any further and take a nap.

Paul woke up to the sound of a loud thunder, panting for breath, covered in cold sweat. He quickly saw the sleeping faces around him to check if anyone saw him in this dishevelled state of being. Everyone was still enjoying their siesta and he glanced at his watch to realise it had been only fifteen minutes in which he had seen one of the most intense and scary dreams. Paul saw himself standing alone on a cliff overlooking a burning village. He saw destruction like he had never imagined was possible; everything in his sight was ablaze- huts, trees, cows, humans- and he was chained to a giant oak tree. He was trying desperately to free himself and help the burning children, but all his pulling and tugging had absolutely no effect on his bondage. Tears were rolling down his face and he was wailing in agony, just when an ear-piercing noise rang through the air and he woke up.

Paul quietly got up from the table and walked to the hut serving grocery items and bought a packet of cigarettes. He lit one and started smiling to reassure himself that all was good and it was just a meaningless dream. Finishing the cigarette, he walked back to the group as the weather began to clear up and everyone started to pick up their gears and sleepy bodies.

The rest of the day passed by like a slow-moving bus in a traffic ridden road. There were intermittent spells of heavy rain that kept them confined under trees for long durations of time. The group would then increase their speed whenever the weather cleared, thus making it a risky climb up the muddy trails. They finally reached their destination at Eight PM, long after the sun had set, against the estimated arrival time of Four PM. The trek after the sunset was spooky enough given the slippery path and cold water dripping from the leaves, the guide’s warning to all of them to stay together for the fear of bear attacks only made the last leg of the journey even more nauseating.

Once everyone had put up their tents around the kitchen hut and had freshened up, they sat together in one of the small rooms connected to the kitchen. There was enough food on the table to help their sore muscles recover; and enough alcohol to rid their bodies of the cold that seemed to have settled between the bones. Ria and Meenu were sitting together sipping on rum, observing the room around them; the married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Verma were half asleep on the table, sitting just out of courtesy to their fellow travellers; the three men were seemingly drunk, narrating a story to the tour guide and Paul about their encounter with the devil on some trekking trip in Rajasthan.

The tour guide, Vaibhav, said something funny and everyone started laughing in unison as he got up and asked everyone to disperse and catch on some sleep before the morning hike. Paul was sharing his tent with one other guy, Mahesh, and they decided to put off the lights as soon as they entered the tent. Paul immediately went into a deep slumber and the vivid dreams returned to haunt him. This time, he was running alongside a cliff overlooking a village. He was barefoot, he realised, as the little stones kept stabbing the soles of his feet. He was wearing a skirt-like garment made of animal hide and was carrying a goat in his arms. He was pacing swiftly and with the precision of an acrobat, never letting any step fall where he did not desire, balancing the goat like it weighed nothing. Finally, after many long strides, he was standing in front of a big cave opening, amber light glowing and dimming from inside the cave in perfect rhythmic patterns. Paul saw himself tying the goat to a tree near the entrance of the cave and whispering something in a foreign tongue in the goat’s ears. As he entered the cave, he could feel the vibrations of a sound emanating from somewhere deep under the earth’s surface. He took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside the cave and then ran towards the source of the ambient light. Picking up a big stone from the ground, he flung it at the light-emitting minerals on the wall and a big crack developed on it. It seemed to have worked like a pressure valve opening because from the crack, gushed out a thick and warm liquid which threw Paul a few feet away on his back. The liquid kept bubbling out of the widening crack with a loud gurgling noise. Paul got up from the floor and fell on his knees, bowing his head to the crack on the wall and chanting a prayer in a language he had never heard before. The light from the wall was flashing more frequently now, as if getting energised by the words Paul was uttering. Paul was in a trance now, swaying his body with the melody of the prayer and then suddenly it was all silent; the prayer ended, the flow of liquid ended, the noises ended, the lights ended, and the dream ended.

Paul woke up feeling hungover after a night of heavy drinking. He was not in his tent, but in the midst of the forest, sleeping underneath a huge banyan tree, covered in a sap like substance- sticky and sweet smelling. There were flies stuck in his hair and he had mud all over his feet. He had no idea where he was. He did not have his phone with him. His heart started racing, recalling the tour guide’s words about bears living in these parts of the forest. He looked up at the sky and tried to guess the time and which direction he was supposed to head. It was still early morning. The sun was just starting to rise and he decided to walk towards the direction the birds were flying. After a short walk of ten minutes, he could see smoke rising in the air- he had reached the camp and could see the kitchen hall. He quietly went towards the washing area, avoiding being seen and cleaned himself thoroughly. After that, he went back to his room and found Mahesh still fast asleep inside his sleeping bag. Paul unplugged his phone from the charger and walked towards the kitchen, trying to make sense of what was going on.

Paul shut his eyes and tried to catch every fragment of memory he had from the last night. He tried to call his mother to talk to her about the two dreams and if he ever sleepwalked during his childhood, but his phone had no network. He paced around reciting every religious hymn he could remember. If there was a spirit possessing his body, he wanted to flush it out by the sudden flood of mantras reverberating in his body and mind. Paul then started going back to the spot in the jungle where he woke up to check for any signs which might explain how he reached there. It was a simple hike through the clearings in the otherwise dense forest. When he reached the banyan tree where he had woken up, he saw that the tree was gigantic with thousands of branches spreading out in every direction. The bark of the tree was almost red in colour and was at least ten feet in diameter. It was not like any other tree in that area, towering above every other of its neighbour. As Paul was circling the tree, he stepped on some slime like substance oozing out of the ground. It was the same clear fluid which he was covered in when he woke up that morning. Paul got down on all his fours and started digging frantically, flinging muddy slime everywhere around him.

After twenty minutes of tireless digging, Paul could hear his name being called out by some people nearby. He realised in his state of confusion and daze he had not told any of his group members he was heading inside the forest. He called out to them and soon all eight of the others had found him and were staring at him dumbfoundedly. As Paul tried to explain what he was doing, Mahesh came forward and knelt down beside the hole. Mahesh picked up the slimy earth and had a perplexed look on his face. Mahesh looked at Paul and asked him what was the slime mixed with the mud. Mahesh explained that he is a geologist and he had never seen slime coming out from the soil. It was an aberration.

Mahesh and the group ran back to the village to find a landline phone they could use to call Mahesh’s office and take some more information regarding the weird findings of the group. Meenu asked Paul how he discovered the site and Paul had no plausible explanation to give to her so he skirted the topic and asked the group leader if he could stay here a bit longer and the rest of the group can go ahead with the scheduled itinerary. Unanimously, everyone shot down the idea as this sudden development was much more exciting than the trek, and all of them decided to stay back till the mystery was solved. Mahesh’s colleagues were equally shocked to hear about the slime-seeping soil and the description of the banyan tree and decided to send a team to the village at the earliest.

Three days later, a team of soil experts, mineral rocks expert and archaeologists descended upon the small village and started digging and taking samples in large beakers and jars back to New Delhi. While digging, they unearthed a few shining rocks from the site which was when Paul decided to tell them about his dream and the circumstances under which he discovered the banyan tree and the slime. The archaeologists’ team was most excited hearing about the dream because there had been similar folk-stories they had heard about sacred ancient villages around the Himalayas which had been trapped under thick layers of igneous rocks, resin like sap and ash; but this was the first time they had come across a site which might prove the mythical tales to be true.

Paul and the others were told to head back home by Mahesh, as it would take at least five months for the archaeological team to dig the area and find out more about the sap and the mythical sacred village. Paul was happy that he had led them to such an interesting find which may say a lot about the composition and history of the sub-Himalayan region and better prepare the future generations from any unknown disaster, but he was still keen to know more about the dreams and his mysterious venture to the banyan tree. Paul and the others were sitting at the bus station to book tickets for their journey back to New Delhi, feeling a little sad that their adventure was about to come to an end the next day. To celebrate their last night together, they decided to light a bonfire near their campsite and have a few drinks together with Mahesh’s team. Paul called it a night after a few drinks and excused himself from the party. He went for a walk nearby, staring deep inside the forest towards the direction of the banyan tree. Paul sat down on a rock and was searching for his matchsticks when he felt someone walk up behind him. He turned around thinking it must be Mahesh, but there was nobody to be seen. Paul saw a mist rise in the air around him and soon it enveloped his entire vicinity. The visibility became so poor that Paul could hardly see beyond two feet. Then he heard a voice, coarse and heavy; it was weighing every word before uttering it as if unsure about the impact the words might have.

“Thank you, Pulastya! Because of you, finally our great city will be rediscovered. I was sure of your capabilities and dedication. It is the reason why I chose you to show what had happened to us. Now the world will know that I was not mad to warn my neighbours. It really happened! The spirit in the mountain did swallow everything and everyone. Jaaka owes his reputation to you. Goodbye!”

And just like that the mist cleared up and the noises from the party could reach Paul’s ears again. The next day all of them left the village that was originally called Sukhwali, but nobody knew except Paul. Paul was just happy that he was privy to a secret that was buried deep inside the layers of Earth. After months of excavation, soil tests and geological studies, Mahesh called Paul one day to tell him that they had solved the mystery of the slime and the light-emitting rocks. These were spewed from deep inside Earth’s core through a volcanic shaft which got sealed shut after the eruption. It was probably the time when the Himalayas was still growing and seismic movements caused the minerals to be pushed up to the surface. This was a major breakthrough and they were writing a paper on it for The Science magazine. Mahesh said that they were mentioning Paul in the paper and he would be getting all the credit for the discovery. After a long moment of silence, all Paul could say was, “Jaaka thanks you!”

--

Short Story I

People often associate depression with one who has lost all will to live, who goes on living everyday life with a deep furrowed frown and who walks by parks shouting and yelling on all the children for creating a ruckus. Even Vyom was amongst the majority who have this line of thought, until the day he was released from the emergency ward of the multispecialty hospital near his home. The next few days were spent running from one specialist doctor to another in a bid to ascertain what was wrong with his all but 30 years-old body. After spending long hours in the waiting rooms of a cardiologist, a neurologist and an endocrinologist, all his appointments ran for almost the same duration of five minutes in which different medical practitioners told him the same thing- that there was nothing wrong with his heart, nor his neurological linkages, nor his sugar levels and thyroid glands. His final appointment was scheduled for 7:30 PM with Dr. Gargoo (MBBS, MRCPsych), psychiatrist, who assured Vyom that what he experienced the other night at his home were the classic symptoms of a non-trigger-induced panic attack, often a symptom of a bigger condition of anxiety and/or depression.

Day 01:

Vyom lay sleeping on his bed, his hair a little damp and the bedsheet a light grey in colour around his body, as if outlining a dead body at a crime scene, on the otherwise white cotton sheet. It was a surprisingly hot and sweltering morning with the sun firing down with all its might, the clock on his side table reading 8:36 AM. Still groggy with the aftereffects of the SOS medicine Dr. Gargoo had prescribed, Vyom left the bed, all the joints in his body creaking like the wooden flooring of an abandoned log cabin. Rising slowly from the bed stretching his arms wide, he stepped inside the bathroom. Feeling a lot fresher afterward, he put the coffee pot on the burner and fetched the day’s newspaper lying on the floor outside his apartment. It was a modest kitchen in a sparsely furnished home, which almost gave an impression that its occupants were on the process of moving out. The living room had one sofa which was facing a bare wall. No coffee table, no side table and the floor bare. It looked like someone gave up on the idea of setting up the room mid-way into the process. There was a big bookshelf on one of the walls, overflowing with books and in dire need of dusting. A writing desk adjacent to the bookshelf, contrastingly clean and organised, with beautifully stacked writing pads in one corner beside a small potted plant and a pen stand next to it. The chair looked like it was originally bought to be placed with the dining table but found its way to the desk instead. The dining table was thus paired with a high stool, on which Vyom was perched uncomfortably, flipping the pages idly- only glancing through the headlines.

Some things heard in our early childhood get so deeply ingrained in our minds, that we keep following it unknowingly, semi-consciously, without ever stopping to ask ourselves why we are still doing it. Reading the morning newspaper before starting his day was one such activity for Vyom. “There should always be a routine you follow as soon as you wake up,” his father used to tell him as he was growing up, “brush your teeth, drink your milk and read about world events.” He had replaced the glass of milk with a cup of coffee, but the rest of it had remained unchanged. He would read the paper everyday although he knew about all the happenings when he had read about them in real-time on X or some other app on his phone. He tossed the paper aside as the bell rang and opened the door for Subhas, his cook cum cleaner cum cheerleader. “How are the mornings so hot already?” he complained while entering, carrying bags full of fruits and vegetables, “I’ll cut some fruits and cook breakfast; you please take a shower. This heat is unbearable.”

**

Vyom was 15 minutes early for his first appointment with Ms. Paridhi Shankar, the therapist Dr. Gargoo had recommended. He walked from the parking lot of the small building located right around the corner from his favourite café. The lady behind the reception asked him to sit in the waiting area. The walls were decorated with drawings and paintings of different sizes and colours, all by kids. One corner of the wall had the certificates and accolades hung which Ms. Shankar had received over her career of 11 years as a therapist. ‘Certified Hypnotist’, one such certificate read and Vyom was immediately picturing her with a crystal ball in front of her and a pocket watch swinging like a pendulum from one of her hands. He thought of getting up and leaving just when the door to Ms. Shankar’s room swung open and a girl walked out smiling and waving back to Ms. Shankar. “Vyom?” asked Ms. Shankar as she saw him standing near the wall of fame, “please give me 2 minutes” she said after he nodded.

Ms. Shankar waved him inside as she crossed him where he was sitting on the chair. It was a small windowless room, but cozy and comfortable. She had a big green armchair laid out in the middle of the room for herself, on which she seemed to look even smaller than her already small frame. The chair looked very relaxing with a tall back and round, soft armrests. There was a small couch right opposite her which Vyom presumed was for him and he took one corner and settled into it. “Too upright” he thought to himself but said nothing.

“Hi. My name is Paridhi and I am a psychologist. I did most of my studying in Bombay and London. I have been doing therapy sessions since the last eleven years. Dr. Gargoo called me to update about your medical condition and to give a bit of history and his own diagnosis. I know Dr. Gargoo since a long time and value his opinions very highly. Now, why don’t you tell me about yourself and why you think you are here and your expectations from me and our session?” said Ms. Shankar in a sort of a memorised performance.

“Hi. I am Vyom. It is a pleasure to meet you.” I started hesitatingly, “Honestly, I do not know what to expect from these sessions. The only time I have seen people visit a shrink, uh sorry I said shrink. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why not? Do you consider it abusive?”

“Well, I should have asked first if I can call you that or not?”

“Do you always feel such need for approval?”

“Never thought about it that way, honestly.”

“Ok. You can call me a shrink if that is what comes to your mind as the first word”, Ms. Shankar replied while she started writing something down on the clip board that was resting on her lap since Vyom walked in.

“No. I mean, Ok. My only exposure to the profession has been through movies or books, that too mostly from the Western countries. When I tried to find your address on Google Maps, I was surprised to see so many other psychological clinics nearby. I never thought about mental health as a problem that infests my little world as well. I feel like a frog living in a well when I am saying it out aloud. So, I do not really know what to expect, maybe some big revelation of how some childhood trauma is responsible for how I am feeling and what I am experiencing right now.” he said, overcoming the embarrassment of calling her a shrink.

“Understood. There might not be a big eureka moment where everything can be pinned down to one instance or experience. Saying that, I also want to explain my method of approaching the problems. I follow Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, where we try to understand your thinking pattern and try to modify it in a way which allows you an opportunity to lessen your anxiety. We will not be focusing much on memories and possible traumatic events which otherwise do not directly affect you presently.

“If you were to ask me what I am expecting from these sessions for you, it is that we can help you find triggers and how to handle them in a healthy way. After two weeks, that is four sessions, I will update Dr. Gargoo before your scheduled appointment with him. So, what do you feel about this?” she asked in a matter-of-fact tone.

The session went on for another 43 minutes, in total, 55 minutes to the clock. Vyom walked out feeling mentally battered and bruised. He lit a cigarette and walked to the café nearby to clear his head.

Day 04:

“You know, I thought a lot about what you asked me the other day. (Life has become a drab, a drag, a windless-day flag.) There is nothing that excites me nearly as much as the thought of going back home and being alone. (And in that loneliness, I have had a chance to peek inside the deep cracks of the dark well of despair.) When at home, there are only one of two things I am doing, writing or reading. I do not remember the last time I saw a movie or television. First, I stopped calling people, and now I have even stopped receiving their calls.” Vyom replied to Ms. Shankar at his second session with her. She had asked him to ponder over what he thinks might be the reason for his symptoms of depression in their last (first?) session. Such level of introspection might be injurious to health (further to the already deteriorating health), she hadn’t mentioned. He felt like he had occupied a space inside the deep cracks of the dark well of despair he occasionally liked to voyeur upon.

“Waking up early in the morning seems an impossibility during the sleepless wee hours of night and yet I find myself woken up way before the agreed time the alarm is set for. I have been working-from-home since I started writing professionally, before it was the new normal. I spend 4-6 hours everyday typing away at my keyboard in different corners of my small one-bedroom apartment.

“Occasionally, I head out to a café nearby, in fact the one right at the corner from here, Papa Americano. I love their coffee and bagels. You should try it sometime.”

“I do like their coffee. Quite a kick it gives me.”

“Finding good coffee is the closest thing to nirvana I have felt. Haha” he could see no reaction on Ms. Shankar’s face in response to his very funny joke.

“Have you tried mindfulness or any other form of meditation, Vyom?” she asked him as a response to his joke. Way to ruin a punchline, Ms. Shankar.

“Yes, I tried mindfulness through an app during the lockdown. They had made the membership free during the starting. But then I never actually bought the membership after the complimentary trial period ended. Hence, I stopped doing it. Plus, I don’t think it was really working. I would just end up getting lost in my train of thoughts and lose all focus. I think I am incapable of meditating.”

“There is no wrong or right way to meditate. It is an experience where everyone will feel differently. It is a unique journey into the depths of your unconscious mind.”

He noted it down on the pad he was carrying. It seemed important, deep, meaningful. He kept nodding till he finished writing it. She was staring at him the entire time, the weight of her eyes resting on his hands, making it difficult to write.

“Have you been feeling anxious or overwhelmed in the past few days?”

“Ya. And mostly because of all the questions I have been asking myself since our last session.”

“So, the medicines are not working, then?”

“They are only good to make me nauseous and sleepy. I find myself yawning the entire day.”

“That is quite a common side-effect because the hormones being released in your brain is asking it to relax and hence causing a series of yawns even when you are not sleepy. Maybe increasing the dosage will help.”

“No. Please. I cannot write already; stronger medicines will only make me more useless.”

“You can discuss your concerns with Dr. Gargoo but I assure you there will be no such impact on your everyday life.”

So far, therapy felt more like a punishment and less like a treatment. Hopefully, this was the prick of the needle he was feeling before the medicine is pushed inside and starts healing the wound.

After the session got over, he again found himself walking half-mindedly to the corner café. Papa Americano – a place American only in name, not in style, offerings, or even gun violence. “Hello, welcome to Papa Americano. Good evening, sir. How are you today?” greeted the smiling barista, visibly happy seeing him again. “Good evening. I am great. How are you?” he smiled back at the omnipresent face of the café.

He nestled himself in a corner with his ‘thought journal’ in hand, battling with himself to focus on what he was thinking/feeling. It is amazing how your body refuses to give signs of its existence as soon as you put it under the microscope of introspection. The brain is incapable of just existing. It has to keep itself occupied. It keeps thinking about the uncertain future or the unalterable past, keeping its motor running; like the small exhaust fan at the corner of a public toilet, its presence totally meaningless, yet essential to give a false hope to the visitors. Yet, when you try to follow the workings of the brain, on what it is thinking about currently, it draws a blank. His attempt at focussing on his thoughts was disrupted by the aroma of a steaming cup of coffee. He immediately took the bait and shut the journal, shifting his entire focus on to the cup.

Day 03:

Vyom was sitting at his desk, writing the script of a yet unnamed movie. It was a horror-thriller, the most boring genre to write on for Vyom, but it was paying rather well, and so he wrote. He glanced at his clock and saw that it was almost 9 PM. He quickly finished writing the gruesome details of the victim’s murder and grabbed his wallet and phone and booked a cab to go see Rehaan. They were meeting at their usual hangout spot, a bar by the name of Damp Kitty, a pun so bad that they had to visit it, and it instantly became their favourite place for the great retro rock music they played and the delectable kebabs they served. Rehaan was his childhood friend – his only friend. As Vyom entered the bar, he saw Rehaan laughing animatedly with the barkeep. Rehaan slapped Vyom on his back before hugging him and told the barkeep how Vyom fought his way back from the clutches of death couple of days back. The barkeep now eyeing Vyom with sympathy as well as indifference; like a lizard with two independent eyeballs, one not knowing what the other is revealing. A waiter guided the two friends to the table chosen for them and noted down their order. Rehaan could hardly wait for the server to put the plates down and leave them in privacy.

“How did the therapy session go, bro?” Rehaan asked as soon as they were alone and free.

“It was… weird... but good… but very uncomfortable” Vyom replied, “it felt like I was being judged professionally.”

“You need a holiday, not a quack pretending to be a doctor.”

“Haha. I knew it. I just knew it. You had to be condescending about therapy as well. Of course!”

“Bro, trust me. Go on a backpack trip to Europe. Smoke some pot in Amsterdam, drink some Belgian beer and fuck some German bimbo and you will be back to being yourself in 15 days’ time.”

“Dr. Gargoo has asked me not to smoke marijuana till I am on medication.”

“WTF! Who the fuck is he? Please do not do this to yourself. You will be writing sober? Do these doctors even know you are a writer? Do they expect athletes to not go to the gym? Then how can you write without smoking? You have to get out of all this mess. These people get you hooked on to these medicines and trap you for life.”

“Dude, you literally explained our addiction to pot.”

“Are you trusting someone you’ve met once, over me?”

The pointless conversation continued till 3 drinks were downed and then it took a darker turn.

“What really happened before you thought you were dying?” asked Rehaan, with concern making his eyes watery and hazy. “Were you stressed about something?”

“Bhai, I was not stressed in particular about anything. I was writing at home. I had to finish editing the story before sending it out the next morning. I got a call from mom around 7-7:30 PM. We were just discussing work, my non-existent love life and her hormonal problems with menopause. Then she disconnected in a hurry. I could hear dad calling out her name. She is just so weird. She will not even tell him that she was talking to me. She will just lie. He does not just not love me; he stops my mom from loving me too. There is no one I have seen who is more self-centred and egocentric.” Vyom replied with a lot of hiccups and pauses.

“And that is when you started feeling uneasy because you were thinking all this?”

“No man. I did not even think about any of it that time. I just went back to work. For almost 2 hours I was just working and then I started feeling hungry. I went to the kitchen to cook and when I took out the pan, my hand was shaking. So, I kept the pan down and drank a glass of water and tried to calm myself down. Then my shoulder started to pain; like a sharp shooting pain, originating right at my deltoid and travelling all the way till my fingers. Then my back started to feel getting cramped and my chest also started cramping. I took a Disprin as an SOS and called you. You know the rest.” Vyom said, his hands trembling, forehead damp with sweat, either from reliving the horrid experience or the after effects of all the alcohol in his system.

Day 13:

Vyom was early for his appointment, as usual. He would rather wait for ten minutes than be late for a meeting. Ms. Shankar was having tea at the waiting area when he entered her office. She had a big smile on her face when she saw Vyom. The smile was so unexpected that Vyom stopped on his track, looked behind him to double check if he was the real target of that genuine smile. When he was sure he was not a collateral damage of a stray smile, he smiled back at Ms. Shankar and apologised for being early.

“Please have a seat. Would you like some tea?” asked Ms. Shankar, already signalling the receptionist to prepare a cup without waiting for Vyom’s response.

“No. Thank you!” Vyom replied, thinking about the cup of coffee he was already committed to drinking after the session at Papa Americano.

“I insist. It is a very good brew. I assure you will love it. Might even give you a caffeine kick.” Ms. Shankar pressed signalling the receptionist to bring the cup who had kept it back looking at Vyom’s reluctance.

Vyom carried the steaming cup of tea inside Ms. Shankar’s office, carefully putting it down first and the plopping on the sofa, suddenly recalling how straight its back was.

“How are you feeling, Vyom?” asked Ms. Shankar, her eyes reading the paper in her folder marked VYOM 21/08/22.

“Good. How are you?” Vyom replied, feeling tensed like it was the day of his class twelfth results.

“So, you are meeting Dr. Gargoo tomorrow.” Ms. Shankar replied, avoiding his polite enquiry entirely. “I think you are suffering anxiety and depression and my advice will be to start medication immediately.”

“OK.”

“Do you have any questions?” Ms. Shankar asked politely, meeting Vyom’s eyes for the first time.

“No.” Vyom replied feeling dejected.

A sudden feeling of remorse took hold of his body. The results were out and he had failed. Vyom felt a sudden pang of spasm take control of his stomach and his breakfast climbing back his oesophagus, the way it had gone down. He could feel everything that was discussed in his previous three sessions about the symptoms of a panic attack. The only difference this time was that instead of feeling a sense of helplessness and a fear of dying, his body fought back through the way of emotional breakdown. Hot tears started rolling down his cheeks and he started wailing like a child. Years of emotions which were bottled up inside, on the verge of an explosion, finally exploded. A pressure cooker which was ready to whistle finally released all the steam at the right time at the right place, in front of Ms. Shankar, inside her office- on her couch. All the hurt that had been accumulating over the years; all the hurt that had been swept under the rug because that is how men are supposed to be – tough and emotionless. All that hurt came gushing out of his eyes, no matter how much he tried to hold them back. All the emotions which did not come out in front of his parents, his friends, his lovers, his colleagues – people he had known for years. All that came out in front of a woman he had met two weeks back, thrice, for fifty-five minutes each. A woman who showed none of her own emotions; a woman who did not fake any sort of affinity for his friendship; a woman who was impossible to read for Vyom; a woman who genuinely wanted to help Vyom because she could see he was broken from inside. Vyom cried for a good part of the session and discussed his troubled relation with his parents for the rest of it.

Happy young boy!

Let me narrate to you a story,

About a happy young boy;

He lived with his extended family,

Wealthy and full of joy.

Grew up- studied well,

Never knowing where to go;

So always did what was expected of him,

Just kept his head low.

Soon he realised,

Life isn't just shades of grey;

As he stepped out of his bubbled life,

He thought it was better to be somewhere away.

But a leap of faith is a leap nonetheless,

Not everyone always make it through;

Decided to stay where he was,

And the feeling of not-belonging just grew.

Mediocrity gave way to disappointment,

Pent up emotions made him anxious;

When approval never came from close quarters,

The never fading want of it made him obnoxious.

He was told he wasn't good at ANYTHING,

Not even at being a son;

Maybe that is when depression beared its teeth,

Sucked up all the joy and dried up all the fun.

He decided to fight these monsters head-on,

He wasn't going to lay his arms down;

But little did he realise,

Accepting the presence of these monsters was enough for all to scorn and frown.

Alone once again -with his enemies inside him,

He chose to battle for his life;

His strength to defeat his own vices,

Became a reason for outside strife.

Every good story should end with a moral,

Well his is a little too true;

Tears, loneliness and struggle is the bleak reality,

Why else do you think the sky above is always blue!

~Saurav Goyal

Anxiety, Piety!

I do not know how to explain it,

When I'm asked about my anxiety.

It is like every other feeling you get,

Can you describe to me fear, or your piety;

You hear noises, in my head I feel them;

You see tears or sadness, I taste them;

You distract yourself with reels and texts;

My body crashes like your phone's dying battery;

My hands, they shake; my arms go completely numb;

My eyes see only darkness ahead; and my legs under me, succumb!

You ask me about my anxiety,

And I'll never know how to explain.

Have you been gripped with an unwarranted fear,

That stepping out of your room might end your life?

Have you been so physically drained in bed,

That you are not sure if it is morn or time to switch off the lights?

Do your thoughts of self-help,

Every leave you dotted on your skin?

Do you ever want to speak up- or shout -

But you can't find your tongue, your voice, or how to even begin?

I know it's all in my head;

Just like the cholesterol around your heart.

But your wishes for them to go, alone

Wouldn't take you very far!

You can either help me, or leave me be,

Where do you see the scope of a middle ground?

I would never leave you, though;

If you were to develop an ulcer in your fucking mouth!


~Saurav Goyal

An Anxious Affair

Like the hands of a tireless clock,

This brain doesn't know when to stop.

Mornings; noons; evenings; nights;

The sun doesn't rest and neither do I.

You start at zero and get worked-up till five,

I live at seven, at nine am really alive.

It is a condition they tell me,

How my brain had been wired!

Genes; environment; suppressed memories;

Honestly, for this error alone, God should be fired.

Mediation; meditation; medication;

These just seem like the rest of my life.

In spite of everything worth living for, my brain tells me "die",

Half my days are spent fighting myself, it's a daily strife.

Don't you dare pity me, please save your sympathy,

Do not even try to be the "nice guy",

I'm neither sick, retarded, nor handicapped,

I am just an anxious bird that may never fly.

I cannot even remember the last time I was free,

Free of this grip that my mind has on me,

Not since I'm an adult, for sure;

Neither in college, nor school, nor before.

The only memory I can recall free of this spell,

Is that of a small boy, listening to stories his Dadi would tell!

~Saurav Goyal