A Lecture on Depression

And why should Mandavi be depressed? No, unlike me, she isn't already about to purchase her next air-ticket, which she does not fear, like I do. Neither has to be concerned about it being the first of the month, where a substantial amount goes away, like a folder is selected to be sent to the recycle bin, clueless where it actually goes, and more importantly, how. But then, Mandavi is Mandavi. She is not me (and thank goodness for that). Friends are great chameleons, in a good way. I became a coach. No, not on which she could take a seat, or carry on her arms, but one without the sattar minit dialogue. It scares me -- depression. But, of late, I am carrying a halo around me, one that exudes colours and shades of joy. So, I took to coaching. 

Who am I, though? I am just a robotic reaction to the keyboard. I am someone else, who cannot take someone else's suffering, and smilingly, I brave it. What, thus, is this silly little bombastic word called depression? An unknown seizing of the self, perhaps? Which manifests itself in unwanted tears, excessive shopping, useless eating and of course, ruthless breathing? How does one explain it?

Mandavi had once tried, explaining it to me, what is it. She always takes the medical, more clinical route. She would logically explain, and derive conclusions that are easy to comprehend, and thus readily believable. I am different. I like action. On its own. Not reaction. A removal from inaction. You know what I mean? Like, I would intently watch a match, or hum along with a song, or clean the refrigerator or the wash basin -- a sense of accomplishment. Serving someone a perfect cup of coffee, a lovely smile, a warm truth. But, in games, there are always rules. The point is to follow them, yet, play your heart out.

Take a canvas, and with your grammar, articulate your restlessness. What is this luxury we indulge in? Work. Work is the only way to battle everything. Depression finds its mean way in when we often do not end up finding the work we would like to do. Let us find one. We owe it to ourselves. And respect the others'. 

Mandavi is a river. She is sad of the sameness of daily programmes that are conducted in the name of cruise. She whispered in my ears the other day, "I long for the seagull to dare a dive within me!" Well, I thought I was hallucinating. Turns out, I was not. She is back, believe me, her echoes in my ears. Her rhythmic waves, weren't controlled at all -- they are all a mask. Underneath, she was struggling. She needs to unleash that fire under her, the anger, and then sing to the seagulls. 

For what is but depression, if you cannot defeat it? Only when we struggle to outlive it, we realize the truth about truth -- not always beautiful, not always true.