The dark cloud

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DAY 1: Friday, February 20, 2009

Today, its better.

Not as good as I would like.

But the constant lump in my throat is gone.

The urge to burst into tears has subsided.

I’m surprised I haven’t envisaged a single creative way to die, all day long.

But the loneliness remains.

And the fear that it will be back.

What if this time it stays?

I’ve had bouts of depression for as long as I can remember.

Some were for hours, others lasted for days.

But, more recently, these bouts have changed into long, endless months.

When I was younger, insignificant things like not getting a present on my birthday, being left at home alone by older cousins, being made fun of by classmates and siblings would affect me much more than it would a regular child.

I would lock myself in a room and cry for hours.

And in between I would try holding my breath.

But the tears would give way and I would resume breathing grudgingly.

Because of my usual dramatic antics, my family and friends labelled me too sensitive, or too touchy or simply moody.

I was a loner.

I talked less.

I felt more

And I reclused in my writing.

In an imaginary world.

Where I was a celebrity.

Jetsetting around the world.

And so travelling became an obsession

I thought if I could move somewhere else

I’d somehow dodge the black cloud that follows me around everywhere.

When I was younger I would beg my parents to take me for a vacation.

Being the youngest, they’d often cave in.

And for the few days I’d be away.

I was fearless.

I was free.

I was at peace.

Ever since I’ve started working, I’ve spent every day of the week, calculating how much it will take me, to get away from this place, this life, this sadness.

I watch the billboards for airlines every day to work.

And every month they increase their prices.

And every month, I save money on lunch.

Today I saved 200 Rs.

Standing alone in the work elevator today, I did the math and realised I may have covered the price of the food served on the plane.

Just another 32789589245748758475 rupees to go.

I cry just a little.

But the days that I am happy, the world is a wonderland.

I scream.

I shout.

I giggle uncontrollably.

I dance.

And you can almost not tell I have a disease.

I can almost not tell I have a disease.

Food tastes better.

Voices sound less dreary.

People seem interesting.

And there’s music everywhere.

Sappy love songs.

Life has a soundtrack.

A purpose.

And it almost feels like whatever I’ve done so far hasn’t been in vain.

There’s hope.

And plenty of sunlight.

And there’s no dark cloud.

At least not directly above me.

Before you march into a pity parade.

Let me clear this out.

My life has been completely drama-free.

I wasn’t molested at a tender age by my uncle.

No abusive alcoholic parents

I do not have an Oedipus complex.

I do not have a drug/sex/money/cigarette/alcohol problem.

I do not hurl into a toilet after a four course meal.

So don’t worry about me.

And yea.

You, reading this piece, have done nothing wrong to me.

The teacher who slapped me in third grade, hasn’t left any emotional scars.

The stupid boy who broke my heart, hasn’t caused me any permanent damage.

Maybe some long phone bills but yea nothing that can’t be fixed.

My parents who have blatantly chosen my sister over me when it comes to everything don’t need to feel bad.

And my friends or lack of thereof haven’t brought the black cloud over my head.

It was just always there.

Maybe I was born with it.

A cloud I had to inherit.

Maybe some medication brought it on

Who knows?

But one thing is for sure.

I am a dark clouder.

The dark clouders can almost sense someone’s dark cloud nearby.

Like rain minutes before it drops, you can smell it, feel it, almost touch it.

That’s exactly how we can smell, feel and see sadness.

Or at least I can.

We can tell other dark clouders from a conversation, a glance, a touch.

But we never acknowledge someone else’s cloud.

Because acknowledging it would mean admitting to your own.

And so we go on our lives in reluctance.

Hating ourselves for not reporting someone else’s cloud.

Hating ourselves, even more, when the cloud engulfs someone we love.

Someone whose sadness you knew about.

Someone whose sadness you felt everyday.

Today I contemplated telling someone about my cloud.

Today, I contemplated helping someone with their cloud.

But when I realised that would mean giving up my cloud.

Not having anything or anyone to blame for my sadness.

No tears.

No constant lump in my throat

I gave up.

And as much as I try, I can’t let this encumbering cloud go.

Which is why I’ve decided to make it my secret friend.

The one who’s willing to take blame for everything.

The one that’s always there.

I often play hard to get with it.

When it’s not around, everything seems too perfect.

Like a little dollhouse with everything pretty and pink in place.

Words sound scripted.

Thoughts come out in gibberish.

Smiles too fake.

And soon enough, I ache for my cloud.

But when its there, I run blindly away from it.

Trying to free myself of its grip.

And then, a wave of acceptance washes all over me.

Today, I want my cloud to be discovered.

Today, I want my cloud to be hidden.

Today, I want to feel.

Today, I want not to feel.

Today, I want to be saved.

Today, I want to be forgotten

Today, I want to live.

Today, I want to die.

DAY 2, Saturday, February 21, 2009

I have to meet people today.

That means getting out of bed, a Herculean effort on its own.

Dressing up, which requires giving myself a look in the mirror.

Talking, having to make coherent sentences.

Laughing, picking up on punch lines and facial changes.

And eating, okay that might be bearable considering I haven’t eaten in two days.

And so I drag myself out of bed.

In to the shower.

Lights go out.

It’s dark.

I fumble around to find a candle.

My hands are shaking uncontrollably.

That happens when I don’t eat for days.

Found it.

Now a matchbox.

Fuck!

No matchbox here.

At least this way I don’t get to see my face.

I climb into the shower.

Like a child makes his way into a comfortable bed.

I sit on the cold floor.

Head buried between my legs.

Boiling hot water dripping in on me.

I sit there for hours.

Thoughts.

Random thoughts

Stupid thoughts.

Crazy thoughts.

Thoughts of death.

Death by drowning

Death by burning

Death by being eaten alive

Death by murder.

Death by pills.

Death by falling

Death in your sleep.

Death at night

Death in the morning.

So many ways to die.

And I can’t find one

I fall asleep.

In a foetal position.

I wake up.

Same position.

Crick in my neck.

Steam everywhere.

With the dark, I can barely make out anything in the toilet.

And the bloody steam.

I can’t breathe.

Every pore of my naked body is emitting heat.

And I can’t breathe

I just can’t breathe.

I try to get out of the tub.

My legs wobbly.

My head spinning.

I can’t tell where I am placing my feet.

Water everywhere.

I slip.

Headfirst into the cold cold floor.

I am too weak to get up.

I am too weak to try and breathe.

And all I can hear and feel is the mid-day prayer (Azaan) coming from a loud speaker nearby.

The moazzan declares allahu akbar

I know the translation by heart

Allah is the Greatest

They’ll probably recite something similar when I die.

I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship except Allah

I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah

When I’m six feet underground.

I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah

Rush to Prayer

Rush to Prayer

Rush to success

Rush to success

I can’t rush to anything.

I don’t want to rush to anything.

Allah is the Greatest

There is none worthy of worship except Allah

The moazaan ends the prayer.

I close my eyes.

Pretending that my body is being lowered into the ground.

The dark cloud is smiling wickedly down at everyone.

Like a predator, waiting to sink its teeth into its next victim.

I fall asleep on the floor.

Too tired to see my bruises.

No smiles.

No words.

No pain

No feelings.

No expressions.

And just sleep.

I wake up to wetness on my cheek.

I open one eye.

And see what appears to be a humungous dog wagging his tail excitedly at me.

I smile.

Animals can see clouds too.

Some animals have their own clouds.

But this one is bent on driving mine away.

I prop myself up on my elbows.

And everything hits me at once.

The lights are back.

The steam is gone.

I can breathe.

And I’m still naked.

And starving.

There’s a hum in my head.

And half of my face is swollen.

I get up.

Pet the dog.

Try putting clothes on.

All in a slow motion mode.

Get outside.

Its 3 in the afternoon.

I’ve missed the meeting.

Its five-hours after I had gotten out of bed.

I sleep again.

I don’t why dark clouders love to sleep so much.

Maybe it’s because they get to be in the middle of everything

In between sadness and happiness.

In between feeling and numbness.

In between a cloud or no cloud.

It’s a temporary death.


Day 3, Sunday February 22, 2009

I knew it was coming days ago.

The dark cloud was in remission like a cancer.

But now it has officially landed.

I know because I haven’t gotten out of bed since my bathroom fall.

My parents have peered into my room several times.

“What’s wrong?”

I scream from underneath a thick layer of a comforter: “I’m just not well”

That might be partly true.

And if I try telling them about the dark cloud it might land me into a psychiatrist’s room.

My sister who I share a room with hasn’t noticed the bruises on my face.

Its mid-day now.

I can hear the prayers again.

I can feel my mother come into the room again.

She’s having a conversation with my father.

Something about checking my temperature.

Taking me to a doctor.

I leap out of the bed.

Covering the swollen side of my face with the comforter.

“I’m Okay!”, I scream reluctantly.

Talking takes effort now.

My mother takes a look, realises I might’ve been faking my discomfort and goes back to whatever she was doing.

My sister is still watching some television show on full volume that just doesn’t end.

I get up.

I check my calls.

I have a text message from a person who I hate.

He makes me feel worthless.

Tells me I’m ordinary.

Tells me I’m most likely to do nothing great in life.

Tells me I am dark and short with ugly feet.

I call him immediately.

Dark clouders hide behind such people.

We fall for them over and over again.

They bring out the insecurities in us.

Day 4, Monday February 23, 2009

I woke up from the weirdest dream today.

I had spilled a large aquarium.

There was water everywhere.

And pieces of glass.

Soon I was on the floor.

Trying to grab the fish.

Trying somehow to put them back into water.

And every time I came near one.

They would squiggle away.

I was screaming loudly.

Not knowing how much longer I had to save them.

Never one to understand the symbolism in my dreams.

I let it be.

And I head to work.

I pass by the billboards again.

I do the math.

I enter work.

People are gathered.

Laughter and screaming.

And it’s all around my cubicle.

I take one step forward.

They’re hushing each other.

I take another step.

Its complete quiet now.

And then I hear it all together.

“CONGRATULATIONS!”, they scream

“For?”, I say plainly

For winning the office prize.

“What prize?”

Day 90, Sunday June 1, 2009

I’m sitting in a plane.

It’s been years since I sat in a plane.

It’s chaotic.

Babies are crying everywhere, the airhostesses are running around in silly tight dresses and perfect buns.

I’m at the back of the plane.

Nervously changing the channels on the screen in front of me.

Too afraid to look outside.

Too afraid to bid farewell to my cloud.

Too afraid that it’ll make me stay.

The pilot announces that the plane is ready for departure for Paris.

I smile.

My first real smile in two years.

The plane takes off.

My heart does a summersault as the plane reaches higher altitude.

I can’t believe I’m a few hours away from complete freedom.

I’m dreaming about walking in Parisian parks, exploring palaces, listening to opera and visiting the Louvre.

There’s smell of food in the air.

Food in tiny quanity.

Food packaged in foil.

Delicious, hot airplane food.

As a kid, I wished I could eat airplane food at home everyday.

Those perfectly baked buns and butter were a delicacy for me.

I close my eyes and let it all sink in.

I’m away and the worst is over.

I’ve paid my dues.

I change the channel.

And wait for the food to come.


Two hours later

Someone’s screaming from the other side.

It’s far ahead and I can’t see.

It’s completely dark in the plane.

People are waking up.

People are standing up.

I don’t know what’s happening.

I’m struggling with my seat belt.

My hands are shaking.

My heart has stopped.

There’s smoke everywhere.

And now other people have started screaming.

I still can’t get up.

I’m glued to this seat.

The airhostess is telling everyone to stay calm.

There’s smoke now

And fumes.

White fumes.

Kids are crying loudly.

Men are running around.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

I look on the other side.

And see a middle aged woman.

And from one look I can tell she’s a dark clouder.

And we share this brief moment of acknowledgement.

And praise the dark cloud.

For a game well-played.

Words no longer sound scripted.

Thoughts no longer come out in gibberish.

Smiles no longer fake.

No more aching for my cloud.

No more running away from it.

I don’t free myself of its grip.

A wave of acceptance has washed all over me.

I see the woman and I.

Part of the clouds.

Looking down at people.

Our people.

Waiting like vultures.

For a dark clouder.

preview

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