The Biggest Mask she Wore

 

Orchidaceae

She went through the old photographs.

Swiping though most. Pausing at some.

Moments of joy; captured, frozen for Eternity-

Chucking her graduating cap into the air

Striking a seductive pose at her cousin’s wedding

Running on the beach, racing a dog

Making the okay sign on her scuba dive

Grinning from behind the masquerade mask

Rejoicing after climbing the walls of a fort

She. The girl with the gorgeous smile.

The girl who hung herself one night.

No photographs were taken at her funeral

Had they been, might she have smiled there too?

That smile. The biggest mask she wore.

I Am Not Okay

[On #MentalHealthDay, let us acknowledge that it is okay to not be okay.]

The last few months have been difficult for most of us.

The stories of bodies piled up in hospitals waiting for mass disposal, of obituary pages thicker than Sunday supplements, of hospitals having one ventilator for five patients that needed it. A virus as deadly as Nipah, but as contagious as the flu, struck fear of a kind we had not dealt with before.

The suddenness and completeness of the lockdown made it worse. We were completely cut off from the routine of daily life. Many were cut off completely from human interaction. Others were stuck far from home. All worried about loved ones who were far away. We struggled to hold it together, physically and mentally.

There were job losses and salary cuts. People were learning to manage without household help. Balancing work and home was particularly difficult for women.

To add to all that were the images of migrants streaming homewards. For perhaps the first time, the middle class was exposed to the plight of migrants, who had, till then, been largely invisible. We felt anger and helplessness. We also felt guilty about thinking of ourselves when others were so much worse off than us.

All of this took a toll on our mental health, but most were not able or willing to acknowledge it. 

I still remember the silence that greeted me when I wrote in our office WhatsApp group that I was not in a good position mentally, and needed a couple of days off try and get myself sorted. I almost wondered if I should have made up some physical ailment instead of confessing that I was not able to function mentally. But in retrospect, I am glad I did not choose the easy way out. By acknowledging my weakness, I made it easier for others to accept that it is hard to not be affected by things going on around us.

The last few months also showed us how difficult it is to know when someone really needs our help. A few weeks into the Lockdown, a friend was devastated because a relative died by suicide. “But I never even knew”, she wailed. “I even spoke to her a few days back. She was perfectly fine.”

None of us is ‘perfectly fine’. We are all different degrees of broken. But regardless of whether we wear a surgical mask when we go out or not, we rarely forget to don the mask that hides our mental state.

A routine “how are you?” always gets a “I am fine”, or “couldn’t be better.” I have given that answer myself, before interjecting the subsequent conversation with a “no, who am I kidding. I am not fine. But I will get over it. Do I have a choice except to?”

We have no choice but to proactively reach out to people we care about. Merely asking how they are isn’t sufficient, we need to look out for signs they may need mental support. At the same time, we have to train ourselves to seek support if we need it ourselves. Neither is easy, but both are necessary.

Laying down the mask is hard, particularly if you fear you will be judged. In this, perhaps, women fared better than men.

Men are corralled in by far more expectations than women. They are taught that it is weak and unmanly to confess to an emotional void. They are expected to not display emotion, and they are required to act mentally strong. All of which makes it much harder for them to seek the help they need.

One positive fall-out of the last few months is that people are a little more amenable to speaking about their mental health. It is still considered taboo in most circles. It is still stigmatized in others. But things are changing, however slowly.

Till then, let’s watch out for each other. Let’s reach out when we need help, and let’s reach out when we suspect someone else needs help. And let us acknowledge that it is okay to not be okay, and to take time off to let ourselves heal.

Mere Survival is enough

 I almost don’t want to go to Facebook any more. All my friends are cooking elaborate five course meals, and participating in book readings and saree challenges. But for me, just ensuring the family (including dog) is fed and clothed seems like a major achievement.

Every day is like being on a treadmill. Meals, laundry, work, worry. You are running all the time, but even after putting in your best effort, you are exactly where you stared. The meal gets consumed, and you have to think of the next one. Laundry keeps piling up.

I admire the people who are baking their own bread- crusty, melt in the mouth buns for teatime. But I cannot be like them. I will shamelessly admit that I have taught my kids to fix themselves Maggie for lunch on days when I just cannot get myself to enter the kitchen.

There are people working on embroidery projects and learning Madhubani painting. I tell myself if I do something creative, it will help. But helping solve a trigonometry problem is about all I am capable of doing in my current mental state.

To all the people saying that if you do not come out of the lockdown without having learnt a new skill, all you lacked is discipline, I will only say, ‘Good for you that you are able’. But I can’t and it is not discipline that is lacking. It is the will.

We are in the middle of a pandemic. We are worried about ourselves. We are worried about our loved ones. There are nights when I can’t sleep worrying about my mother who is alone in another state 600 kms away. I worry about her.

I worry about the economy which was in bad shape even before the Lockdown, and which will only get worse. I worry about the recession that will come. I worry about how many people will slip further into poverty. I worry about increasing violence at home and on the streets.

I know that my worrying will not help. But it paralyses me. It prevents me from being creative and productive. Every night, while going to bed, I tell myself that tomorrow I will make the effort and wear kajal. But if I even comb my hair before noon, that’s an achievement.

There is just one thing I am able to do for myself. Every evening, I fix myself a strong mug of coffee, and sip it on the balcony while watching the sun paint its masterpiece on the western horizon. It is those 15 minutes of emptiness that keeps me sane and grounded.

And I tell myself that this is not a competition. I do not have to submit samples of my creativity to be graded by anyone. I do not have to make lists of books read, and movies watched. I do not have to be smarter and slimmer. I only have to continue being kind.

For me, and for many like me, survival is enough. If I come out of the lockdown with my sanity intact and without having lost my humanity, that’s enough. Paula Radcliffe can run a marathon in 2:15:25. If I turn up at the starting line, that is good enough.

Kushmanda, the Creator of the Cosmic Egg

With her smile, she dispelled the darkness, created

the Universe from a void. She resides in the Centre

of the Sun, helps sustain Life

© 2018

Somedays, even getting out of bed is so difficult. I try to swing my feet to the floor and push my body up, but cannot. It is like an invisible weight is pushing me down. I do not seek another five minutes of sleep; I just want to stay in bed, unmoving, undetectable. I just want to disappear away from this world.
There is work to be done, I remind myself, as I coax myself to get up. To drag myself to the bathroom, splash water on my face, brush my teeth. I avoid looking at the face in the mirror- I do not know her. Vacant eyes, pulled down face. Did those lips ever smile, I wonder? Sometime, I suppose they did. Now I wonder if they even remember how. Stop staring at yourself in the mirror, you have work to do, I tell myself. Stay here, stay here a while longer and drown with me, replies my reflection.
A crash jolts me from my reverie. It’s just the cat knocking over the sugar bowl. She wants her milk, I suppose. Everyone wants something from me. Except me. All I want is to go back to bed.
I get through the next 2 hours. Lunch boxes to be packed, breakfast to be made, kids to woken up, dressed, fed.
I put on my mask and take the children down to wait for the school bus. This is the worst part of the day; even worse than getting up. I have to smile and make small talk. Laugh at the jokes of the other mothers, ask about their children, pretend to be interested in the gossip, smile. Smile, even though I am broken inside. Smile even though all I want to do is to crawl back into bed.
The bus comes, I wave goodbye. And put away my mask.
The bed beckons. I will lie down, cover my head, and lie their motionless till eternity. That’s all I want to do. Just a few minutes more; the lift is stuck on the 3rd floor, but will be down soon.
The phone rings. My mother. Ignore it, I tell myself. I-G-N-O-R-E. My body ignores my plea as usual. I take the call.
“How long does it take you to pick up the phone”, she says without even a hello. “Now, don’t go back home and lie down. Have a bath, put on some decent clothes, slap on the lipstick and go out.”
“But,”
“No buts. Lolling around in bed feeling miserable for yourself isn’t going to solve anything. Get dressed, go out. Make some time for yourself.”
“But it’s raining, and there is an auto strike.”
“Don’t make excuses. If you can’t go anywhere else, go to CCD and read a book there. Just get dressed and get out of the house. And send me a selfie too.”
Why did I insist on getting my mother a cell phone? There was now way out of this mess. I just had to get out. As if slapping on the lipstick would help. As if anything would help. What a mess. Why can’t they just let me be?

“I am just so depressed yaar”, the beautifully turned out girl at the next table trilled to her friend, launching into an imagined complaint.
Depressed?! What did she know about Depression? How dare she usurp my misery and try to make it her own? Does she know how hard it is to just get past every day? Does she know how much effort it took me to wear these dangling earrings? The number of times I thought of putting on matching earrings, and then decided it was not worth it. I still wore them. And they match my tee shirt. Does she even know what it means?
“Nice earrings”, my mother texted. She knew. With a thrill, I relised she understood. “Now stop feeling miserable for yourself. Drink your coffee and read your book.”
Why had I brought Vikram Seth? I loved the book, but my eyes glazed over the words. I cannot read this. I looked at the gentleman on the next table. “What I talk about when I talk about running”, said the book.
Running.
Mechanical.
Putting one foot ahead of the other.
The other foot ahead of the first.
Forever.
No need to think
to process
Just count the steps. And run.
Maybe that is what I need. I do not want to be like this. I do want to be happy again. I will make myself smile again. From my smile, I will rebuild my world.

_____
I am Kushmanda, the Creator of Creation. The fourth manifestation of Nav Durga. I am every woman trying to smile.