HOW A BOOK HELPED A CHILD FIGHT DEPRESSION.

Many years ago, at 6 AM in the morning, I was extremely sad. It was not something personal. I don't even know what was it. Its hard to explain. It was as if someone really young from a distant land had died for no reason. It was as if the earth forgot all its poems as spring turned up. It was as if someone in the neighbourhood tried and failed to commit suicide for one more time; and only I knew the whole thing. It was as if the sun had purposely hid its face, and the crowds of men were going to turn faceless for a day. It was as if I wanted the world to come crashing down.

I mean, it all sounds very stupid, but it was really that kind of a day. I decided to take a stroll down the road. On my way, I could see multitude of people with an inexplicable sadness evidently visible on their faces. I mean, may be, there are days when everyone is just supposed not to be happy or anything. May be such sadness is embedded in our collective consciousness and it only comes alive when sun decides to hide itself, giving us poor folk, a dystopian novel setting.

I was sitting in the park around 8 AM, waiting for something good to happen: a little ray of sunshine may be. Something that could change what was happening. As a kid, with all your wide-eyed naivety and dormant reason, you are really empathetic. I mean, you just want everyone to be happy and sans souci in the town. Such days would really disturb you as a kid. This is just what children are: compassionate, carefree, willing and wanting to be happy, sensitive.

The day was really bad, but next one, or the one after it, was eventually going to be shiny and lively. People were soon going to be filled with joie de vivre again, after a sporadic bout of unhappiness. As a kid, you are hopeful too. So, I got over the day very soon. I was happy the next day, when everything seemed to fall into a perfect place, with birds singing and no apparent sign of gloom.

Somedays ago, I woke up at 6 AM with no apparent sadness. It was same kind of a day. I looked at the sky with steady stoicism and said to myself: dystopian gloom has prevailed for one more day. I was virtually laughing. For one more day, poor folk in town were going to be sad. May be someone from a distant land had died for no reason again. With a cold sense of apathy, I went back to my room and slept in peace. I was happy and content while going to bed. Do I even miss the childhood vulnerability and that unconditional compassion? I am not really sure. Not after that day. Not anymore.

I remember reading John Betjeman, who wrote: Childhood is measured out by sounds and smells and sights, before the dark hour of reason grows.

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BEAUTY OF DEATH AND SURVIVAL. STRONG MESSAGE TO THE TERRORISTS

Many years ago, I was randomly going through my newsfeed and I read about this man, who played cello at Baghdad bomb site, minutes after the deadly explosion. I think his name was Karim Wasfi. I vividly remember reading his interview. Upon asking why he did that, he answered that he wanted to minimise the damage through his art. He wanted to reach equilibrium – between tragedy, madness, pain on one side, and an artistic expression that defies it on the other.

I was going through my newsfeed again and I saw a man in Houston playing piano in his flooded house. His house was full of water. It was absolutely ravaged by the natural disaster. And he was sitting calmly there, playing piano. That's what art is: it helps you create an equilibrium, of sorts. It defies madness, grotesque and natural calamity.

Some years ago, I saw a photo. I don't know the exact place. But there was a policeman with his gun pointing at a woman, and she was pointing her pen at him in response. I think she – despite being unarmed – was less vulnerable as compared to the policeman with a gun. Or at least that's what I think of it.

I remember a few months ago, there was a deadly blast at Sehwan Shareef. Many innocent people died. But on the very next day, there was a greater number of people. And then there was this typical dance. That was a strong message spelled out through art: you can't  defeat us. You're a murderer. You'll kill us because you are so afraid. You'd kill us because that's your last resort. You'd kill us because you can't understand humane ways. And you can't fucking understand the power of art, the symbolic defiance. That exactly was the message. Or that is at least what I deciphered from all of that.

That is what I deciphered from all of that.

So, yes, art of any kind is very very powerful. I think the best way to fight back is through the power of art. Paint stuff, sing a stupid song, play that fucking guitar violently (the only violence you should ever think of). Play the cello. Sit in your flooded house and play that piano, with a calm that an idiot like me can't maintain on best of the days. Dance at shrines. Do everything you can with your artistic prowess. Do everything you can to fight them off. Because you are going to win. Because you might have already won. So what exactly are you afraid of? People who don't know shit except pressing a button and blowing themselves off to silence you? I think you have already won.

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CONFESSION OF A STUDENT AFTER A SUICIDE ATTEMPT

Recently i tried an attempt to suicide, but luckily I survived.
I wish I was able to move out but the only funds I have are enough to pay tuition. My parents stress me out... especially my mom. The other day she got angry at me for refusing to eat quinoa and flipped the plate with my other food on it while I was eating after I did what she asked and added quinoa. I started crying and she got angrier and took the quinoa that was left on my plate and smeared it all over my face and hair and pushed me to the ground. I tried to tell her that the reason I didn't want to eat it was because I liked the other food she cooked when she said I don't appreciate her cooking. She told me if I wanted to leave like my sister, I should just leave. By God's grace, even when I felt heartbroken, I had strength to wipe my tears and carry on the day with silence. I cleaned the mess and went to my room to study for my test. I just hope it doesn't get as bad as that one time when I'm studying full time. Sometimes, I'm just tired and may be rude or act irritated to my mom so I may roll my eyes or my tone would be wrong but it does not excuse punishment out of rage whether it's physical or emotional... I envy the people who have it good with their parents but I'm also happy for them that they don't have my life

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