A MEMOIR

By a part-time student.

A BOOK BY
VEDANT TARAK
Whispers of
the Past.

Season 1

VEDANT TARAK
 स्मितस्य अर्थः सर्वदा भवतः सुखी इति न भवति; क
दाचित्, अन्तः वेदनां गोपनार्थं मुखौटम् अस्ति।
.
 DEDICATION

I know there were times when I was a mess and it felt like I was
failing, but you stood by me through it all. Your faith in me was a source of
strength, and it made all the difference.

Looking back, I realised, I was a complete disaster in this whole journey. Yet, you
stood by me and I am incredibly grateful for your sacrifices and your relentless
belief that I could turn things around.

For my mother, who kept me healthy and happy. I couldn't have done it without
you.

For my father, who listened to me patiently and raised me well and made sure
I’m okay.

For my sister, for always being by my side, simply for being there when I needed
the most.

For my best friend, for always raising the bar and supporting my unconventional
choices along this journey.
 Contents

Foreword by Shruti Kapare

5

Need to read this book

6

Need to write this book

8

Prologue
10

Episode 1. Marred by Shadows

18
INTERLUDE: My Journey with Dr Aarti Bhang

Episode 2. The Surgery Journey

31
INTERLUDE: Moment of Truth

Episode 3. The Idea

42
INTERLUDE: Me out of all people?

Episode 4. Paradox
52
INTERLUDE: Embracing The Paradox

Episode 5. Perseverance
62
INTERLUDE: Vengeance

Episode 6. You Left Me Crying

80
 INTERLUDE: Reflection

Episode 7. Like I’ve Been there Before

88

Acknowledgment
91
 Foreword
By Shruti Kapare

In the quiet moments of life, when the world slows down and the noise fades
away, we often find ourselves listening to the whispers of the past. These echoes carry
stories, lessons, and memories that shape who we are and who we aspire to be. In this
remarkable collection, my dear friend Vedant Tarak (aka VT) invites us to embark on a
journey through time – the journey that transcends mere nostalgia and delves deep
into the heart of what it means to be human.

As I reflect on our bond, I am reminded of the countless conversations we've shared,

where laughter intertwined with profound discussions about our experiences, dreams,
and the shadows of our pasts. VT has a unique ability to weave together the threads of
his own life with universal truths that resonate with all of us. Through his words, he
brings to light the struggles and triumphs that define our existence, reminding us that
we are never truly alone in our journeys.

This book is not just a reflection of VT's life; it is a mirror held up to our own. It
challenges us to confront our pasts, embrace our vulnerabilities, and celebrate the
resilience that emerges from the whispers of our past. As you turn these pages, may
you find solace in shared experiences and inspiration in the stories that unfold.

In "Whispers of the Past," VT bravely opens up about the surgery he endured and the
emotional battles he faced along the way. His honesty is both inspiring and humbling,
as he sheds light on the often – hidden struggles many endure in silence. Through his
words, he invites us into his world, offering a glimpse into the complexities of
navigating health issues while grappling with mental health.

This book is not just a chronicle of pain; it is a celebration of resilience and hope. It
reminds us that even in our darkest moments, we can find solace in our friendships
and strength in our shared experiences. As you read these pages, may you feel the
warmth of his shared bond and the unwavering spirit that defines Vedant.

I encourage you to immerse yourself in his story, to reflect on your own journey, and
to recognize the whispers of your past that have shaped you into who you are today.
Together, let us honour the struggles and triumphs that make us human.

With love and admiration,

-Shruti
Need to read this book?

Dear readers,

To whom so ever it concerns, to whom ever is listening.

The idea stuck when I realise it was important to shout out loud the voices of my mind.

Personally, to know someone it really matters to know their story. The pain, love, grief,
despair, longing, joy and moments filled with emotions and connections we see
ourselves as both individuals are alike.

I never thought life will come in spot light where each audience are there to judge you
based on what you do – how you perform – how you entertain. But it’s also a crucial
thing about what we feel about ourself. Knowing yourself is the toughest thing one
could ever do, which comes with a price of ignorance, lots of sacrifices, - Suppression
of emotions.

By reading this memoir will let you know the instances of my life which partly someone
could have ever known about me. It will give you an insight in to how I was stuck there
– how I felt – how it affected me personally and deeply.

For most of the human history, storytelling was an oral tradition, though people were
already adding to stories with what they know or have.

During a time of unprecedented challenges, when we are all discovering what we

actually made up of, this has turned out to be the perfect way for me to explore – I’m
glad I’m only halfway through!

This book is not just about the instances I went through or the traumas I still holds, it’s
about the perseverance I hold within myself, I live with this overactive mind every day.
Having dozens of hypothetical thoughts invade every moment of my life, where I’m
constantly consumed by this neediness and even if the other word for this neediness is
fear, so yes, I’m afraid of being hurt, hurt by every next person I love, cause everyone
else who broke my trust and walked out of my life. Without considering the
consequences leading to have a fight I have to fought every day against my mind.
At a point, I’m exhausted and I’m tired of fighting but every other person who tries to
tell me that it’s okay to feel like this, I end up regreting my decision of opening up to
that person. I was a disaster, I still am. My overthinking hurts me so deeply that I think
I won’t be able to love someone so deeply. But trust me when I say this, overthinking is
okay, whatever you are feeling is okay, just remember one thing – it’s not an end of
the world.

Once you will turn the pages of this book, you will realise – you are not alone and the
battle is not against the people. It has been always, You VERSES You. So, before writing
this book, when I was out of depression, I started doing some other small and little
things to help people in need.

It all started with the idea to express myself – I stared blogging – knowing there’s
someone out there willing to know a story and views and most importantly emotions. I
have figured the tangledness of my life and my perspective for life. And it’s really
important to express it to those who really need this.

So, this is me.

Do enjoy reading!
Need to write this book?

I figured, most of the people around me have an image of a boy who is introvert and
shy - their own assumptions about my life. That’s completely opposite from who I
really am.

I used to be depressed. Scared. And a compulsive overthinker.

Once my therapist told me, Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we
can't remember who we are or why we're here. Without stories – without knowing the
truth about another person – we will never know the truth about ourselves.

How can I know I am not strange, alone and different if I’ve never heard the tale of
someone else’s experience?

If I think my rejection or difficulty with words, or childhood abandonment, are unique

only to me, I am instantly separated from you. Isn’t it?

The truth about me is, I always wanted someone to love me, only it never seems to
work out really. Yet, I keep running headfast into the same brick wall. Always wanted
to know a reason – a valid reason for it. Perhaps, I know it now. And that’s one of the
reasons to write this book, it’s because deep down there’s a part of me that’s still a
Human.

This book is about who I really am - what I have become in my life - how my life is been
playing with me ever since the day I was born.

My biggest inspiration to write this book is Mathew Perry. You all might know him with
a different name, Chandler Bing. The man is completely different from what we have
known him from F.R.I.E.N.D.S, he himself was a disease who got ruined by his own self.

Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Things by Mathew Perry has a major impact on
lives. That book changed my complete point of view. The day I started reading book,
was the turning point of my life.
I have overcome impossible odds, neither of which I had any idea about how life would
be after. But I’m glad I’m here, I’m proud of myself for making up to here and no
wonder that the hunger to conquer the top peak of the life will be only thing I’m
determined about.

Ever wondered, why does everything have to be shitty now? Childhood used to be
magical! Isn’t it? Why? Because we were child? No, our childhood was magical because
we were there. We were present at the moments – we had lived that moment. Now as
an adult, we are either always anxious about our future or we’re always regretting
whatever we’ve done in the past. In this solace, we completely forget everything is
about the present. Live a little. Eventually, everything’s gonna be magical again.

Life happens, whatever we dreamt of in childhood, now gets stuck in between either 9-
5 job or college routine. Often a very few people are there who have achieved what
they have dreamt of. And it’s not an uncommon thing to me either.

I’m persuing engineering, yet I never felt like an engineer till now. On contrary, I’m
writing a book and I already am feeling like an author. Ironical, isn’t it?

As writing this memoir was a journey itself, I am a survivor of bully and child abuse,
and now trying my best to continue improving myself and helping those around me. I
have done a lot of therapy and there was a time when I use to go on a weekly basis,
but here I am in a better place, where I can talk about my traumas and the things that
were done to me and have had happened with me.
 Prolouge

(In the hospital)

Doctor, "Congratulations! It's a baby boy”. But,

Why isn't he crying?

Everyone got nervous. Confused. And what not.

Suddenly I was rushed to another hospital and while I was being taken to another
hospital I cried, and for the first time my cry gave them relief, which was a really major
relief.

Well since then I tends to give a minor heart attack to people around me and that’s just
make me who I am. So, this is how my journey begins in this world. Unlike others I
wasn’t strong (In medical term I was born weak). Eventually I was kept under
observation and was isolated in some glass case which they called it as incubator.

The walls of the nursery were painted a gentle shade of blue, adorned with whimsical
clouds and playful animals. A crib stood ready, its blankets carefully folded, waiting to
embrace its tiny occupant. A sense of excitement mingled with nervous energy filled
the air, palpable and electric, as the hours ticked by. This was the night that would
forever change the lives of two hopeful parents, anxiously waiting to meet their son.

The journey to this moment had been filled with dreams and expectations, a tapestry
of hopes woven with the threads of patience and love. They had prepared for months,
imagining the future with their little one, dreaming of the day they would finally hold
him close. Every kick, every flutter had been a reminder of the miracle growing within,
a promise of the joy to come.
My mother’s OB-GYN had already predicted that life for me would be pretty tough and
though I accept the fact that since childhood I’m a little weak (well physically and not
mentally), but I always try to manage things. Things about my health has never good,
later in teenage I suffered a lot due to it. You see life sucks as good as mosquito but
sometimes being getting sucked by something else do gives pleasure.

My arrival was more than just the beginning of this own story; it was the start of a new
chapter for my family, a tale of love, growth, and endless possibilities. In my tiny hands
lay the power to transform ordinary days into extraordinary adventures, to bring
laughter, tears, and immeasurable joy. The world, vast and full of wonder, was now my
time to explore.

You see birth is not the same for everyone and how it could be, like I say we all are just
the topping on some pizzas and never know what and who goes first and adds up the
taste in life.

Three days in an incubator. Not a joke. Perhaps I was born weak. My birthplace is
Nagpur which is also my mother's hometown and when I was born there my maternal
uncle, granny and grandpa were so happy. Except for one person. My beloved sister.

Since I was in my mother's womb, she had a very uncommon intuition about me. That I
will be a great thinker and also a nice learner, only because of the fact that she read a
lot of book stuffs when I was in her womb. In facts she ate a lot of fruits and nuts,
which she thinks is also a reason I like too like eating them.

There’s no reason really needed to explain why I feel so connected with her, even
when we are far away. Back then she was the only one who pampered me, ain’t lying, I
was the spoiled kid. And the one who really got almost everything without crying.

Coming back to my hometown. Place which is considered as terror also famous for
dense forest and I live in the middle of this place. Nothing less than a S.S Rajamouli’s
film.

I was happy. Really happy.

But then I met with my elder sister. Total mischievous sister. Which is nothing less than
a curse.

She used to hate ME.

For the fact that I can be with mum all the time and everybody else do give attention
to me more than her. She was jealous. But wasn't abandoned as it seems to be. She
was also loved. Sometimes more than me.
I still remember the day when I got slapped by my own sister, only because I was so
cute (than her). I was just a month old. Since then I always got slapped by her
whenever she feels like giving me one. Whether she's happy or sad or stressed or
anything she's feeling up right at that time.

When I was a year old, I was playing with Di and some of my cousin who were almost
of the age as of her. I used to go get mingle with them. Though my Di never wanted me
to be the part of her gang. So, she took me and kept me on chair and went away.
Somehow, I lost my balance and I fell off from the chair.

That was so hurtful. I cried for almost more than 30 minutes.

Since now I never trusted Di in any case.

And I vow not to trust her in any of her plan she wants me to be a part of.

I often used to have clashes with her for any stupid reasons.

I got pampered a lot by mum. She used to feed me all the time she used to make me
sit near her while she used to do her kitchen chores.

One of my best memories from my childhood with mum is the roads we both visited in
Nagpur's market line.

And of course, the best memory of my childhood is to play cricket with dad and this is
the only thing which makes me feel happy whenever I think about it.

I still remember I used to carry bats, balls and stumps with me and used to go on a
ground where we used to play cricket with dad and some of his friends.

That was a really wholesome thing for me. I learnt a lot from them also dad plays a
huge role in making me strong within and out.

In my neighbourhood, there's one of my friends I have known since my childhood and

she was my first best friend as well as my really nice neighbour. Times when I used to
hate the lunch or dinner mum used to cook for me, I used to go to her house and used
to ask for it. She never disappointed me.

And this is also one of the BEST childhood memories I carry along till now.

Till date she is the only person who can make me smile inside and out, effortlessly. And
that's something major, I guess.

My childhood is not as good as it seems to be. It was full of fun, trauma, feeling of left
out and what not. But somehow, I managed by counting the days passing with time.
My school was just a door step away from my house and that was the only reason I
was admitted to that school. Though Di was in same school but we never really went or
come back from school together!

I find this EPIC.

Playing Cricket with Dad

As a ten-year-old, there’s nothing quite like the thrill of Sunday mornings usually in
winters when my dad and his friends gather for a game of cricket. Those days are
etched in my memory as some of the happiest times of my life, filled with laughter,
excitement, and the simple joy of playing a sport I loved.

The anticipation would start building from the moment I woke up. I’d rush through
breakfast, barely able to contain my excitement, and quickly pull on my cricket shoes.
Dad would be there, his eyes twinkling with the same eagerness, packing our gear and
making sure everything was ready. The walk to the playground was filled with chatter
about the strategies for the game, the players’ recent performances, and friendly
banter.

Arriving at the playground, the sight of the barren field always filled me with awe. The
air was crisp, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass, and the distant sounds of birds
chirping added to the serene atmosphere. Dad and his friends, a motley crew of all
ages and backgrounds, would greet each other with hearty handshakes and warm
smiles. They had an easy camaraderie, a bond forged over countless matches played
together.

I was the youngest there, but they always made me feel like part of the team. They’d
ruffle my hair, call me “Little Champ,” (I wasn’t) and give me tips on batting and
bowling. When it was my turn to bat, I felt a surge of pride and determination. Dad’s
encouraging words echoed in my ears as I faced the bowler, my heart pounding with
excitement. Every boundary I hit was met with cheers and applause, making me feel
like a hero.

But it wasn’t just the game itself that made those mornings special. It was the
moments in between—the shared jokes, the stories of past glories, and the laughter
that seemed to bubble up effortlessly.

I remember the way the sun would slowly climb higher in the sky, casting long shadows
and warming our backs as the game went on. There was a sense of timelessness to
those mornings, a feeling that nothing else in the world mattered except the game and
the people around me. It was a pocket of pure, unadulterated joy in my otherwise
routine life.

As the match drew to a close, there was always a sense of bittersweet satisfaction. Win
or lose, it didn’t matter. The experience of playing together, of being part of something
bigger, was what counted. Packing up the gear, my body pleasantly tired from the
exertion, I’d look forward to the next Sunday with eager anticipation.

Those mornings spent playing cricket with my dad and his friends are some of my best
memories. They taught me the value of teamwork, the joy of sport, and the
importance of community. Most of all, they gave me precious moments with my dad,
moments of bonding and shared happiness that I will cherish forever.

My Time with Mum

When I think about the best times of my life, I always think about the moments I spent
with Mum. My whole childhood till I was a teenage, my world revolved around her,
and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Every day after school, instead of rushing off
to play with friends (though she didn’t let me do so), I’d head straight home to be with
her, eager to help with household chores and learn new things in the kitchen.

Mum always made chores feel like an adventure. Whether it was folding laundry,
dusting the shelves, or sweeping the floor, she turned each task into a game. We’d
race to see who could fold the most clothes or make the shiniest windows, laughing
and chatting all the while. These small, everyday tasks became precious moments of
bonding, filled with her stories and my questions.

But the kitchen—that was our special place. Mum had a way of making cooking seem
magical. She’d let me measure out the flour, crack the eggs, and stir the pots, always
with a watchful eye and an encouraging smile. Under her guidance, I learned how to
make everything from timeless Maggie to Shahi Chicken. The kitchen was where I felt
most connected to her, creating something delicious together and then sitting down
with dad and sis to enjoy it as a family.

Cooking wasn’t just about making food; it was about sharing and caring. Mum taught
me that a good meal could bring people together and that cooking for someone was a
way of showing love. I remember the pride I felt when I made my first chai or made a
simple dinner on my own. Her praise was always genuine, her hugs warm and
reassuring.

My favourite spot was that cabinet, nestled in the corner near the stove, where I felt
both important and secure. My mother would be there, stirring a pot or chopping
vegetables, her attentive smile encouraging me to recount every detail. School stories
flowed freely: the latest playground adventures, the triumphs and trials of classroom
projects, and the ever-dramatic escapades of my friends and teachers.

But the stories that truly captivated me, and which I relished retelling the most, were
the grand tales from the Mahabharata. My fascination with the epic was boundless. I
would narrate the valour of Arjuna, the wisdom of Krishna, and the complexities of the
Kauravas and Pandavas with a fervour that made my eyes sparkle. My mother listened
patiently, sometimes interjecting with her own insights, but mostly letting me revel in
the storytelling.

Each narration felt like a sacred ritual. I would mimic the voices and gestures of the
characters, my imagination painting vivid scenes. The kitchen became Kurukshetra, and
the aroma of spices mingled with the imagined scents of battlefields and ancient
palaces. My mother’s occasional laughter or gentle corrections grounded me, bringing
me back from the mythical to the present, yet she never diminished the grandeur of
my tales.

Those moments were more than just storytelling; they were a bond between us, a
cherished routine that anchored my childhood. The kitchen cabinet became a throne
of sorts, where I was both a king and a bard, regaling my audience of one with the epic
and the everyday. My mother’s presence, her attentive listening, and her encouraging
smiles made that corner of the kitchen a sanctuary, a place where my world made
perfect sense.

Looking back, I realize those stories were my way of making sense of the world, of
understanding the complexities of life through the lens of heroes and villains, wisdom
and folly. They were a blend of reality and myth, school and scripture, and in my
mother’s kitchen, they found a perfect stage.

In those moments, I wasn’t just a boy recounting tales; I was connecting deeply with
my heritage, my family, and myself. The kitchen cabinet was my podium, my sanctuary,
and my bridge to a world of endless imagination and loving connection.

Our time in the kitchen was also when we had our best conversations. We’d talk about
my day at school, her memories from when she was a child, and our dreams for the
future. She’d listen intently, offering advice when I needed it and simply being there
when I didn’t. Those moments taught me the value of patience, the joy of learning, and
the comfort of having someone who truly cared.

Looking back, I realize how much those everyday activities shaped me. They taught me
responsibility, creativity, and the importance of family. They also gave me a sense of
confidence and independence, knowing that I could contribute and make a difference,
even in small ways.

Most importantly, my time with Mum taught me about love. Love isn’t just grand
gestures or big words; it’s in the little things—the shared chores, the laughter, the
meals cooked together, and the simple act of being present. Those moments with
Mum are the foundation of my happiest memories, and they’ve made me who I am
today.

Even though when I was only ten, I know that these times with Mum will always be
special to me. They are the moments that make me feel loved, secure, and happy.
They remind me that the best parts of life are often found in the simplest of things,
shared with the people we love the most.

[‘Mom’ is the more American spelling of the word, while ‘Mum’ is the
more British spelling of the same word. When I used to maintain a
dairy at 17, I mentioned her as ‘Mum’. Moreover, we Indians uses,
‘Mommmyyyyy’, ‘Mummy’, ‘Mumma’ and the words, filled with love,
reassurance, comfort and affection.]
 1.
Marred by shadows

Ganesh Chaturthi had always been a time of joy and celebration in our household. The
scent of incense mingled with the sweet aroma of modaks filled the air, and the house
was adorned with vibrant flowers and twinkling lights. This year, however, the
festivities were shadowed by a personal storm brewing inside me.
It had been months since the accident that left both physical and emotional scars. The
trauma of that day still haunted me, manifesting in unexpected ways. Lately, the
prospect of an upcoming surgery had reignited those fears, stirring up anxiety that I
thought I had long buried. My family was aware of my struggles, their supportive
presence a constant reassurance, but there were some battles I felt I had to face alone.
As the day of the surgery was approaching, I could feel the familiar weight of panic
settling in my chest. The bustling preparations for Ganesh Chaturthi were both a
distraction and a source of added stress. The house was filled with relatives, everyone
immersed in the celebrations, unaware of the turmoil churning inside me.
On the evening of the festival, as the house resonated with the rhythmic beats of the
aarti and the fervent chants of "Ganpati Bappa Morya," I felt an overwhelming wave of
anxiety. The joyous noise seemed to amplify my inner chaos. My breath grew shallow,
and my heart raced uncontrollably. I tried to steady myself, gripping the edge of the
table, but the room began to spin.
Tears welled up in my eyes, and despite my best efforts to hold them back, they spilled
over, streaming down my face. In the midst of the vibrant celebration, I stood there
crying, unable to contain the storm within. The music and laughter gradually faded as
everyone turned to look at me, their expressions shifting from confusion to concern.
My mother was the first to reach me, her arms wrapping around me in a comforting
embrace. "It's okay, we're here," she whispered, her voice a soothing balm to my
frayed nerves. My father quickly joined us, his hand gently rubbing my back.
Suddenly, all eyes were on me. My relatives, once absorbed in the celebration, now
stared with worry etched on their faces. The festive atmosphere dissolved into a sea of
confusion and nervousness. My aunt rushed to my side, her voice gentle but panicked,
asking what was wrong. I could see the fear in my parents' eyes—they didn’t know
what to do, and that terrified me even more.
The moments felt endless, the anxiety overwhelming, until someone decided to call
the doctor. I remember hearing the hurried conversation, the urgency in their voices as
they described my symptoms over the phone. I sat there, unable to respond, just trying
to hold on as the world around me spiral out of control.
I remember everyone had their own perception about the situation, some said it was
nothing while other being really concerned about my health. My aunt grabbed me a
glass of water and asked me to relax not knowing the depth of the situation. Yet, in
amidst of all my elder cousin saw the anxiety straight through my asked and took me
for a walk. I knew I wasn’t able to listen their own stupid perception about me so it was
better for me to be somewhere quiet.
Walking did actually make me calm, also telling her what I felt earlier which leads to
such disaster. She calmed me down and assured everything will be okay, what was
more important is my health and not their perceptions.
The vibrant festival had come to a halt, replaced by a sober, supportive silence. The
idol of Lord Ganesha, the remover of obstacles, seemed to look down at me with
compassionate eyes. In that moment, surrounded by my family’s love and concern, I
allowed myself to let go. I cried openly, the pent-up fear and anxiety pouring out of
me.
After what felt like an eternity, the tears subsided, leaving me feeling both exhausted
and oddly relieved. My family didn't ask any questions; they knew this was not the
time for words. Instead, they stayed close, offering their silent support. My aunt
brought me a glass of water, and my cousin sat beside me, holding my hand.

A MONTH AGO
13 August 2023.

The night had been a whirlwind of laughter, music, and joy. It was one of my friend
birthdays, and we had celebrated it with the enthusiasm only a group of close friends
could muster. The party was filled with the aroma of delicious food, the sound of
sizzling brownies, and the vibrant chatter of group of friends enjoying themselves. For
a few hours, I was able to push aside my anxieties and immerse myself in the moment.
As the night drew to a close, I felt a sense of contentment. It had been a good evening,
a rare moment of respite from the worries that usually clouded my mind. Pushkar,
along with Pratham with his car offered me a ride to home, and we chatted easily
during the drive, reliving the highlights of the party. Little did I know, the serenity I felt
was about to be shattered.
When I walked through the front door of my house, I was greeted by the familiar scent
of home—an amalgamation of night scent, my mum's favourite show and the faint
trace of my dad’s worry for me being late in his eye. It was comforting, but that
comfort was short-lived. I went inside to grab a glass of water for both of them as they
wanted to talk about my next session with dad. They were deep in conversation, and I
caught snippets of their discussion about my next psychiatrist session mentioning the
seriousness of my depression. Fun fact, no other friends other than this two were
aware about my situation in that party.
The mere mention of it sent a ripple of unease through me. I had been struggling with
anxiety for a while, and my sessions with the psychiatrist were a part of my journey
towards recovery. But hearing them discuss it so openly, especially after an evening
where I had felt slightly normal, triggered something deep inside me.
Suddenly, it felt like the walls were closing in. My heart began to race, my breathing
became shallow, and a cold sweat broke out on my forehead. The room seemed to
spin, and I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears. I tried to calm myself, to take
deep breaths like I had been taught, but it was no use. The panic was overwhelming,
and I felt like I was drowning in a sea of fear.
Pushkar was the first to notice. He stood up quickly, his face a mask of concern. "Hey,
are you okay?" he asked, his voice steady but urgent. My dad looked up, alarm flashing
in his eyes as he realized what was happening.
"I...I can't breathe," I managed to gasp, clutching my chest as if that would somehow
alleviate the crushing pressure.
"Get him to the hospital," my dad said immediately, asking Pushkar to grabbing his car
keys. Pratham supported me as we hurried to the car, my legs feeling like they could
give way at any moment. The drive to the hospital was a blur. I remember Pratham
trying to keep me calm, his voice a constant, reassuring presence, but my mind was a
chaotic storm of fear and confusion.
Mum’s hand was on my shoulder, her touch light but trembling, and she whispered
soothing words that barely registered over the roar of my panic.
Every second felt like an eternity as the car weaved through traffic. The rush of the city
outside seemed so distant, almost irrelevant, compared to the storm raging within me.
The fear of the unknown, the dread of what might happen next, gnawed at me, and all
I could do was cling to the hope that this overwhelming wave of terror would soon
recede.
When we arrived at the emergency room, the medical staff quickly took over. They
administered oxygen and gave me medication to help calm me down. Gradually, the
panic began to subside, though I was left feeling drained and shaky.
Lying in the hospital bed, I felt a mix of relief and embarrassment. This wasn't the first
time I had a panic attack, but it was the first time it had escalated to the point where I
needed hospital care. My dad sat beside me, his expression a blend of worry and relief.
"You scared us, buddy," he said softly, his hand resting on mine. "But you're going to
be okay. We're here for you."
Pratham stood at the foot of the bed, giving me a thumb’s-up. "You're stronger than
you think," he said with a small smile.
In that moment, despite the exhaustion and lingering anxiety, I felt a glimmer of hope.
The support of my loved ones, their unwavering presence, reminded me that I wasn't
alone in this battle. And though the road to recovery was still long, I knew I had the
strength and the support to keep moving forward.

In the midst of all this, there was an unexpected silver lining: the wheelchair. With my
energy levels still low and my body recovering from the intense anxiety attack, the
hospital staff suggested I use a wheelchair to get around. What started as a necessity
soon became a source of unexpected enjoyment. Pushkar, ever the jokester, took it
upon himself to become my unofficial chauffeur, zooming me through the hospital
corridors at breakneck speeds (well, as fast as a wheelchair would go). Pratham being
the tour guide and a stand-up comedian trying to make me laugh amidst everything.
Dad was relived seeing the way I smiled after the terrible night which couldn’t be
forget easily.
We laughed as we navigated the maze-like hallways, and for brief moments, the
weight of my anxiety lifted. We would race down the empty corridors, the wheels
squeaking in protest, as Pushkar cracked jokes and performed exaggerated spins,
making me feel like a kid again. It was a reminder that even in the most challenging
times, there could still be moments of light and joy.
However, beneath the laughter and the distraction of the wheelchair rides, the traces
of past trauma lingered. Every quiet moment, every time I closed my eyes, the
memories of that night would creep back in. The fear, the helplessness, the
overwhelming sense of drowning in my own mind. These were not easily dispelled by
the fleeting joy of a wheelchair race or a friend's jokes.
My parents tried to mask their worry, but I could see it in their eyes—the fear that
another attack could happen at any moment, the uncertainty of how to help me
navigate this unpredictable journey. They attended every doctor’s meeting, asked
countless questions, and even sat through sessions with my psychiatrist to better
understand my condition.
The tests continued, each one a reminder of the fragility of my situation. There were
MRIs, ECGs, and blood tests—all necessary to rule out any physical issues but each one
adding to the weight of my anxiety. The doctors were thorough, their faces often
serious but reassuring, explaining each step of the process and what they hoped to
learn. Though all reports were normal and again doctor failed to search the exact cause
for my pain.
Through it all, my parents never left my side. They brought my favourite books, tried to
keep me entertained with stories from home, and even managed to sneak in some of
my favourite snacks. Their presence was a constant source of comfort, even when
words failed to soothe the turmoil inside me.
Despite their efforts and the moments of levity, I struggled to shake off the shadow of
my anxiety attack. The hospital, with its constant reminders of illness and fragility, was
not a place where one could easily forget their fears. Each day was a battle to stay
positive, to focus on recovery rather than the what-ifs that haunted my mind. Leaving
the hospital was bittersweet. While I was glad to return to the comfort of my home, I
knew that my journey was far from over.
I slowly started to open up about my fears and the trauma I carried. It wasn’t easy, but
with the support of my parents and di, I began to confront the memories and the
anxiety that came with them. They encouraged me to talk, to express what I was
feeling rather than bottling it up inside. Even though di was out there in her college
persuing BAMS, she always tried to find solution for my problem and make me laugh.
The support of my family and friends was a lifeline, but the real work lay ahead. Each
day was a step towards healing, a chance to rebuild my strength and face my fears
head-on.

“Our vision is to realize Arogya Swaraj: People’s Health in

People’s Hands. Empowering individuals and communities to
take charge of their own health, and thereby, help them achieve
freedom from disease as well as dependence.”
– Dr Abhay Bang, Founder, SEARCH

The Society for Education, Action and Research in Community Health (S.E.A.R.C.H.) is a
renowned non-profit organization located in Gadchiroli, Maharashtra. Founded by Dr
Abhay Bang and Dr Rani Bang, S.E.A.R.C.H. has been a pillar of hope and
transformation in rural healthcare. The organization is dedicated to improving the
health and well-being of the tribal and rural population through research, healthcare
delivery, education, and community action.

My Journey with Dr. Aarti Bhang

As I approach S.E.A.R.C.H., the first thing that striked me was the peacefulness of the
surroundings. The campus was set amidst lush greenery, with trees gently swaying in
the breeze and birds chirping in the background. The buildings are modest, designed to
blend into the natural environment rather than stand out. I could observe the buildings
were constructed with locally sourced materials, reflecting the organization’s ethos of
sustainability and harmony with nature.

The atmosphere is one of quiet determination. There was a sense of purpose in the air,
as if every person and every activity is part of a larger mission to improve the health
and lives of the people in the surrounding villages. The staff and volunteers move with
a sense of urgency, but not in a hurried or frantic way—rather, with the quiet
assurance of those who know that their work is both important and impactful.

One thing I noticed was a there were a few of small groups of people—doctors, health
workers, and villagers—engaged in deep conversation, discussing everything from
medical treatments to public health strategies. The exchange of knowledge and ideas
is a constant, fostering an environment of learning and collaboration. Despite the
seriousness of the work, there is an underlying warmth and camaraderie that pervades
the atmosphere. People there greeted each other with genuine smiles, and there was a
sense of community that makes everyone feel welcome.

We learned about Dr Aarti Bhang through S.E.A.R.C.H. Her reputation as a

compassionate and skilled psychiatrist preceded her, and we hoped that she could
provide the support and guidance I needed. So, my dad decided to take me there
which was the best decision ever made for my psychiatric treatment.

As I took a seat in the waiting area, my hands resting nervously on my lap. The room is
quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the occasional rustle of a
newspaper being turned by another patient. The chairs are comfortable enough,
upholstered in neutral tones that blend into the background, meant to be neither too
inviting nor too cold. In the receptionist room a small table holds a neatly arranged
stack of brochures, their titles hinting at the various challenges that bring people
through these doors—anxiety, depression, trauma, stress.

My name was called, breaking through my tangled thoughts, and I stand up, feeling a
mixture of apprehension and determination. The nurse, smiling gently, leads me down
a short hallway, the soft padding of my footsteps on the carpet the only sound. The
pathway feels longer than it is, each step taking me closer to a place I’ve never been—
closer to the start of something new.
From the moment I stepped into her office, there was a sense of calm and
understanding that set her apart. Her office was warm and inviting, filled with
comfortable furniture, soft lighting, and walls adorned with serene artwork. It felt less
like a clinical environment and more like a safe haven.
Dr Bhang greeted me with a warm smile and with a strong tone she said ‘hello’. The
moment I heard her ‘hello’ was the point I realised she was the best psychiatrist I
would ever rely on and I showed her how actually depressed I was as I replied with the
no voice ‘hello’. Her demeanour was both professional and nurturing, immediately
putting me at ease.
“How are you feeling today?” she asked, her voice gentle, yet grounded. It’s a simple
question, but one that carries the weight of why I was here, in this room, in this
moment.
I hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words. It’s hard to sum up what has
brought me to this point, to articulate the tangled web of emotions, thoughts, and
fears that have been swirling inside me. But as I begin to speak, the words come more
easily than I expected. I talk about the anxiety that has been my constant companion,
the sleepless nights, the moments of overwhelming panic that leave me breathless and
scared. I also did describe the weight that sometimes presses down on your chest, the
feeling that something is wrong, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.
Dr Bhang attentively, not interrupting, allowing me to spill out everything I’ve been
holding inside. There was no judgment in her eyes, just understanding and patience.
She nodded occasionally, offering small words of encouragement to keep me going.
She began to ask questions—gentle, probing inquiries that helped me delve deeper
into my own thoughts and feelings. She also guided the conversation with care, helping
me to explore not just the symptoms, but the possible roots of my anxiety. There’s a
sense of discovery in the air, as if together, we’re mapping out a landscape that has
long been shrouded in fog.
She at the end of session summarised, offering some initial thoughts on what might be
happening and suggesting a plan for moving forward. she talked about possible
treatment options—therapy, maybe medication, lifestyle changes—and ask for my
thoughts, making it clear that this is a collaborative process.
As we settled into our first session, she encouraged me to speak freely, assuring me
that this was a space where I could express anything without fear of judgment.
As I left from the office, there’s still a lot of uncertainty ahead, but there’s also a
glimmer of hope. I’ve taken the first step on a journey that will have its ups and downs,
but I was not alone anymore. I have someone walking beside me, helping me navigate
the path toward healing. And as I step out into the world outside, I carry with me the
knowledge that I’ve begun the process of understanding myself in a way that I never
have before.
Over the next few weeks, our sessions became a cornerstone of my routine. Dr Bhang
had a unique way of making me feel heard and understood. She asked insightful
questions, gently guiding me to explore the roots of my anxiety and trauma. Her
approach was holistic, focusing not only on my mental health but also on how it
intertwined with my physical well-being and daily life.
Dr Bhang introduced me to various therapeutic techniques. We practiced mindfulness
and grounding exercises to help me stay present and manage my anxiety. She taught
me cognitive-behavioral strategies to challenge and reframe my negative thoughts.
Each session was a step forward, a new tool in my arsenal to combat the fears that had
taken hold of my life.
Despite the progress we made, the trauma was a stubborn shadow that refused to
fully dissipate. I often found myself slipping back into old patterns, the memories of
that night at the hospital lurking just beneath the surface. There were days when I
would leave her office feeling lighter, hopeful that I was making strides, and then there
were days when I felt like I was back at square one.
One afternoon, after a particularly tough session where we delved deep into my past,
Dr Bhang looked at me with empathy. "It's okay to feel like this," she said softly.
"Healing is not a linear process. It's filled with ups and downs, and it's important to be
kind to yourself through it all."
Her words resonated with me, but the internal struggle was relentless. I still tried to
hide my pain, putting on a brave face for my parents and friends. I didn't want to worry
them more than they already were. The laughter and light-hearted moments I shared
with Di felt genuine, but they were also a mask, a way to deflect from the turmoil
inside.
Dr Bhang saw through the façade. She gently encouraged me to be honest about my
feelings, reminding me that vulnerability was not a weakness but a sign of strength.
"You don't have to carry this burden alone," she said. "Sharing your pain doesn't make
you a burden; it makes you human."
Gradually, I began to open up more, not just in therapy but also with my parents and
di. I told them about my fears, my recurring nightmares, and the constant sense of
unease that lingered. To my surprise, their responses were filled with compassion and
support. My parents assured me that they were there for me every step of the way,
and Di reaffirmed her commitment to being my rock.
Through my sessions with Dr Bhang, I learned that healing was a journey, not a
destination. It required patience, persistence, and the willingness to confront my
deepest fears. There were setbacks, but there were also victories, however small they
might seem.
Dr Bhang remained a pillar of support throughout this process. Her guidance, wisdom,
and unwavering belief in my ability to overcome my struggles were invaluable. She
helped me see that while the trauma might always be a part of my story, it didn't have
to define me.
With time, I found a sense of balance. The anxiety attacks became less frequent, and I
learned to manage my anxiety more effectively. I started to rediscover joy in the little
things, appreciating the moments of peace and happiness that punctuated my days.

In addition to our regular sessions, it might be beneficial to introduce medication to

help manage my anxiety and depression that’s what she suggested since day one. The
idea of taking "happy pills" and antidepressants initially filled me with apprehension. I
worried about becoming dependent on medication, about losing a part of myself to
the drugs.
Dr Bhang explained that medication could provide the stability I needed to fully engage
with the therapeutic process. "It's not about changing who you are," she reassured me,
"but about giving you the support you need to heal."
With her guidance and the careful monitoring of my psychiatrist, I started on a low
dose of an antidepressant and an anti-anxiety medication. Taking 6-8 pills a day isn’t
easy. Each pill feels like a small obstacle, a reminder of the struggle I’m facing. The
routine is hard to establish—some pills need to be taken with food, others on an
empty stomach. Mum was so peculiar about the pills to be taken on the given
schedule, even dad would keep an eye on me while taking pills. Observing this made
me realise my attempt by taking a strip of paracetamol at once was a paranoid
decision. Can’t ignore the fact that it was just an excuse for escapism of reality.
The first few weeks were a period of adjustment. I experienced some side effects—
dizziness, nausea, and occasional fatigue—but these gradually subsided as my body
acclimated to the medication.
To my surprise, the pills did start to make a difference. There was a subtle but
noticeable shift in my mood. The constant, oppressive weight of anxiety that had been
my constant companion began to lift. The sharp edges of my panic attacks dulled, and I
found it easier to breathe, to think, and to engage with the world around me. For the
first time in a long time, I felt a glimmer of hope and a semblance of happiness.
Life began to change in small but significant ways. I started to enjoy activities that I had
previously avoided due to anxiety. I found joy in simple things—morning walks, reading
a book, or just sitting in the park, soaking in the sunlight. The world seemed a bit
brighter, and I felt a bit more like my old self.
My sessions with Dr Bhang became even more productive. With the medication taking
the edge off my anxiety, I was able to delve deeper into my therapy. We tackled some
of the more painful memories and traumas that I had been avoiding. Dr Bhang's
support and the stability provided by the medication allowed me to confront these
issues with a newfound strength.
In one of my therapy sessions, I find myself opening up to her about something I’ve
kept buried for a long time. As I sit in the familiar comfort of her office, the soft light
streaming in through the window, I decide it’s time to share a part of my past that has
been haunting me.
“I was bullied,” I begin, my voice wavering slightly as I look down at my hands,
fidgeting with a loose thread on my sleeve. The words feel heavy, but also liberating, as
they leave my lips. “By my own classmates.”
Dr bhang listens intently, her expression soft and encouraging. She doesn’t interrupt,
allowing me the space to continue.
“They made fun of my voice,” I said, my tone tinged with the hurt that still lingers.
“They said it was too girly, too soft. I was never ‘manly’ enough for them, and they
made sure I knew it.”
I paused, the memories flooding back—those moments in the classroom, in the
hallways, the snickers behind my back, the mocking imitations of my voice, the way
they would exaggerate their own voices around me, trying to make me feel small, out
of place.
“It wasn’t just about my voice,” I continue, my words gaining momentum as I let out
years of pent-up frustration. “It was the way I was—everything about me seemed to be
wrong in their eyes. The way I walked, the things I liked, how I expressed myself. They
laughed at me, called me names, and it felt like I could never escape it. No matter what
I did, I was always the target.”
she nodded, her eyes filled with understanding and empathy. She knows how deeply
such experiences can cut, how they can shape my self-esteem and the way I see the
world.
“It made me feel like there was something wrong with me,” I admitted, my voice
barely above a whisper now. “Like I wasn’t enough, like I didn’t belong. I tried to
change, to fit in, but it never worked. I was always too ‘different.’”
I feel a lump forming in your throat, but I push through, wanting to get it all out. “It
wasn’t just the teasing—it was the isolation. They made me feel alone, like I had no
one. I started to believe the things they said, started to hate the parts of myself that
made me ‘different.’ And that feeling…it never really went away. Even now, it’s like
there’s this voice in my head telling me I’m not good enough, that I’ll never be good
enough.”
Dr bhang lets the silence hang for a moment, giving me the time to collect my
thoughts. She then leans in slightly, her voice gentle but firm. “What you went through
was incredibly painful and unfair. It’s no wonder it still affects you. But I want you to
know that those voices, those hurtful words—they don’t define who you are. You are
so much more than what those bullies tried to make you believe.”

Bully doesn’t happen based of your fair skin complexion, it happens when you are
different or I would say extraordinary. I was the most different guy in the school, I have
watched how my parents struggled to afford my education. I told her the minute
details of what makes me who I am. A kid who used to be happy whenever a relatives
visited our home or how happy I was on every family vacation. But suddenly I go to the
school, sat with a guy and he looks toward me and while having conversation he
noticed my tone my voice and suddenly out of nowhere, within few minutes everyone
gathered around, started to bully me, mock me also made a fun out of me. I had
become the craziest punching bag in school and had no defence to say anything back, I
would try and fail, they would laugh at me. So, then I just gave in, and I started
laughing whenever they used to say anything, I started playing along just to show I’m
cool but inside I used to feel devastated. I was so afraid of telling someone because if I
do so they would again make fun of me mocking that I’m afraid. But somewhere that
help me to become this guy where I can manage my feelings, I can write about it freely
without getting traumatized. So, sixth, seventh eighth, ninth and tenth standard, five
years was so horrible and so mentally draining for me where I used to feel a failure or
like fucked up guy. These were the mentally draining of my life where I could have stop
going to school but could argue or convince my parents to change my school, cause
one way or another it won’t have left me all along.
People do it without realising it sometimes. But it changes you as a human. You
become quieter because you think your opinion will be made fun of.
Hearing those words brought a mix of emotions—relief, validation, and a deep sadness
for the years I spent believing otherwise. But there’s also a glimmer of hope, a sense
that maybe, with time and support, I can start to heal from those wounds.
As I leave the session that day, there’s a weight that was lifted from my chest, even if
just a little. I know the journey ahead won’t be easy, but I also know that by facing
these painful memories, by speaking them out loud and sharing them with someone
who understands, I’m taking another crucial step toward reclaiming my self-worth.
My relationship with my parents and friends also improved. They noticed the change in
me—the way I smiled more easily, how I was more present and engaged in
conversations. Shruti, always the perceptive one, commented on how it was good to
see me enjoying life again. Her words, simple yet heartfelt, resonated deeply with me.
However, it wasn't all smooth sailing. There were still days when the shadows of my
past crept back in, when the trauma and anxiety would rear their heads. But these
instances became less frequent and less intense. The medication was not a cure-all,
but it provided a crucial foundation for my ongoing recovery.
Despite the positive changes, a part of me struggled with the idea of relying on
medication. There were moments of doubt, where I questioned if the happiness, I felt
was truly mine or just a result of the pills. Dr Bhang helped me navigate these feelings,
reminding me that the medication was a tool, not a crutch. "It's okay to need help,"
she would say. "What's important is that you're taking steps to take care of yourself."
As the months passed, I found a new rhythm in life. The combination of therapy and
medication allowed me to build resilience and develop healthier coping mechanisms. I
started to set goals for myself—small, achievable ones at first, then gradually more
ambitious. I returned to school part-time, reconnected with old hobbies, and even
started volunteering at a local animal shelter.
My journey was far from over, but I felt more equipped to handle the challenges
ahead. The "happy pills" and antidepressants played a vital role in my recovery, helping
to stabilize my mood and reduce the intensity of my anxiety. They allowed me to focus
on healing and rebuilding my life, one step at a time.

The day had finally come for me to return to college in Pune. It was a significant
milestone, one that filled me with a mix of excitement, trepidation, and a sense of
resilience I had never felt before. My time with Dr Bhang had equipped me with the
tools to manage my anxiety and the lingering trauma, but the prospect of returning to
hostel life brought back a wave of uncertainty.

My parents were with me as I packed my bags, their worry palpable despite their best
efforts to mask it. Every now and then, I would catch my mom looking at me with tears
welling up in her eyes, and my dad's usual stern demeanour seemed softer, more
fragile. They were proud of my progress, but the fear of me facing another breakdown
weighed heavily on their minds.
The journey to college back in the beginning of the second year was filled with a tense
silence, punctuated by occasional attempts at light conversation. My parents reminded
me to call them every day, to not hesitate to reach out if I needed anything, and to
take things one step at a time. Their support was unwavering, but the fear in their eyes
betrayed their anxiety about what lay ahead.
As we approached the gates of the hostel, a wave of memories washed over me—the
good times with friends, late-night study sessions, and the sense of independence that
college life had brought. But those memories were now tinged with the shadow of my
previous struggles, making the familiar surroundings feel both comforting and
intimidating.
My parents helped me carry my bags to my room. The hostel looked the same as
before, but I felt different. I was more aware of my surroundings, more attuned to the
potential triggers that could set off my anxiety. My roommate, Sarthak, greeted us
warmly, his usual easy-going nature a welcome contrast to the tension in the air.
After we finished unpacking, my parents lingered, reluctant to leave. My mom hugged
me tightly, whispering words of encouragement and love. My dad placed a reassuring
hand on my shoulder, his eyes betraying the fear he tried so hard to conceal.
"We're just a call away," he said, his voice steady but filled with emotion. "Remember,
you've got this. We're proud of you."
As they fade away, I stood on the platform, waving until their train disappeared from
view. I took a deep breath, trying to steady the fluttering in my chest. The hostel felt
both familiar and foreign, a place where I had to redefine my sense of self amidst the
echoes of past experiences.
I took the first step back into my room, determined to face this new chapter with the
strength I had built over the past months. Sarthak and I caught up on everything that
had happened during my absence, his presence a comforting reminder that I wasn’t
alone in this journey.
The first few days were challenging. The routine of classes, the hustle and bustle of
hostel life, and the social interactions—all of it was overwhelming at times. But I held
on to the strategies I had learned from Dr Bhang. I practiced mindfulness, took breaks
when needed, and reminded myself that it was okay to feel anxious.
Despite the fear in my parents' eyes, their support continued to be a source of
strength. They called every evening, their voices a reassuring presence that grounded
me. Shruti also kept in touch, her humour and friendship a balm to my frayed nerves.
There were moments when the anxiety threatened to overwhelm me, but I faced them
head-on, using the tools I had been given. Each day was a small victory, a step towards
reclaiming my life and my sense of normalcy. The trauma still lingered, but it no longer
held me captive. I was learning to coexist with it, to acknowledge its presence without
letting it define me.
Returning to college was both a test and a testament to my resilience. It was a chance
to prove to myself that I could move forward, even amidst the fear and uncertainty.
With the support of my family, friends, and the lessons learned from Dr Bhang, I felt
ready to embrace this new chapter, hopeful for what the future might hold.

Living in the hostel again brought its own set of challenges. My medical condition was
known to the hostel administration, and they were accommodating to the extent
possible, but navigating daily life with a lingering anxiety was a constant battle. The
rigid routines and social dynamics of hostel life, combined with the pressure to fit in
and perform academically, only added to my stress.
The hostel mess, with its bland and unappetizing food, was a daily reminder of my
struggle. Each meal felt like an ordeal, a stark contrast to the comforting and familiar
tastes I longed for. I tried to adapt by finding alternatives—snacking on fruits,
preparing simple dishes in a small electric kettle, and occasionally indulging in takeout.
Despite these efforts, the satisfaction was fleeting, and the lack of variety left me
yearning for something more substantial.
Fortunately, I wasn’t alone in my struggle. My colleagues, who had come to
understand my situation, began to lend a helping hand. They started bringing food for
me, sharing their meals and offering bits of their own culinary creations. These
gestures of kindness were like small rays of sunshine breaking through the clouds of
my anxiety. They provided not just nourishment but a sense of camaraderie and
support that I desperately needed.
Yet, despite these acts of kindness and the efforts I made to manage my condition, the
academic pressures were unrelenting. The coursework was demanding, and the fear of
falling behind loomed large. My anxiety made it difficult to concentrate, and even the
simplest assignments seemed overwhelming. The stress of keeping up with deadlines,
participating in class, and maintaining a semblance of normalcy was draining.
The nights were the hardest. As I lay in my hostel bed, the silence of my room was
occasionally broken by the racing thoughts and the nagging sense of inadequacy that
plagued me. The emotional toll was significant, and though I had my moments of joy
and respite, they were often overshadowed by the persistent anxiety.
Managing my mental health while juggling academic responsibilities was a delicate
balancing act. I sought solace in my therapy sessions with Dr Aarti Bhang, where we
continued to work through the layers of my anxiety and trauma. Her support remained
a crucial part of my journey, helping me develop coping strategies and find moments
of peace amidst the chaos.
In the hostel, I leaned heavily on the support network that had formed around me—
friends who understood my struggles and colleagues who offered practical help and
emotional support. Their presence was a lifeline, providing me with the
encouragement I needed to keep moving forward.
They say, “You need you to fix you but you are not fixed enough to fixed you.”

Even when every little thing around me was supposed to go well, it doesn’t. That’s
what we call it as life. And lately, my life’s been playing pretty unfair game with me.
There came a point when I found myself feeling unwell again. It was as if the weight of
my struggles had caught up with me, dragging me back into a state of discomfort and
fear.
The feeling was subtle at first—just an uneasy sensation, a vague sense that something
was not quite right. But as days passed, the symptoms worsened, and it became clear
that my condition was deteriorating. The decision was made to take me back to the
hospital in Nagpur, a place I had come to associate with both relief and apprehension.

A night ago, when I was supposed to travel back to Nagpur, my dad booked my train
ticket as they said, we are just a call away and they proved it. It was 10 th of September
and I went to Pimpri to visit Pratham, we had good time but out of nowhere I started
to have an ache in my stomach – a punch or ripping a heart from chest might feel the
same I suppose. At the moment I knew I wasn’t well, not enough to stay in Pune, but
for the fact that my illness is causing pain to people around me –especially my parents,
who have no slight of pain in their words but I can watch the agony of tiredness right
through the corneas.

I was headed back to Nagpur. The journey to the hospital was filled with a mix of
emotions. I felt a gnawing anxiety about the unknowns that lay ahead. The familiar
sights of the hospital grounds, the buzz of activity, and the clinical atmosphere
triggered a flood of memories from my previous stay. As we arrived and were greeted
by the medical staff, I was quickly admitted for a series of tests and evaluations.
The results were unsettling. The doctors explained that my condition required a
procedure that was more invasive than anything I had anticipated. Hearing the word
"surgery" was like a punch to the gut. The concept of undergoing such a serious
medical intervention felt overwhelming and surreal. It was a stark reminder that
despite my efforts to manage my anxiety, the physical aspects of my health were also
at play.
The term "surgery" echoed in my mind, bringing with it a cascade of fears and
uncertainties. The idea of being operated on was shocking and initially unacceptable to
me. It felt as if my world had been turned upside down, throwing me into a state of
disbelief. The thought of undergoing a procedure, with all its risks and unknowns, was
daunting and left me grappling with an intense wave of anxiety.
What hurts the most, I was alone – not in hospital but the coping factor with what’s
happening around me had littered the fear of abandoning. Surgery was indeed a
turning point of my life.
 2.
The surgery journey

How would you imagine a boy who had ‘a type of surgery’ which is very rare at his age,
irrespective of the fact about what have had happened with him since childhood. Yet,
he accepted the cause for the surgery.

It had become clear that my physical condition had deteriorated beyond what could be
managed with medication alone. The doctors had delivered the news with a clinical
detachment, their faces masked with professional concern. To me, however, their
words felt like a thunderclap in an otherwise calm sky—a jarring, disruptive force that
shattered my sense of normalcy.
It took us two months to find an exact cause and a good surgeon of my diagnosis. A
dull ache in my abdomen, a discomfort that was easy to dismiss at first. I told myself it
was probably something minor—a bad meal, a bit of stress—but as the days turned
into weeks, the pain didn’t go away. It grew worse, slowly but surely, until it became a
constant, gnawing presence that I couldn’t ignore.
For two long months, I lived with that pain. It was like carrying a heavy, invisible
burden, one that made every day feel a little harder than the last. The pain wasn’t just
physical; it seeped into my thoughts, my mood, my very sense of well-being. It was
always there, a reminder that something wasn’t right, something was wrong inside me,
but I didn’t know what.
The search for answers felt endless. I along with my parents, visited doctors, explained
my symptoms, went through test after test—blood work, ultrasounds, scans. But each
time, the results were inconclusive. The doctors would furrow their brows, puzzled,
and I would leave their offices with more questions than answers. The frustration was
overwhelming. How could something that hurt so much remain a mystery?
As the pain worsened, it began to take over my entire life. Simple tasks became
monumental challenges. Eating became a gamble—sometimes it made the pain worse,
sometimes it brought a brief moment of relief. Sleep was hard to come by; the pain
kept me awake, gnawing at my insides, making the nights feel endless. The days
blurred together each one marked by the same relentless ache.
The people around me tried to help, offering advice, remedies, their concern evident in
their eyes. But it was hard to explain to them what I was going through. How the fuck
was I supposed to put into words the feeling of my own body betraying me, the
exhaustion that comes from fighting a battle against an unseen enemy? It was
isolating, this pain that no one could fully understand or diagnose.
Finally, after two months of what felt like an eternity, there was a breakthrough. A
specialist, after reviewing all the tests and listening to my story, suggested one more
scan—something different, more detailed. It was during this scan that they finally
found it: the cause of your pain, the culprit that had been eluding everyone.
The diagnosis was clear now, and the solution, though daunting, was straightforward:
surgery. The relief of finally having an answer was immense, but it was mixed with
fear.
Life has a way of throwing curveballs when you least expect them. For me, the
curveball came in the form of a diagnosis that would lead to surgery, an experience I
had never imagined I would face
My discomfort had escalated from a mild annoyance to a debilitating pain that
interfered with my daily life. I had been so focused on managing my anxiety and
navigating my therapy sessions with Dr Aarti Bhang that I hadn’t fully acknowledged
the severity of the physical symptoms I was experiencing. I also had a few of
physiotherapy along with my depression therapy.
The news that I needed surgery came as a shock. It was a term I had only ever
associated with extreme conditions or life-threatening situations, not with something
that seemed as manageable as my abdominal pain. the scenes in the room of body
scanning and MRI were subtle and the examiner just gave me a side eye, making me
feel guilty about something which was about to happen. After what have had felt like
an impossible task, we collected the reports and headed back to doctor’s office. Now,
the room was filled with tension and the expression on his face was the proof that I
was having something unusual but also a sense of satisfaction that the cause of pain
has been discovered. The word “surgery” was mentioned, and suddenly, my entire
world felt like it was unraveling.
I remember sitting in the doctor’s office, listening to the detailed explanation of the
procedure. The doctor spoke in clinical terms, outlining the necessity of the surgery to
address the issue. To me, it felt like a foreign language. My mind was racing, trying to
reconcile this new reality with the life I had been leading. The initial reaction was one
of disbelief—how could something as routine as a diagnosis lead to such an extreme
measure?
The Internal Conflict

The realization that I needed surgery was accompanied by an intense internal struggle.
On one hand, there was the rational understanding that the procedure was necessary
for my health and well-being. On the other hand, there was a deep-seated fear and
resistance to the idea. The thought of being cut open, of undergoing an invasive
procedure, was more than I could bear. It was not just the physical aspect that terrified
me but also the emotional and psychological implications.
I found myself trapped in a vortex of anxiety. The concept of surgery felt like a violation
of my body, an invasion that I was unprepared to face. The more I thought about it, the
more I felt like I was spiral into a zone of stress that I couldn’t escape. The mental
image of being in an operating room, surrounded by masked figures and medical
equipment, was both terrifying and overwhelming.
The fear of surgery was compounded by a deep sense of shame and denial. I struggled
with the idea of accepting that my condition had reached a point where surgery was
necessary. It felt like a personal failure, a defeat in my ongoing battle with my health. I
was caught in a paradox where I knew that the surgery was necessary, yet I couldn’t
bring myself to accept it.
One of the hardest aspects of this journey was the need to share the news with those
around me. I had always been someone who tried to maintain a brave front, even
when things were difficult. The thought of telling my other family members about the
surgery felt like a betrayal of my own attempt to appear strong and in control.
The conversations with friends were equally difficult. I didn’t want to burden them
with my fears and anxieties. The thought of explaining the situation, of admitting that I
was not coping as well as I had led them to believe, was painful. I found myself
avoiding conversations, deflecting inquiries about my health, and creating elaborate
excuses to keep the true nature of my situation hidden.
In an attempt to shield those around me from the harsh reality, I resorted to
deception. I downplayed my symptoms, created stories about minor health issues that
didn’t reflect the seriousness of my condition, and generally tried to project an image
of someone who was managing well. This deception was not just about hiding the
surgery but also about maintaining a semblance of normalcy in my interactions.
The act of deceiving others was draining. It required constant effort to remember the
lies I had told, to keep up appearances, and to avoid situations that might reveal the
truth. The emotional toll of this deception was significant. I felt isolated, disconnected
from the very people who cared about me. The fear of being found out, of having to
confront the reality of my situation, created a constant undercurrent of stress.
Yet, I manage to deceit above the name of my surgery to everyone. Moreover, some
people were genuinely concerned so they started to dig in the matter. And apparently,
I started to tell the truth to my loved one’s only.

Di, on the other hand was fully aware about what I was experiencing. How can’t she
be, after all, she is a doctor. Though she was in her final year and was having her
exams, yet, she read the numerous research paper based on my surgery, collecting the
data and the odds for the surgery. I could literally sense the normalcy in her voice with
a smoothing tone, where she explained everything in detail. There were times when
we both used to have our late nights talks where she calming used to handle my
anxiety and prepared me for the surgery, mentally.

How time flies, I used to hate her (not really), and now, she is the one making me calm
and understanding the depth of my condition. Every time I look back, I remember we
never really shared a good bond, we were the siblings, who was always ready to fight
with each other like a WWE match, saying rubbish things to each other. But now, here
we are supporting each other, prioritizing our bond and working on it.

Moment of truth
The thought of sharing the truth with my friends and even with some family members
filled me with dread. How could I explain a condition that was so intimate and
personal? The embarrassment and fear of judgment were too much to bear. So, I
decided to lie.

I told them I had varicose veins, a condition that was more common and less
stigmatized. Varicose veins were something people could easily understand and
sympathize with, and it allowed me to avoid the uncomfortable questions and probing
curiosity that I feared would come with the truth.

The deception required constant vigilance. I had to remember the details of my

fabricated story, ensuring that my explanations remained consistent. The fear of being
caught in my lie added an additional layer of stress to an already overwhelming
situation. But it felt like the lesser of two evils compared to the vulnerability of
revealing the true nature of my condition.

Maintaining the deception was exhausting. Every interaction with my friends felt like
navigating a minefield. Simple questions about my health required careful answers,
and casual conversations about recovery had to be meticulously crafted to fit the
narrative I had created.

Here’s what have had really happened.

After a series of tests and consultations, the doctors delivered the news: I had a
varicocele. This condition, characterized by enlarged veins in the scrotum, was not only
painful but also carried implications for my future health. The word "surgery" was
mentioned, and I felt my world tilt on its axis. The prospect of undergoing such a
personal and invasive procedure was daunting.
At 19 years old, the idea of dealing with a condition like varicocele felt overwhelming.
It was a topic shrouded in embarrassment and fear. The implications for my sexual
health were particularly distressing. I had always been private about that aspect of my
life, and now it felt like my privacy was being stripped away.
How could anyone be so comfortable with a surgery, no one had ever heard of, yet
trying to cope with the situation and not showing the traces of past traumas – the
sleepless nights, overthinking mind with numerous of thoughts, and unable to control
them.

Each time I looked in the mirror, I saw a person who was hiding, someone who couldn’t
face the truth. The deceit was just a way to protect myself, but it had become a prison
of my own making. The support and understanding I desperately needed felt out of
reach because I couldn’t bring myself to tear down the walls I had built for numerous
months.

As I sit down to write this memoir, the weight of my experiences feels both liberating
and crushing. Putting these words on paper means confronting the truth,
acknowledging the lies, and accepting the consequences of my actions. It’s a process
that requires brutal honesty and a willingness to face the very emotions I’ve been
trying to avoid.
Writing about my deceit is particularly challenging. It forces me to relive the moments
of fear and shame, to remember the faces of my friends as I lied to them, and to
acknowledge the pain I caused myself by not being truthful. It’s a reminder of the
isolation I felt, the barriers I erected, and the support I denied myself.
Yet, writing this memoir is also a step towards healing. It’s a way to unburden myself
from the weight of the lies, to share my true story, and to find a sense of closure. It’s
an opportunity to connect with others who might be facing similar struggles, to let
them know they are not alone, and to encourage them to find the courage to be
honest.
Looking back, I realize that the decision to deceive my friends was driven by fear—fear
of judgment, fear of vulnerability, and fear of the unknown. In trying to protect myself,
I only deepened my sense of isolation and pain. The lie became a barrier to the very
support and understanding I needed.
If I could go back, I would choose honesty. I would trust that the people who cared
about me would offer support and understanding, even if the truth was
uncomfortable. I would allow myself to be vulnerable, to share my fears and anxieties,
and to accept the help and compassion that were available to me.
The Emotional Rollercoaster

"You'll need surgery," he said, his voice calm and reassuring, but the word "surgery"
echoed ominously in my mind. Varicocelectomy—a procedure I had never heard of
before—was now my immediate future, and it was to be done in Nagpur.

As I left the doctor's office, my mind was a whirlwind. Thoughts raced and collided,
leaving me breathless and disoriented. "Why me?" "What if something goes wrong?"
"How will I manage the pain?" Each question fed into my growing anxiety. I tried to
focus on the doctor’s reassurances, but the idea of surgery was terrifying. My family
was there, offering support and comfort, but even their presence couldn't quiet the
storm inside my head.

I didn’t understand this earlier – actions speak louder than words, until the news of
surgery came. I, have always seeked my parent’s validation my entire life and always
associated their words to how they feel about me. And to be honest I felt like a failure.
But while dealing with the circumstances and seeing them helping and calming me
down with actions and words is so reassuring.

In the following days, I immersed myself in information about varicocele and the
surgical procedure. Every article I read brought a mix of relief and new worries. "It’s a
common procedure," I reminded myself. "The success rates are high." But then I’d
stumble upon stories of complications and extended recovery periods. The more I
read, the more I felt trapped in a cycle of hope and dread.

Conversations with my family and friends became my lifeline. They listened patiently
as I voiced my fears. "What if I don’t wake up from the anesthesia? "What if the
surgery doesn’t work?" Their reassurances helped, but only temporarily. At night,
when I was alone with my thoughts, the doubts would creep back in. Pratham, staying
in Pune, use to call me every evening. His words were a comfort, but the distance
between us made me feel even more isolated.

I wasn’t ready to accept the surgery I was going to have. So, in order to avoid it I asked
for second opinion to other doctors. My reports were being send to numerous doctors,
in different cities being different specialists. Yet, the answer to it never changed.
Finally, somehow, I gathered my courage, I was ready. Though, I was never ready to
have a surgery on the first place but I had no choice.

As the surgery date approached, my anxiety reached its peak. My mind was a
battleground of conflicting thoughts. "You need this surgery to get better," I told
myself. But then, "What if something goes terribly wrong?" The fear of the unknown
was paralyzing. I tried to distract myself with work, hobbies, and spending time with
loved ones, but nothing could completely silence the cacophony of worries in my head.

In the last couple of days before the surgery, there were brief moments of clarity. I
realized that my fear was natural, and that acknowledging it was the first step toward
overcoming it. "You’ve faced challenges before," I reminded myself. "You can handle
this too." My family’s unwavering support gave me strength. They helped me prepare,
both physically and mentally, creating a sense of normalcy amidst the chaos.

Pratham called one last time before the big day, his voice a soothing balm to my
nerves. "You've got this," he said, and for the first time, I felt like maybe I did.

The evening before my varicocelectomy, I stood outside the hospital with my parents.
The sky was a deep shade of twilight, and the cool breeze did little to calm the storm
raging inside me. As we walked through the hospital doors, the sterile smell of
disinfectant and the bright fluorescent lights made the reality of my situation
inescapable. My heart pounded in my chest, and my mind raced with a thousand
thoughts, each more anxious than the last.

The reception area was bustling with activity. Nurses moved with practiced efficiency,
families whispered in hushed tones, and patients sat with varying degrees of
apprehension. We approached the front desk, where a kind-faced nurse greeted us.
My parents handled the case paper while I stood there, feeling a mix of fear and
detachment. "This is really happening," I thought, my stomach churning.
The thing I never thought would happen, was supposed to be done now. Signing my
own consent form. I was shattered from inside while signing it, how could I not be,
anyways? When I was handed the surgery consent form, everything became real. The
clinical language and the risks listed in black and white made the gravity of the
situation hit me. With the pen in hand, I hesitated, my mind racing through the pain,
sleepless nights, and the uncertainty I would endure. I thought about the future, free
from suffering, and the people who had supported me.
Taking a deep breath, I signed my name. The act felt heavy, but it was a declaration of
my courage and resolve to reclaim my life. As I handed the form back, fear mixed with
relief—I had made my choice and was ready to face whatever came next.

Once the formalities were done, we were escorted to the pre-operative ward. The
nurse spoke in soft, reassuring tones, explaining each step of the process. Her calm
demeanour was a small comfort, but it did little to quiet the anxiety that gnawed at
me.
The room I was assigned was small and private but clean, with a bed, a chair, and a
bedside table. As I changed into the hospital gown, I felt a sense of vulnerability. The
gown was loose and thin, a stark contrast to the comfort of my clothes. I looked at my
parents, who tried to mask their worry with smiles. They encouraged me with words of
strength, but their eyes betrayed their concern.
A nurse entered the room with a clipboard and a warm smile. She introduced herself
and began the pre-operative preparations. She took my vitals—blood pressure,
temperature, heart rate—explaining each step as she went. Her voice was soothing,
but my mind was still racing. "What if something goes wrong?" "Am I ready for this?"
Next came the blood draw. I had always been squeamish about needles, and tonight
was no different. The nurse was gentle and efficient, but I couldn't help but wince as
the needle pierced my skin. She applied a small bandage and gave me a reassuring pat
on the arm. "Just a few more steps," she said, her smile never wavering.
Another nurse arrived to start the IV line. She explained that it was to keep me
hydrated and to administer medications. The cold sensation of the IV entering my vein
was strange and uncomfortable. "This is for your own good," I reminded myself, but
the rational thoughts were often drowned out by my fears.

As the night progressed, the anesthesiologist came to visit. He was calm and confident,
explaining the process of anesthesia in a way that was meant to be reassuring. He
asked about my medical history, any allergies, and if I had any concerns. I had many
concerns, but I tried to focus on his words. "You’ll be asleep the whole time," he said.
"You won’t feel a thing." I nodded, hoping to draw some strength from his confidence.

As I lay in the hospital bed, the hum of the medical equipment and the distant sounds
of the hospital night shift were my only companions. My mind was still a battlefield of
thoughts. "Will I be, okay?" "What if something goes wrong?" But amidst the turmoil,
there was a flicker of resolve. "You’ve come this far," I told myself. "You can do this."
The sedative finally began to take full effect, and my eyelids grew heavy. As I drifted off
to sleep, I clung to the thought of my parents’ reassuring smiles and Di’s promise that
everything would be okay. The night before my surgery was a journey through fear and
uncertainty, but it was also a testament to the strength I didn't know I had. With the
dawn would come a new challenge, but for now, I allowed myself to rest, knowing that
I was not alone in this fight.

The alarm went off at 6:00 AM, piercing through the hazy veil of sleep induced by the
sedative. My parents were already up, their faces etched with a mix of worry and
encouragement. The hospital room felt even colder and more sterile in the early
morning light. Today was the day.

The nurse came in promptly, her demeanour efficient yet kind. She helped me prepare,
checking my IV, taking my vitals one last time, and explaining the steps ahead. My
parents stood by my side, their presence a constant source of comfort.
“You’ll be fine,” my mother whispered, her eyes moist but her voice steady. My father
squeezed my hand, his strength a silent message of support.
By 6:30 AM, I was being wheeled down the long corridors towards the operating room.
The fluorescent lights overhead blurred together as I stared up at them, trying to focus
on anything but the fear gnawing at my insides. The nurse accompanying me talked
softly, her words a gentle distraction.
The operating room was a flurry of activity. Doctors and nurses moved with practiced
precision their voices low but purposeful. The anesthesiologist greeted me again, his
calm presence a small island of reassurance amidst the chaos.
The surgical table in the centre looked stark and mechanical, with its metal frame and
sterile, white sheets. I was supposed to lie down on it, with the green dress the
handled me earlier. I was really mesmerised by the OR, every small detail it holds.
Mostly, we all have seen the red light outside the OR and it was lighted when I was in
there. There were machines with blinking lights, and trays of meticulously arranged
surgical instruments. As the anesthesiologist and surgeons along with helping nurses
were there, as if they are fully confident about their surgical plan. The anesthesiologist
with the long needle, asked me to be in the fetus position for delivering the anesthesia.
“We’re going to take good care of you,” he said, his eyes kind behind his mask. “You’ll
be asleep in no time.”

Surgeons were really kind and looking towards them gave me a belief of their
precision. While the long-pointed needle was dwelling inside my spine, I was slowly
losing my conscious, yet I remember the questions I was being asked by the surgeons.
As the anesthesia was administered, a sense of drowsiness quickly washed over me.
My last coherent thought was a silent prayer for everything to go smoothly, and then
the darkness took over.

The surgery itself, I would later learn, went as planned. The doctors worked
meticulously, addressing the varicocele with practiced expertise. Time seemed to stand
still in the operating room, but for me, it was as if no time had passed at all. The next
thing I knew, I was waking up in the recovery room.

It was during this hazy period of semi-consciousness that I heard a familiar voice.
“Hey buddy, it’s Aditya. I’m here.”
I couldn’t open my eyes, couldn’t move, but I could hear him. His voice was a lifeline,
pulling me out of the fog. He spoke softly, his words a soothing balm.
“You did great. The surgery went well. Just rest now, we’re all here for you.”
Even in my groggy state, I felt a surge of relief. Aditya had kept his promise and come
to see me. His voice was a connection to the world outside this sterile, clinical space. I
wanted to respond, to let him know I could hear him, but my body refused to
cooperate. Instead, I just listened, letting his words wash over me.
I tried to move, to adjust, but my limbs were sluggish and uncooperative. The
sensation of pain triggered something in me, a primal instinct to react, but my mind
wasn’t clear enough to make sense of it. So, I shouted on everyone present in the
room and asked not to touch me. For my wonder, no one was even beside me, they
were sitting on the sofa far away from my bed. Yet, I felt something and spoke
something gibberish. Everyone laughed and was happy.
Before I knew it, I was mumbling—words spilling out of my mouth without me fully
realizing what I were saying. They didn’t make much sense, a mix of half-formed
thoughts and incoherent sounds. I tried to express that something was wrong, that
something was hurting, but the words came out garbled, disconnected from the
coherent thoughts in my mind. It was as though your brain was still waking up,
struggling to bridge the gap between what I wanted to say and what I could actually
communicate.
The medical staff around me, recognizing my confusion, responded quickly. I felt gentle
hands on my arm, heard soothing voices telling me that everything was okay, that the
surgery was over and I was safe. But even as they reassured me, I kept mumbling, the
discomfort still pressing at the edges of my awareness.
As the minutes passed, the fog in my mind began to lift, and the nonsensical words
gave way to clearer thoughts. The pain was still there, but it was more manageable
now, less urgent. I started to become more aware of where I was—back in the
recovery room, surrounded by the familiar sounds and sights of the hospital. The
anesthesia’s grip on me was loosening, and with it, the sense of confusion and
disorientation began to fade.
The embarrassment of having spoken nonsense lingered in the back of my mind, but it
was overshadowed by the relief that the worst was over. I was groggy, sore, and still a
bit out of it, but I was also safe, awake, and on the other side of the surgery.
Eight hours later, I finally woke up fully, my eyes heavy but open. My parents were
there, their faces lighting up with relief.
“Good morning” dad said, his smile warm and genuine, with a hint of sweet sarcasm.
“How are you feeling?” my mum asked, brushing a stray lock of hair from my forehead.
The pain was still there, but it was manageable. More than anything, I felt an
overwhelming sense of gratitude for the support around me.
“Aditya was here,” I croaked, my voice weak but steady.
My mother nodded, smiling. “He left just a little while ago. He said he’ll be back soon.”

Adjusting to Bed Rest

Being confined to bed was a new and frustrating experience. The simple act of moving
sent waves of pain through my body. The doctors advised minimal movement to aid
healing, so I had to rely on my parents for everything, from meals to bathroom breaks.
Despite the discomfort, I found solace in small things - the sunlight streaming through
the window, the sound of my parents’ voices, and a visit to doctor. My maternal uncle
brought me fruits, juices, and even gave me some really awesome playlist to listen to
music.

By the third day, we had established a routine. My mother prepared light, nutritious
meals, ensuring I stayed hydrated and well-nourished. My maternal aunt, who
pampered me as a child, now has a duty and continue to helped with my hygiene,
gently cleaning around the surgical area and making sure I was comfortable. Pain
medication helped manage the worst of the discomfort, though it often left me
drowsy.
Pratham’s continued to call me at every evening, his absence was not a welcome
distraction. Shruti also shared stories from school via video calls, making me laugh and
momentarily forget the pain. “Remember that time we got lost on our way to some
place?” she recounted one evening, bringing a smile to my face.

Gradually, the pain began to lessen, and I started to feel more like myself. I could sit up
for short periods, supported by pillows, and even managed a few cautious steps
around the room with my father’s help. These small victories boosted my spirits and
reassured me that I was on the path to recovery.
The daily visit to doctor’s office, checking on my progress and answering our questions.
“You’re healing well,” he assured me. “Just keep resting and taking it easy.”
By the end of the week, I felt a noticeable improvement. The pain had subsided to a
manageable level, and I could move more comfortably. The doctor gave me the green
light to start light activities and to gradually increase my mobility.
My parents, who had been my pillars of strength, were visibly relieved. My mother’s
eyes shone with unshed tears of joy. “You’re doing great,” she said, her voice thick
with emotion
The first week of recovery was a rollercoaster of pain, frustration, and gradual healing.
It tested my patience and resilience but also highlighted the incredible support system
I had in my family and friends. Their care, encouragement, and unwavering presence
were the bedrock of my recovery.
In those seven days, I learned to appreciate the small victories and the importance of
leaning on loved ones during tough times. The journey was far from over, but I felt
stronger and more hopeful, knowing that I wasn’t alone in facing the challenges ahead.
Looking back, the surgery had been a mountain I was terrified to climb, but with the
support of my loved ones, I had made it to the other side. The journey had been
fraught with fear and uncertainty, but it had also revealed to me the depth of my own
resilience and the strength of the bonds I had with those who cared about me.
In the end, the experience was not just about the physical healing, but also about
understanding the power of love and support in overcoming life’s toughest challenges.
 3.
The Idea
It all started with me trying to let go all of my fears of holding everything inside me. I
never believed myself even when everyone around me can see the potential I hold. So
here I am telling something which was never supposed to be told. I thought.

Hey, I’m Vedant Tarak but my surname is more famous than my name. obviously.

And I am depressed.

Well, I’m not. Speaking of otherwise, I would have been rot in hell living the most
miserable life (which everyone feels when they are depressed). I would be listening sad
songs - mostly Lofi, emotional stories and black snaps. To be honest, I have never sent
any black snap with some rubbish emoji in my entire life. (Here, ‘in my entire life’ will
be referring to the life I’m living right now at the age of 20.

It’s now been a while I’m feeling happy. And by being happy I mean happy from inside.
A year ago, I committed suicide. I won’t lie. I promise. It was hard, not ordinarily but it
was tough for me back then. I had carrier crisis, existential crisis, unstable mental
health and loneliness.

I was not alone. I was lonely, I had people around me and they were people, who
couldn’t do anything. Nothing’s more than abusing me or saying something which hits
a nerve at the moment I was feeling everything.

They never changed. I did.

Back to square one, this time when I was at the home, I had the best time I could ever
imagine, around my parents and all the relatives I encountered this time. Now being
surrounded by the people I hated since my childhood was a tough thing to be with and
I managed it pretty well.
I would love to mention an old grumpy lady of all time amongst our kins. Everyone
hates her, she’s literally a kind of lady who would scold anyone she thinks I wrong in
her way. And by ‘her way’ I mean the useless way. She is my father’s maternal aunt
and somehow, I have to respect her because of her few virtues to my father. When my
granny had her divorce with my grandpa, Mai (my granny) came back all her way back
to Gadchiroli (unfortunately my home town) to seek help from her brother, Mai had
nothing and the grumpy lady provided the shelter and food to my Mai, Dad and my
uncle for more than 9 years. My family is grateful towards her and I guess, it’s a valid
thing but, why should I be anyways?

We both share a good sarcastic bond in between us. She says something which makes
me say some other things which provokes her and she gets easily offended. I love
when she gets offended by my pleasant words. And how could someone not be?

Ironically, back then in my toddler phase I couldn’t even utter a single word. Eventually
my parents thought I was dumb and mute. I wasn’t DUMB.

I just had no will to talk to anyone. Why should I anyways?

These holidays were something new for me, I was there. Living. Mostly I tend to run
away from my own home but not this time. I cooked. I danced. I sung. I lived.

For this time going back to home wasn’t just a thing, it was a feeling. It really was a
home to me. Maybe this is because I’m glad to have parents like mom and dad and
these changes came with the consequences for what I did last year.

Yeah, you guessed it right ‘My suicide attempt’.

They became very cautious about me since then. They now preserve me instead of
pampering.

Okay fine, I accept I’m pampered since my childhood. And there’s a very specific
reason for it, I guess. I was a first born, boy child in my family and everyone loved me.

What a LIE.

Nobody loved me since I was born, except my mom which is obvious. My dad and
uncle were so busy in their business that they didn’t had time for me. That could not
have been the case if my elder sister wasn’t the one they needed the most.

She got all the love she deserves. May be more than she deserves. I’m not jealous I’m
just spitting the fact. But now its opposite, I am loved the most, and as mum always
says , I’m her shining star.

She used to tie a rope to my leg and the other end was tied to her waist so that I
should not go crawling away. As she was the only one who looked after me and there
were no one who could do it.
My mom is the most theist person I ever know (in a positive way). So once there was a
thing in my hometown, a boy from I guess Akalkot who is believed to be the avatar to
Swami Samarth was good at telling fortune to people.

Obviously, I was taken there to figure what I was supposed to do in my life. There was
a long queue and everyone is waiting for their chance and I was looking at people
having to get their satisfied answer with a smile on a face, coming out from the room
where the boy was. Of course I don’t believe in such things. I wanted to shout out loud,
telling people that this is rubbish and nothing like this is accepted by the universe.

I wasn’t able to believed how my parents were going along with such superstitious
thing, later I figured that they were told by some relatives to take me to that boy.

He was around 12-14 years old and I was 16. They moment I saw him, it was true that
he really resembles alike Swami Samarth. I sat in front of him and begun to ask me
various question like ‘what’s my name?’ ‘what’s my age?’, ‘what do I do for living?’ but
this is something everyone knows about me. But then there comes a question to which
what I answered was more shocking. He asked me, “Child what do you want to
become in your life?” I replied, “I wish to become a Writer.”

Everyone in the room got silence. My parents were shocked as if I said I wanted to be a
Mafia. Though speaking of Mafia which doesn’t go well with my personality.

The boy examined me thoroughly about the fact that I really wanted to become a
writer. Maybe a part of him also thinks that I can’t be a writer. Anyways here I am
writing my story as a part of something which should never be written.

After what felt like an eternity, I was taken straight back to home. I can see the furious
eyes of dad waiting for an explanation for what I said earlier.

He just asked me one question, “What is the scope for a writer?”. I was speechless, I
couldn’t even utter a single word. This made me believe that I fucked up. Not only their
expectations but their ambitions which they hold for me. I can see the disappointment
right in the corneas of his eyes. My mom was shattered knowing that I couldn’t live up
to their expectations but that’s not who I want to become.

Even in 21st century, very few or I would like to say rare writers are emerging in India. I
couldn’t even name a handful of them when he asked me to name few of them whom I
know. They were either dead or some of them were fiction based.

Since that day I knew I have to find a job in such a sector where being a writer is a side
hustle.

I choose ENGINEERING.
I wonder how it feels like betraying your parent expectations, how to tell them there’s
nothing else I’m interested in doing at?

I wanna shout out loud!!!

This is my inner peace, even though it may be imperfect, but is better than something
I’m trying to do perfectly. I don’t wanna strive to become what I am not.

Let me put this simply, my energy for what I have to achieve in my life is a contribution
to achieve my ambition, right? then how do you expect from your child to live up on
your expectation.

The matter of fact I wanna shout out loud to every parent out there is, “don’t make
your expectations, as your child’s ambition”.

I had fights, constantly – repeatedly – exaggerating numerous times with my parents.

Like every other brown child, I had trauma when it comes to build a career after a
certain age in juveniles.

If you ask me how it feels to fight for what I deserve, I would say it’s more like
suffocating. Well, suffocation has its own level of agony. Firstly, it’s like wearing a mask
that’s slowly suffocating me, and the more I try to keep up, the more I feel myself
slipping away. I just want to be accepted for who I am, but I’m terrified that without
this facade, I’ll be left behind.

Secondly, even when I’m at home, I can’t escape the nagging feeling that I’m not
enough. My parents don’t understand what it’s like—they tell me to just be myself, but
they don’t see how impossible that feels. Every time I think about standing up for who I
really am, I get this knot in my stomach. The fear of ridicule, the whispers behind my
back, the possibility of losing myself—it all holds me back.

Convincing my parents to let me pursue something I truly love feels like navigating a
delicate tightrope. My heart races as I imagine their faces, a mix of skepticism and
concern, when I share my dreams with them. I understand their desire for stability and
their fear of the unknown, but every fibre of my being yearns to follow my passion. It's
not just a hobby for me; it's what makes me feel alive and purposeful. I’ve rehearsed
my arguments countless times, trying to find the right balance between expressing my
genuine enthusiasm and addressing their worries. The thought of disappointing them
weighs heavily on my mind, yet I can’t shake the feeling that settling for anything less
than my true calling would be a betrayal to myself. I hope they can see my
determination, feel my conviction, and trust that, despite the risks, this path is where I
am meant to be.

Once my therapist advices my dad to make more memories with me. I feel after a point
where you look back and see the footprint left by your parents is what makes us feel
contented about them. Just for matter of fact it’s really an important thing for them to
do. We’ve travelled a lot and that’s my compassion and desire to explore more than I
got.

“How the fuck I’m supposedly choose a career option from the bare minimum
knowledge of any sector, or field in view for scope?”

Brown parents tend to rely on two utmost career option for their child, either a Doctor
or an Engineer. I mean how do they even possibly can’t see the other options, there’s
lot more to explore than to settle on something that’s not even a choice. Unlike,
foreigner the white kids got birth right to do possibly everything they wish.

While the intentions behind such pressures often stem from love and a desire to
ensure their children’s success and happiness, it’s important for parents to recognize
and respect their children’s individual talents, interests, and passions. A fulfilling career
is not solely defined by prestige or financial stability but also by personal satisfaction
and happiness. Open communication and understanding can help bridge the gap
between parental expectations and children’s aspirations.

Medicine and Engineering are often seen as a stable and lucrative career. Perhaps,
those aren’t the dreams of many people. Parents believe these professions will provide
their children with financial stability and a secure future. “How could life be fair by
doing what we never dreamt of?”

“How can YOU possibly write a book? you got nothing in your mind. Talentless!”

“Don’t waste your fucking time writing something shitty”

“Are you out of your mind, writing won’t fulfil your necessity”

“Why would be anyone interested in your book?”

“Focus on your studies, then think about writing a book!”

Criticism was all I got. What hurts more was there’s no one who ever truly believed in
my writing.

I’m kind of an old school person who likes writing note and sticking it by the side of
study table, door of fridge and small adoring notes to the loved ones. But I guess
nobody cares enough to see that it actually reflects a thing about me. Those above
sentences were the spoken by my closed ones. Perhaps it made my ambitions stronger
than it ever was about anything, but back in the head I still lack support. Support – just
by being there EMOTIONALLY.

Nevertheless, I got myself and that’s enough for me.

‘My toxic trait’

Wanting no help because I can do everything by myself. Then feeling overwhelmed

that I have no help.

That’s not a toxic trait, let me explain. It is actually a mechanism of self-defence for
those who grow up to parents that were never entirely satisfied with what was
delivered by their kids, meaning they were constantly increasing their personal
standards to please people at home- and never really had a chance to trust anyone to
do their job. Another explanation would be that parents were so busy doing whatever
it is that they were doing with their lives, that they would pay no mind to their kids and
these constantly found themselves doing their parents job by raising themselves. Sad,
but understandable.

Not only in reference to parents but also to friends with whom I grew up, or were
there in my journey and then suddenly have had lost the connection, but it was never a
two-way thing. It was always me who was the looser at the end, no one could ever
withstand the possible consequences that came along with abandonedness.

The realization that I had lost their support was like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t just
the absence of their presence that hurt, but the crushing weight of feeling abandoned
and misunderstood. I questioned everything—my actions, my worth, my place in their
lives. Each day felt like a struggle to keep my head above water, the waves of doubt
and despair threatening to pull me under.

In the silence that followed, I learned to listen to the echoes of my own strength. I
began to understand that support, while invaluable, cannot define our worth or
determine our resilience. The journey ahead was daunting, the path unclear, but I
knew I had to find my footing again, to rebuild the foundation that had crumbled
beneath me.

It’s about the strength we find within ourselves when all other sources of support fall
away, and the unexpected allies we meet along the way. This is my story of falling,
rising, and ultimately, soaring beyond the loss.

They say before something great happens to you, everything falls apart. Cause I feel
my life has been falling apart for the past six years! And it kinda falling apart a little
more. Like that Oreo biscuit you leave in milk too long, you know its soggy, you start to
pull it out before the chuck falls off into the milk, but still doesn’t?!

Every single time I feel like my life is falling apart it opens the door to an upgrade. Now,
I don’t resist and accept gracefully but with the fear of upcoming storms stays deep
inside me. I am always thankful because I know what comes next will always be better.
I think it happens because we need to switch perspectives and appreciation an
upgrade. The more you resist the more shocking it gets.
 “Me out of all people?”

“What if everything you are going through is preparing you for what you asked for?”

There comes a moment in your life when everything feels overwhelming. You’re facing
challenge after challenge, and it seems like the world is testing you in ways you never
imagined. There’s this constant struggle, whether it’s with your health, your emotions,
or just trying to keep up with the demands of everyday life. The weight of it all presses
down on you, and you can’t help but wonder why things are so difficult.

Have you ever got encountered by a thought where everything around you started
making sense, just like that, a thought crosses my mind: “What if everything I’m going
through is preparing me for what I asked for?” It was a simple idea, but it shifted
something inside me. I started to see the obstacles in a different light. Maybe these
challenges aren’t just random hardships; maybe they’re lessons, trying to shape me,
building my strength, and preparing me for something greater.

You remember the dreams you’ve had, the things you’ve wished for—a better future, a
stronger self, a life where you can truly thrive. And suddenly, it makes sense that the
journey to get there wouldn’t be easy. The struggles, the pain, the setbacks—they’re
all part of the process, helping you grow into the person you need to become to
handle what’s ahead.

This realization doesn’t make the challenges disappear, but it gives you a sense of
purpose. You start to believe that maybe, just maybe, everything you’re enduring now
is laying the groundwork for the life you’ve always wanted. It’s a comforting thought,
one that gives you the strength to keep going, even when things get tough. You hold
onto it, using it as a reminder that the difficulties you face today might just be the
preparation you need for the dreams you’ll achieve tomorrow.
“Just because my dreams are different from others doesn’t mean that they are
unimportant.”

There was a time in my life when I felt out of place because my dreams didn’t match
those of the people around me. While others were chasing more traditional goals—like
getting high-paying jobs, buying iphones or big houses, or climbing the corporate
ladder—I found myself drawn to something different. Maybe it was a passion for art, a
desire to help others, or a dream to travel and experience the world in a unique way.

It wasn’t always easy. People questioned my choices, sometimes with a hint of

judgment. They wondered why I wasn’t following the same path as everyone else, why
my ambitions seemed less conventional. Their doubts made me question myself, and
there were moments when I wondered if maybe my dreams weren’t as valid or
important as theirs.

But deep down, I knew that my dreams mattered. Just because they were different
didn’t mean they were any less valuable. I realized that everyone’s journey is unique,
and what brings one person happiness or fulfilment, might not be the same for
another.

So, I held on to my dreams, even when others didn’t understand. I pursued them with
passion, knowing that they were a true reflection of who I am. And in doing so, I found
a sense of purpose and meaning that was deeply personal and fulfilling. It was a
reminder that your dreams, no matter how different, are just as important as anyone
else’s.
“Sadness is caused by intelligence, the more you understand certain things, the more
you wish you didn’t understand them.”

We often master the art of hiding our pain. Sorrow is an intrinsic part of life,
sometimes profoundly so. We mask our anguish with smiles and laughter, concealing
the battles raging within our minds and hearts from the world. But is it worthwhile to
combat these sorrows in isolation, feeling utterly alone? We might hesitate to burden
others with our sadness, but how long can we maintain the facade of being 'fine'?
Eventually, we may find ourselves on our knees, unable to keep up the brave face any
longer. Our final laugh will seem almost ironic as we stand on the brink of losing our
sanity. Those who can cry will shed tears, while others may fall into a haunting silence.
The power of sorrow is immense, but we must acknowledge its presence. It lingers like
a relentless companion who refuses to leave. So, let us confront it: wear a smile on
some days, and allow ourselves to cry on others. But we must not let it destroy us. To
all the courageous souls battling pain in solitude, remember-you are strong. You are
not alone. You got this.

“Have you ever heard of the word ‘Melancholy’?”

Melancholy is a deep, pensive sadness often without an obvious cause. It's a lingering
feeling of sorrow and longing, marked by a reflective, introspective nature. Unlike
acute sadness, melancholy is more enduring and subtle, weaving into the fabric of daily
life. It can evoke a sense of nostalgia for lost times or unfulfilled dreams, creating a
bittersweet reflection on life's transient beauty. This emotional state can be both
painful and oddly comforting, providing a contemplative space to understand and
process complex emotions, and it often inspires profound creativity and introspection.
 "The universe doesn't make mistakes", "Someone who value you wouldn't put
themselves at risk of losing you" and "sometimes things fall apart so better
things can be built"

Once my therapist said that for every relationship whether platonic or romantic to
dwell healthily, the key is often two things, Mutual Understanding, cooperation and
respect and second how do we deal with the incompatibility.

While there have been a lot of quotes floating on the internet that say never change
yourself for others, I think it's a little problematic because things aren't going to be that
constant always. In a scenario for example one of the individuals loves to cycle after a
long day and the other just wants to sleep and watch Netflix, if only one of them
watching Netflix is done, it is obvious that in the long run if an individual's point of
comfort is curtailed 100-percent they are going to feel discomfort. What I have learnt
is for the long run there has to be equal mutual understanding and no room for
unhealthy boundaries or discomfort for the other person.

Changes can be deal-breakers but communication always helps to build the confidence
and comfort that is needed to sink into the change.
Why I want this memoir more compelling and
meaningful.
Writing this memoir is a journey in itself, requiring introspection and a willingness to
share my most personal experiences. By focusing on various factors, I want to create a
memoir that is not only a reflection of my life but also a source of connection,
inspiration, and understanding for readers and people in need.

This is something I wanted to keep more compelling and transparent. Even the naming
for this book will be a confrontation with context and instances of life. The authenticity
and transparency should be resonating with the people out there reading what I went
through, heartbreaks, depression and childhood trauma over which I choose living.

Based on events took place in past reflects the being I’m today. Impacting and
influencing over almost every conception happened and still happening. As of earlier, I
wasn’t sure about the idea of me being heard by many people, I guess what’s changed
had made me realised the importance of writing a memoir.

Perhaps, dealing with fears has overcomes in this journey. But little did I know, every
journey comes with lots of goodbyes and sacrifices. I accept. There’s something
different kinda amazing in accepting the fact not delving into it just for sake of sanity.

Sometimes I could not hear other people, just because voices in my heads are so
louder that I couldn’t hear a word, I end up getting distracted or unfocused. So, this is
the best platform to put my words in light and I can’t miss the chance.
 4.
Paradox

As known by many people around me, holds various perception about how I am – who
I am. What a lie, even for people who know me. An idea in order to know me better is
to withstand the fact that I actually am something different from inside. Truly amazed
by the fact, nobody knows me.

From the outside, my life might seem like a series of well-orchestrated successes and
calm, measured responses. Friends and acquaintances see the smiles, the steady
demeanour, and the achievements that mark the milestones of my journey. They see
the roles I play—professional, friend, partner, sibling—and the ease with which I seem
to navigate them.

Yet, behind closed doors and in the solitude of my mind, a different story unfolds. It's a
story of doubts and fears, of dreams and disappointments, of an inner world that is
rich and tumultuous. My thoughts swirl with questions about my path, my choices, and
the meaning behind it all. There are days when the weight of expectations feels
overwhelming, when the carefully constructed facade threatens to crumble under the
pressure of my own vulnerabilities.

This hidden self is not just a repository of uncertainties but also a wellspring of
creativity, introspection, and passion. It’s where my true aspirations live, where the
unfiltered thoughts and raw emotions reside. It’s a place of profound introspection,
where I grapple with the big questions of identity, purpose, and connection. Here, I
confront the parts of myself that are less polished, less perfect, but undeniably real.

To understand me is to see beyond the surface, to recognize the duality that defines
my existence. It is to accept that the person who stands before you, seemingly self-
assured and poised, is also the person who lies awake at night, wrestling with
insecurities and seeking meaning. It’s to acknowledge that behind every smile, there
might be a shadow of uncertainty, and behind every success, a story of struggle and
perseverance.
Growing up, Netflix was a big part of my teenage years. I spent countless hours
watching Hollywood movies and shows, getting lost in the stories and characters. Even
though as a young self I grew up watching Indian drama, yet, Hollywood had a huge
impact on me—it shaped my ideas, dreams, and even the way I saw the world. Those
shows and movies influenced my tastes and aspirations, making me feel connected to
a culture far from my own, yet so familiar through the screen.

I remember I used to wake up at 5:30 in the morning just to watch ‘How I met your
mother’, while getting ready for my tution and then school. That was the beginning of
my journey to watch sitcom. Adding to it, watched ‘F.R.I.E.N.D.S’ for like more than
four times, can’t help it. But, didn’t realise that I was losing my touch with reality. The
reality I always felt like an agony.

In the quiet moments when the world falls away and I am left with only my thoughts, I
often ponder the chasm between how I am perceived and who I truly am. To the
outside world, I might appear confident and composed, a person who has their life
neatly arranged and under control. But beneath this polished exterior lies a complex,
often contradictory self that few truly know.

A constant battle between my mind and my heart. A thing people don't know about
me is I get attached may be not that easily but once I do, I have hell amount of time
moving on. It's like my heart cannot accept a change and more than that, it doesn't
want to. I am someone who has a hard time letting go of things and people who once
made me happy. I've a hard time accepting what they did was not really a mistake and
no matter how many times they ask for my forgiveness, making all those promises,
they won't change. I have a hard time accepting people can change with time because I
am someone who sits behind and watch people change not knowing how to react. I am
someone who' II never show how it broke her to see the things she loved go away
because I am smart enough to understand that everything won't work according to me
and that's the saddest part of all. The part where my mind knows the reality and
understands it but my heart wants to suppress it down and just live in denial. I lose
sleep every time I start thinking about how I' Il be left behind because everyone
accepts the change and I am the one sitting there, begging people not to change. I
know, it's necessary but why cannot it all change a little slowly? Why does things have
to move within an eye blink? My heart keeps asking my mind these questions and then
there goes my head aching, because it knows as little as my stupid heart does, so for
now. I will try. I' II try to hold on and let go at the same time, hoping the moments will
pass slowly, hoping they' II give me enough time to live within them, hoping I won't
regret any of it someday when I let the remaining sand of time pass, from its sand
clock.

This memoir is an invitation to journey with me beyond the exterior, to explore the
depths of my hidden self. It’s an honest portrayal of the complexities that make us
human—the contradictions, the battles fought in silence, and the victories celebrated
in private. It’s a reminder that we are all more than what we appear to be, and that
true understanding comes from seeing the complete picture, not just the parts that are
visible to the world.

In revealing these layers, I hope to bridge the gap between perception and reality, to
offer a glimpse into the heart of who I am. It’s a story of embracing the whole self, in
all its flawed and beautiful complexity, and finding strength in the truth that lies
beneath the surface.
TRUTH

Once my mom said, “just because you fight for love, doesn’t necessarily everyone will
get that. For them you look like an angry, broke person who argues when things go
wrong.” Not for the fact that I always tend to fight or argue for the change I never
accept.

Change has a way of creeping into our lives uninvited, disrupting the familiar rhythms
and comfortable routines we cling to. For some, it brings excitement and new
opportunities, but for others, like myself, change is an unwelcome intruder. It stirs up a
profound sense of unease, a visceral resistance that digs its heels in and refuses to be
moved.

I’ve always found solace in the predictable patterns of my days, in the known and the
steady. The idea of change, with its inherent uncertainties and demands for
adaptation, has always filled me with a deep-seated dread. It feels like standing on the
edge of a precipice, looking down into an abyss of unknowns. The ground beneath me,
once solid and dependable, shifts and trembles, threatening to pull me into a chaotic
whirlpool where control is but a distant memory.

Hating change isn't just a reluctance to adapt; it's a fear of losing what has always been
my anchor. It’s the childhood home that holds memories of laughter and love, the
long-held friendships that have weathered the storms of time, and the routines that
offer comfort in their repetition. Change threatens to unravel these threads, leaving
me grasping for the familiar in a sea of newness.

When it comes to friendships and relationships, I have always found comfort in having
people close by. The thought of them being far away unsettles me. So, when these
connections turned into long-distance ones, it was really hard for me. I struggled with
the change, missing the everyday closeness and the ease of spending time together.
The distance felt like a barrier, and even though I tried to adapt, the shift left me
feeling anxious and disconnected. I often wished things could go back to how they
were, just to avoid the discomfort of having to navigate a relationship that’s now miles
apart.

There have been times when change was unavoidable, when life’s inexorable march
pushed me into new chapters whether I was ready or not. Each time, the resistance
bubbled up, a stubborn force within me that fought against the tide. But in the end,
even the most steadfast resistance couldn’t hold back the waves. And while I may have
adapted outwardly, inwardly, the struggle persisted, a constant tug-of-war between
acceptance and rejection.
This is about living in that tension, about navigating life with a heart that yearns for
stability while being perpetually nudged toward transformation. It’s about the internal
battles, the moments of quiet rebellion, and the reluctant steps taken toward an
unknown future. It’s about understanding that, while change is inevitable, the feelings
of resistance are valid and real.

Through these pages, I am exploring my journey with change—the moments of fear,

the sparks of reluctant growth, and the ultimate realization that, while change may be
a constant force, it is within the struggle that we often find our truest selves. This is a
prologue to a life lived in defiance of change, yet inexorably shaped by it.

I was 8. Left behind and was being looked after by my maternal grandparents. They
had an Incredible big old house in Nagpur, spacious and comfy for summer vacations.
It’s my one of the old memories with my granny and grandpa, who pampered me –
feed me whatever I ask for and that’s the reason I used to visit them every summer.

Their house in Nagpur was old, with cement floors and a garden full of blooming
marigolds. It smelled like spices and history, a blend of turmeric, cumin, and something
I couldn’t quite place—perhaps it was the scent of memories. Living room was small
but cozy, with a window that overlooked the bustling street below.

The first night was the hardest. Lying in bed, I missed the gentle hum of the air
conditioner from my home, the faint sounds of traffic, and most of all, my parents’
voices drifting through the walls. Instead, there was an eerie quietness here, broken
only by the occasional barking of stray dogs and the distant honking of rickshaws.

“Do you need anything, Ved?” Granny’s soft voice came from the doorway. I shook my
head, trying to be brave. She came in anyway, sitting on the edge of my bed, her
fingers gently brushing through my hair.

“Everything will be okay,” she whispered. “We’re here for you.”

By being brave, I was making sure not to bother anyone by my presence. The hallway
was narrow and anyone who tries to intrude – couldn’t. As for me watching Chota
Bheem and Pokemon, in hall and being served the delicious food by granny and enjoy
chilled soft drinks was my favourite pastime.

Days turned into weeks. Grandpa used to take me to mandi to buy vegetables and
often people used to ask about me and he used to answer as, “he is my elder
grandson”, and Grandma used to make my favourite parathas for breakfast. They tried
their best to fill the void, but every day felt like a struggle to adjust to this new reality.

But there were moments of joy too. Grandpa’s stories of his own childhood adventures
in Nagpur were captivating, and Grandma’s evening prayers, with their soothing
chants, brought a strange comfort. Slowly, I started to find bits of happiness in this new
life.

Months passed, and I found myself laughing more, the ache of my parents' absence
slowly dulling. I realized that while I missed them terribly, I was also building a life here
—a life full of new friends, new experiences, and new memories.

Nagpur, with its hot sun and bustling streets, had become a part of me. And while my
parents were miles away, I carried their love with me, a constant reminder that I was
never truly alone.

Every summer feels like the breeze trying to make me swirl with it, taking me back to
the days where I feel the coolest chill. The traditionally made Matka Kulfi, often cheers
me up. The vendors used to ask granny about me, made me feel like the only grandson
they could ever had. Everything seems to be intimate and chummy.

Then comes the times, back to home – back to school, except it’s not the Hogwarts.

Embracing the Journey Alone

At twelve-year-old, the world seems both vast and thrillingly navigable. For me, this
year marked the beginning of my solo adventures, a journey that would take me from
the comfort of my home to the embrace of my extended family. I was excited yet
nervous, ready to explore and to prove that I was no longer a child but on the cusp of
becoming independent.

The sun was just beginning to rise as I stood on the Bus stop, the cool morning air is yet
to fill with the sounds of buses and vehicles coming and going, vendors bustling about,
and the distant hum of early commuters. My backpack, filled with clothes, snacks, and
a carefully packed books, felt heavier than usual. Mom and Dad were there, giving me
last-minute advice and double-checking my stuff. Their smiles were encouraging, but I
could see the worry in their eyes.

“Remember to call as soon as you reach,” Mom said, her voice a mixture of excitement
and concern. Dad ruffled my hair, a gesture that always made me feel both reassured
and slightly embarrassed.

“I will,” I promised, stepping onto the bus. Dad helped me with my luggage, I found my
seat by the window, waving to them as the bus slowly pulled away, feeling a mix of
exhilaration and trepidation.

The bus journey was an adventure in itself, people around me peeking a glance wanted
to know what happened to me, a little boy travelling alone made a suspicious feeling.
As the bus approached my destination, my heart began to race. The bus stop was
bustling, a whirlwind of activity and noise. I clutched my backpack tightly and stepped
off the bus, scanning the crowd for familiar faces. The place was not new but the
experience was, remembering what my parent told to do in this situation. There, amid
the sea of people, I saw my uncle waving enthusiastically. Relief and excitement
washed over me as I hurried towards them.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of new experiences and cherished moments.
My cousin, one of whom were close to my age, became my companions in exploring
the neighbourhood, playing cricket in the local park, and sharing stories late into the
night. The bond we formed during that week was special, a blend of familial love and
newfound friendship.

Aunt Sonali (Masi), who is also my godmother, has always been a second mother to
me. She stepped in with love and care whenever my mom had to go out for work,
treating me like her own child. That’s one of the reasons why her house felt like a
second home to me, filled with warmth, laughter, and a deep sense of security. She
was always there to listen, to comfort, and to guide me, offering the kind of
unconditional love that made me feel cherished and valued. Her presence in my life
has been a constant source of support, and the bond I share is one of the most special
connections I have.

I learned so much during that trip—not just about my extended family and their lives,
but also about myself. Each day brought new challenges and joys, from helping her,
cook traditional dishes to listening to Uncle’s tales of his youth. Every moment was a
learning experience, a step towards growing up.

They took me to park, Dr APJ Abdul Kalam Garden – an adventurous park, where there
were many rides and slides. I enjoyed, had fun with uncle aunt and two little cousins.
Now as the sun’s setting down, indication it was time to go back home. Home – place
where I never wish would mean world while adulting.

All too soon, it was time to return home. Saying goodbye was bittersweet, but I knew
this was just the beginning of many more adventures. The journey back felt different,
more confident, and self-assured. I had navigated my way through unfamiliar territory
and come out stronger, with stories to tell and memories to cherish.

That first journey alone was a turning point in my life. It taught me the value of
independence, the importance of family, and the joy of exploring the world on my own
terms. It was the start of many more adventures, each one building on the confidence
and experience gained from that initial trip.

Traveling alone at thirteen opened my eyes to the vastness of the world and the
endless possibilities that lay ahead. It was a journey of discovery, not just of places and
people, but of my own potential and resilience. And it was just the beginning.
 Festival Bliss

Even as a little boy, I was captivated by the magic of festivals. My earliest memories are
filled with the vibrant decorations that adorned our home, the delicious sweets that
seemed to appear out of nowhere, and the flurry of activity that took over our usually
quiet neighbourhood. My parents and granny would tell stories of gods and goddesses,
of legendary battles and timeless traditions, each tale more enchanting than the last.

I remember the first time I took on the responsibility of arranging the decorations for
Ganesh Chaturthi. I was just six years old, but the thrill of selecting the perfect flowers,
setting up the stage, and ensuring that every detail was just right made me feel
important, like I was contributing to something much bigger than myself.

Ganesh Chaturthi was always the grandest of all celebrations in our home. The
preparations would start weeks in advance. My father and I would visit the local
market to select the idol of Lord Ganesha, a task I took very seriously. Each year, we’d
choose a different theme for the decorations, and I would spend hours sketching out
plans and gathering materials.

On the day of the festival, our home would be filled with the scent of marigolds and
incense, the sounds of devotional songs, and the warmth of family and friends coming
together. I loved the sense of community, the shared joy, and the feeling of belonging.
It was a time when everyone’s differences seemed to melt away, replaced by a
collective spirit of celebration and devotion.

Tying Toran, the most important and essential rituals to be performed at the beginning
of any festival. I used to grab some mango leaves from my neighbourhood – they
adored me. As a young boy, tyring, to help parents and in organising the festival – an
enthusiastic task while getting to eat delicious breakfast.

Each day during the festival, me and my entire family including my paternal uncle and
aunt gather around the altar for the morning and evening aarti, singing devotional
songs, and clapping along to the rhythm of the music. The sound of the bell ringing, the
scent of incense filling the air, and the flickering of diyas (oil lamps) create a serene and
spiritual atmosphere. The prayers are often accompanied by chanting mantras, and
everyone takes turns offering flowers and prasada (blessed food) to the idol.

Family and friends visit each other’s homes to see the Ganesha idols, exchange sweets,
and share in the joy of the occasion. We used to visit the houses in our neighbourhood
and vice-versa. The entire house feels alive with a sense of togetherness and devotion.
On the second day, before the immersion of the idol, a special puja is performed to bid
farewell to Lord Ganesha, asking him to return soon the next year. The farewell is
bittersweet, as I gather with kit and kins, to take the idol in a procession to the nearest
body of water for immersion, amidst loud chants, symbolizing the cycle of creation and
dissolution.
During Ganesh Chaturthi, the Mahalaxmi festival holds a special place, especially when
you visit your paternal uncle and aunt in Yavatmal. This festival, celebrated on the third
day of Ganesh Chaturthi, is dedicated to Goddess Mahalaxmi, the goddess of wealth
and prosperity. At their home, the atmosphere becomes even more festive with the
addition of this celebration.

While travelling, to celebrate Mahalaksmi brought its own set of traditions and
delights. The excitement would build as we cleaned and decorate the house stringing
up lights and arranging Torans at the entrance. My favourite part was the preparation
of sweets and snacks. I would help my Paternal relatives in the kitchen, learning the
recipes that had been passed down through generations. It just feels like a reunion –
with a joy of festivals.

You know, Festivals and family gatherings have become more than just rituals; they’re
a chance to reconnect with your roots, to pause and reflect on what truly matters. In
the busyness of adult life, with work, deadlines, and daily stresses, these occasions
serve as a reminder of the warmth, love, and support that family provides. They offer a
sense of continuity, linking you to your heritage and the traditions that have shaped
who you are.

Morning of every festival used to be filled joy – a night before it being the toughest to
sleep. The morning breeze brings the aura to make it feel like any festival. Holi used to
be cheering and fiery – wholeheartedly waiting for whole year to celebrate with kith
and keens.

As I grew older, my role in the festival preparations expanded. I became the go-to
person for organizing events, from planning the neighbourhood’s Holi celebration to
coordinating the Durga Pooja festivities. Each festival brought new challenges and
responsibilities, but also a deep sense of satisfaction and pride in seeing everything
come together.

Through these experiences, I learned the importance of tradition, the value of

community, and the joy of giving. Festivals were more than just celebrations; they
were a way of connecting with my heritage, of expressing love and gratitude, and of
creating lasting memories with the people I cared about.

Now, as an adult, I continue to cherish and uphold the traditions that shaped my
childhood. I’ve passed on my love for festivals to my own children, sharing with them
the stories and customs that were such a vital part of my upbringing. Seeing their eyes
light up with the same excitement I felt as a boy fills me with immense joy and pride.

Festivals remain a time of reflection and renewal for me, a reminder of the rich cultural
tapestry that is an integral part of my identity. They are a celebration of life, love, and
the enduring spirit of togetherness that binds us all.
 Embracing the Paradox

From the outside, people often saw me as the shy, quiet boy who rarely spoke up. My
reserved nature led them to label me as timid, maybe even a coward. But inside, I
knew a different story. Beneath the surface, I held a strength and bravery that
emerged in ways no one could see or understand. This is about being bold, and how
appearances can be deceiving.

But what they didn’t see was the strength behind my quiet demeanor. I was always
thinking, always observing, and absorbing the world around me in my own way. Inside,
I had dreams, ideas, and plans that were just as big and vibrant as anyone else’s. It
wasn’t that I couldn’t do anything—it was that I was choosing my own time and way to
show what I could do.

In school, I was the boy who sat in the back of the classroom, eyes down, focused on
my work. I avoided drawing attention to myself, preferring the quiet of my own
thoughts. This was where people’s misconceptions began. They saw my silence as a
lack of confidence, interpreting my reluctance to speak as fear.

But my silence was not borne of cowardice. I observed the world around me,
absorbing details and understanding the nuances of people’s actions and words. I
learned to navigate the social labyrinth of school, understanding when to step in and
when to stay back. My shyness was a choice, a shield that protected my true self.

My bravery surfaced in ways that didn’t align with people’s expectations. In my

neighbourhood, there was an old, abandoned house that everyone feared. Rumours of
ghosts and strange noises kept even the bravest kids away. One day, when a dare was
issued, all eyes turned to me, expecting the shy boy to back down.

But I didn’t. With a deep breath and steady resolve, I walked towards the house. Each
step felt like an eternity, but I pushed forward, knowing that proving my courage was
more important than what others thought. Inside, I discovered the source of the noises
—an old cat trapped in a room. I freed it, my heart pounding with both fear and
triumph. When I emerged, the looks of shock and respect on my friends’ faces were
priceless. They had seen a glimpse of the bravery I carried within.

What people didn’t see were the countless battles I fought within myself. The
moments of self-doubt, the nights spent wrestling with fear and anxiety. They didn’t
see the quiet determination that fuelled my actions, the inner strength that pushed me
to face my fears head-on. Being shy didn’t mean I lacked courage. It meant my bravery
was a deeply personal, often invisible struggle.

As I grew older, I learned to embrace the paradox within me. I stopped trying to fit into
the label others placed on me. I realized that true courage wasn’t about loud
declarations or outward bravado. It was about the quiet, steadfast resolve to do what
was right, even when it was hard. It was about standing up for others, facing fears, and
staying true to myself.

Reflecting on my journey, I understood that bravery isn’t about being loud or fearless.
It’s about the facing fears, standing up for what’s right, and staying true to oneself. It’s
about the quiet battles fought within and the resolve to keep going, even when it’s
tough.

Sometimes, following your heart means having the courage to leap towards the things
that feel real and honest and right. It means trusting the soft nudge inside yourself that
says this is meant for me. It means taking a chance by reaching toward something that
may not reach back towards you. Sometimes, following your heart means having the
bravery to tell that opportunity that you want it or to tell that person that you can't
imagine a future where their path isn't intertwined with yours. But sometimes –
sometimes, following your heart means walking away. It means accepting that what
was meant to be may have only been meant to be for a season, not for a lifetime. It
means recognizing when a chapter is ending and knowing that some things can't come
with you into the next one. Sometimes, following your heart means being willing to
break it. Sometimes, it means letting in, and sometimes, it means letting go.
Sometimes, it will feel effortless, and sometimes, it will feel like the hardest thing
you've ever done. But always, it will be the right thing. Always, it will be the true thing.
Always, it will be worth it.

I hope you have the courage to listen to your inner voice and follow the soft nudges
and trust that strange pull deep within that says, this could be something special.

I hope you have the bravery to honour your beating heart above all else – above the
outer noise, above the worries about what other people will think, above the fears that
keep you hiding in the shadows.

I hope you have the strength to follow your heart-even if you didn't yesterday. Even if
yesterday, you hesitated. Even if yesterday, you weren't sure you were brave enough.

The more you see the world, the more you get to know about yourself – hence vice
versa. The arrival of new people is more than just the beginning of new adventures.
Once Rajesh Khanna said, “Babu Moshai, zindagi badi honi chahiye, lambi nhi.”
 5.
Perseverance

What do you expect from a 12 years old boy – who barely knows the
world, took a decision not to trust anyone. Yes, I was betrayed by my
own best friend, however life doesn’t stop, even if it seems paused for
a while – its not an end of the world.

Returning to school after summer vacation has always felt like stepping into a world
that had moved on without me. As I walked through the school gates, my heart
pounded in my chest, each step heavier than the last. The carefree days of summer—
filled with adventures, lazy afternoons, and the comfort of home—were replaced by
the daunting reality of fitting back into the intricate social web of middle school.

I was twelve, and this year everything seemed different. My friends had changed. Over
the summer, they had formed new alliances, learned new jokes, and created memories
that didn't include me. As I approached our usual hangout spot, I felt like an outsider
intruding on a private club. Conversations paused as I approached, and awkward
silences filled the air where once there had been easy camaraderie.

The first week back was the hardest. Lunchtimes were the worst. I wandered the
veranda with my tiffin bag, searching for a friendly face, a spot that felt welcoming. But
every place seemed full, not just with people, but with invisible barriers that I didn't
know how to cross. I ended up eating alone, trying to look busy with my food,
pretending not to care.

Classes were no better. In the past, I'd always had a partner for projects, a buddy for
class activities. Now, I found myself paired with whoever was left, feeling the sting of
being the last choice. I wondered what had changed. Was it something about me? Or
had everyone else simply moved on while I remained stuck in the past?

One afternoon, I overheard a group of kids talking about their summer camp
experiences. They shared stories of funny pranks, play station games, and secret
handshakes. I felt a pang of jealousy and sadness, wishing I had been part of something
like that. My summer had been quieter, filled with family trips and solo explorations,
enjoyable but lonely.
Just as I was about to resign myself to another lonely lunch, I saw a boy sitting alone at
a corner table. His face was new, unfamiliar. Summoning my courage, I walked over
and asked if I could join him. He looked up, surprised but then nodded with a small
smile. He was shy, and he had just moved to our town. He didn't know anyone either.

(I’m quite not sure, whether to mention the names of people who later or somehow
ended up hurting me. So, it’s better not to mention them.)

Those early days of our friendship were filled with laughter, shared lunches, and the
excitement of having someone who seemed to genuinely enjoy my company. I started
to open up more, feeling like I had someone who understood me and accepted me for
who I was. It was a relief, a bright spot in what had often felt like a lonely environment.

But then, things started to change.

Just when I thought things were getting better, the bullying started. It wasn’t all at
once, but a slow, creeping shift in how some kids treated me. It began with snide
comments about my voice, which was higher than most of the other boys. “Hey, girl
voice!” they would shout across the hallway, their laughter echoing against the
veranda.

At first, he tried to stay by my side, but the pressure from the other kids was too much.
Slowly, he began to pull away—choosing to stay silent when I was being bullied,
avoiding eye contact in the hallways, and eventually, not sitting with me at lunch
anymore. It was a painful realization, watching someone I thought was a friend fade
into the background just when I needed them most.

I tried to ignore them at first, thinking they’d get bored and move on. But their teasing
only intensified. They mocked the way I spoke, the way I moved, saying I was “girly”
and making fun of my mannerisms. I felt the walls closing in again, the sense of being
different becoming a glaring spotlight on my every move.

Lunchtime, once a reprieve, became a minefield. Adi was still my friend, but even he
couldn’t always be around to shield me from the taunts. I’d see the group of bullies
whispering, their eyes tracking me as I crossed the corridors. My appetite vanished; the
food in my tiffin might as well have been invisible.

As soon as lunchtime rolled around, these same kids who teased me would gather
around, pretending to be friendly just to get a share of my food.

It was a strange and hurtful contradiction. On one hand, they mocked me for being
different, for the way I talked, and for my quiet nature. But on the other, they were
drawn to my tiffin like moths to a flame, happily devouring the parathas without a
second thought. I often found yourself sitting there, watching them enjoy the food I
brought, knowing that as soon as the tiffin was empty, the bullying would start again.

I didn’t say much, even as they ate. Maybe it was because I didn’t want to cause a
scene, or maybe I just wanted to avoid more trouble. But each day, I brought those
parathas, and each day, they came to eat, leaving me with a strange mix of resentment
and resignation. It was as if my kindness was being taken advantage of, yet I continued,
perhaps hoping that sharing my food would somehow bridge the gap between me and
them, even if it never really did.

The worst part was the fear of speaking up. How could I explain what was happening
to anyone? It felt like admitting weakness, like giving the bullies more power over me. I
was scared that talking about it would make things worse or that no one would
understand. The thought of telling my parents filled me with dread. They had their
own expectations and worries, and I didn’t want to burden them with mine. I didn’t
want them to see me as weak or unable to handle my problems.

At school, I tried to put on a brave face. I laughed off the comments when I could,
forced myself to participate in class despite the snickers, and pretended I didn’t hear
the whispers. But inside, I was crumbling. Each day felt like a battle, and the weight of
it all was becoming unbearable.

One afternoon, after a particularly harsh round of teasing in game class, I found myself
in the bathroom, my eyes stinging with tears I refused to let fall. That’s when Adi
walked in.

He didn’t say anything at first, just leaned against the wall, giving me space. After a few
moments, he spoke softly, “You don’t have to go through this alone, you know.”

I wanted to believe him, but the words felt hollow. “What can I do, Adi? If I tell, it
might just make it worse. They’ll think I’m weak.”

Adi shook his head. “You’re not weak. You’re the strongest person I know. You stood
by me when I was new and didn’t know anyone. You made me feel like I belonged.
Now, it’s my turn to be there for you.”

His words hit me hard, breaking through the walls I had built. I realized I couldn’t keep
carrying this burden by myself. Adi convinced me to talk to a teacher we both trusted.
With his support, I found the courage to speak up.

Mrs. Kiran, our English teacher, listened without interrupting, her eyes filled with
concern and understanding. She assured me that what I was experiencing was not
okay and that I didn’t have to endure it in silence. She promised to address the issue
discreetly, ensuring my safety and dignity.

Over the next few weeks, subtle changes began to take place. As of now, worst case
scenario hasn’t hit yet, nevertheless the teachers started paying more attention to the
dynamics in the classroom and hallways. Slowly, the taunting decreased, and I began
to feel a little more secure.

Speaking up had been one of the hardest things I’d ever done, but it was also the most
liberating. It didn’t make the problem disappear overnight, but it opened the door to
support and understanding that I desperately needed. I learned that admitting you
need help doesn’t make you weak—it takes incredible strength.
The subtle changes I initially saw in school were temporary. Though the teachers tried
to intervene, the bullying evolved, becoming more covert and insidious. As I moved
through middle school and into high school, the mocking didn’t cease—it just shifted,
becoming more refined and more pervasive.

There were moments of doubt, where I used to wonder if I would ever escape this
cycle, or if it would ever get better. But through it all, I held onto a quiet resilience, a
determination to not let the bullying define me. I found strength in my own way, in my
ability to endure and push forward, even when the world seemed against me.

Five years of enduring this took its toll on me in ways I couldn’t have imagined. The
constant barrage of insults, the whispered comments behind my back, the laughter
that would erupt as I passed by—it all blended into a continuous background noise of
torment that I couldn’t escape. My voice and mannerisms, the things that made me
unique, became sources of relentless ridicule.

The daily onslaught chipped away at my confidence and self-esteem. I started to dread
going to school, the very thought of it filling me with a sickening anxiety. My mornings
became a routine of mentally steeling myself for the day ahead, a ritual of putting on a
brave face while my insides churned with fear and uncertainty.

Adi remained my steadfast friend, but even he couldn’t shield me from the cruelty of
others. He tried to cheer me up, distract me with jokes and shared interests, but the
weight of the bullying was always there, lurking in the background. I could see the
helplessness in his eyes, knowing he wanted to do more but was equally unsure how.

At home, I kept up appearances, hiding my struggles behind a mask of normalcy. My

parents had their own expectations and dreams for me, and I didn’t want to burden
them with my pain. I felt like a fraud, pretending everything was fine while my world
was crumbling. The isolation grew, a dark shadow that followed me everywhere,
making it hard to see any light.

Nighttime was the hardest. Lying in bed, the silence amplified my thoughts, turning
them into a relentless cacophony of self-doubt and despair. I replayed every insult,
every laugh, every moment of feeling less than human. Sleep became elusive, and the
exhaustion only deepened my sense of hopelessness.

The fear of facing reality gripped me tightly. I avoided mirrors, hating the reflection
that stared back at me, a constant reminder of my perceived inadequacies. Social
interactions outside of my small circle with Adi became fraught with anxiety. I feared
judgment, rejection, and the inevitable whispers. I retreated further into myself,
building walls so high that even those closest to me struggled to reach me.

Despite everything, a part of me still clung to hope. I longed for the day when I could
leave this environment behind, start fresh somewhere new where I could be myself
without fear. High school was drawing to a close, and the promise of college was a
distant light at the end of a very dark tunnel.
Senior year brought a turning point. With 10 grade looming, I decided I couldn’t
continue living in fear. I sought help from one of my school teacher, someone outside
of my immediate circle who could offer perspective and guidance. Opening up about
my experiences, the years of bullying and the toll it had taken, was excruciating but
necessary.

Mrs. Nivrutti Turkar, helped me see that I wasn’t alone, that there were others who
had faced similar struggles and emerged stronger. She encouraged me to focus on my
passions and strengths, to build a future based on my interests rather than the
opinions of those who sought to tear me down. Slowly, with her support, I began to
reclaim my sense of self. She inspired me and motivated me, so deeply, I scored 97
marks out of 100 in her subject – Social Studies.

I scored 90% in my 10th grade which was not only surprising for me but everyone
around me. Nobody believed. I was only one from my bloodline to achieve such
milestone. (At least for me it was a Milestone.)

I discovered that being different wasn’t something to be ashamed of, but a unique part
of who I was. And in the end, it was those differences that helped me find
where I truly belonged.

Looking back, I realized that those years of bullying had forged a strength within me
that I hadn’t known existed. They had taught me empathy, resilience, and the
importance of standing up for myself and others. The journey had been painful, but it
had also prepared me for a future where I could face challenges with courage and
determination.
 Vengeance

"Congratulations to our top students for scoring above 90% in the 10th grade exams.
We will be holding a special felicitation ceremony next week to honour their
achievements."

The whole world had just released the tension of lockdown when our results got
announced. Even when things were no some, we managed to welcome new changes.

I had known my results for a few days, but hearing my name listed among the top
scorers felt surreal. The disbelief on the faces of my classmates was almost palpable.
The boy they had mocked and ridiculed for years had outperformed many of them.
Their shock was a silent, but powerful, vindication of everything I had endured.

The day of the ceremony arrived, and I walked into the auditorium with a mixture of
pride and trepidation. The room was filled with students, teachers, and parents, all
buzzing with excitement. I spotted Adi in the crowd, his encouraging smile giving me
the confidence I needed. My parents were there too, their faces beaming with pride,
unaware of the turmoil that had marked my school years.

As my name was called, I made my way to the stage. The applause was loud and
enthusiastic, but I could still sense the undercurrent of surprise and disbelief. I
accepted my trophy and pen as a gift and assurance of creating a great future ahead,
from the principal, who shook my hand warmly, congratulating me on my hard work
and dedication.

Standing on that stage, I looked out at the sea of faces. Among them, I saw the bullies
—the ones who had made my life a living nightmare. Their expressions were a mix of
surprise, envy, and, for a few, grudging respect. This moment was more than just
academic recognition; it was a personal triumph over the years of torment and doubt.

After the ceremony, there was a reception in the school assembly hall. As I mingled
with the other honourees and their families, I couldn’t help but notice the hushed
whispers and sideways glances directed my way. Some of the kids who had bullied me
approached, their demeanours awkward and hesitant.

Later, as I stood with Adi and his parents, I reflected on the journey that had brought
me here. The bullying, the loneliness, and the fear had all been a crucible, forging a
resilience and determination that had ultimately led to my success. I realized that
while vengeance had initially driven me to excel, it was now overshadowed by a sense
of accomplishment and self-worth.
This moment wasn’t about proving them wrong anymore—it was about proving to
myself that I could rise above the pain and find my place in the world. The recognition
and accolades were sweet, but the real victory was the strength I had discovered
within myself.

As we left the school that day, my parents hugged me tightly, their pride evident in
their eyes. Adi clapped me on the back, his grin as wide as ever. “You did it, man. You
showed them all.”

“Yeah,” I replied, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders. “I did.”

“Beloved, never avenge yourself, but leave it to the warmth of

God, for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the
lord.”
The Lockdown: A Turning Point in Our Lives

The lockdown of 2020, a response to the global pandemic, was an unprecedented

event that brought the world to a standstill. Overnight, bustling cities fell silent, daily
routines were disrupted, and the familiar rhythm of life was replaced by an eerie
stillness. As we adjusted to this new reality, the lockdown became a defining moment
—a time of immense challenge, but also of profound reflection and transformation.

Before lockdown, I had a birthday bash, nobody showed up on time. It was humiliating
– Adi arrived and then rest of them. Turned out to be the most thrilling party I ever
throwed. We played – laughed, danced and enjoyed to the fullest – every ounce of the
moment, not knowing what was waiting ahead of us. With the plate full of variety of
foods and smiles as an objectification, we were in it. Who knows, it was the last time
we all had fun together.

For many, the initial days of lockdown felt surreal. The rapid spread of the virus had
created an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty. Schools, offices, and businesses shut
their doors, leaving people confined to their homes. Streets that were once filled with
the sounds of life grew quiet, and the concept of social distancing became a vital,
albeit strange, norm.

When the world shut down, so did my life. The familiar rhythm of school days,
basketball practice, and hanging out with friends came to a sudden halt. The walls of
our home felt like they were closing in, turning a once bustling space into a silent,
confining box. In the midst of this surreal, enforced isolation, I found solace in an
unlikely companion—Anne Frank.

It started on a particularly dull afternoon, the kind where time seems to stretch
endlessly. My mom, tired of my constant complaints about boredom, handed me a
book from the old shelf. It was "The Diary of a Young Girl" by Anne Frank. I had heard
about it, of course—a girl hiding from Nazis during World War II—but I had never
considered reading it. But, with nothing else to do, I reluctantly opened the worn cover
and began to read.

From the first pages, I was drawn into Anne's world. Her voice, so vivid and sincere,
resonated with me in a way I hadn't expected. She wrote about her life in hiding with a
blend of honesty and hope that seemed almost unimaginable given her circumstances.
As I read about the secret annex, her detailed descriptions painted a picture of a small,
confined space filled with a mix of fear, tension, and an unyielding spirit.

In those initial days, Anne's diary became a lifeline. Each morning, after the mandatory
household chores, I would retreat to my room, escaping into the past. I marveled at
how Anne, confined to such a small space for so long, found ways to cope, to dream,
and to grow. Her reflections on the world outside, which she could no longer touch,
mirrored my own feelings of separation and longing.
Anne’s words taught me to appreciate the small moments—the comfort of a favourite
meal, the joy of a good book, the warmth of family. She found beauty in the mundane,
a lesson I desperately needed as days blurred into weeks. Her resilience and unyielding
optimism in the face of overwhelming adversity gave me a new perspective on my own
situation.

Evenings were the hardest. The quiet darkness seemed to amplify my thoughts, and I
often found myself thinking about Anne. Her longing for freedom, her dreams of
becoming a writer, and her deep reflections on human nature filled my mind. I felt a
connection to her, a girl from another time, living through her own version of
confinement. Her diary became more than just a book; it was a window into another
world, one that provided comfort and understanding in a time of great uncertainty.

And then, a realization dawned on me—perhaps writing could be my way of coping

too. If Anne could find strength in her words, maybe I could as well.

As the lockdown extended, Anne's diary continued to be my steadfast companion. Her

story was a stark reminder of the resilience of the human spirit and the power of hope.
She made me realize that, even in the darkest times, there is light to be found. It’s in
the act of writing, of dreaming, and in the small, everyday moments that make up our
lives.

Through Anne Frank's eyes, I learned to navigate my own lockdown, finding strength in
her words and inspiration in her courage. Her story didn’t just help me pass the time; it
transformed my perspective, turning a period of isolation into a journey of self-
discovery and empathy.

Isolation has it’s, own power to deceive, 6 months of complete lockdown had made
people ‘couch potato’, couldn’t function – lost the ability to withhold the
responsibility. Couldn’t deny the fact that it brought us close with our loved ones and
desired for spending more fun time with cousins.

Fortune couldn’t stand with everyone in pandemics - the reality of the pandemic
seeped into our lives, transforming our home into a place of anxiety and isolation.

My dad was the first to show symptoms. What started as a mild cough quickly
escalated, and soon he was quarantined in his room, cut off from the rest of us. The
door to his room became a barrier, a reminder of the invisible enemy lurking outside.
We communicated through muffled conversations and text messages, trying to
maintain a semblance of normalcy while fear gnawed at our hearts.

The house felt emptier without him around. My mom and I took on the roles of nurse
and caretaker, delivering meals to his door and disinfecting everything he touched. I
missed his presence—the sound of his laughter, his reassuring voice, and the way he
made everything seem okay, even when it wasn’t. The lockdown had turned our home
into a fragmented world, with each of us isolated in our own bubbles of worry.

My friends were struggling too. Some of them had lost family members, others were
grappling with the fear of what might happen next. We tried to stay connected
through video calls and group chats, but it wasn’t the same. The physical distance and
the constant threat of the virus cast a shadow over our interactions. It was as if we
were all adrift, each in our own lifeboat, trying to stay afloat in a sea of uncertainty.

Then came the news that shattered my dad. His maternal uncle, a man who had been
like a father to him, had passed away. He was more than just a relative; he was the
rock on which my dad had built his life. He had guided my dad through his toughest
times, provided support when it was needed most, and had been a constant source of
wisdom and strength. Their death felt like a cruel twist of fate, a blow to our already
fragile world.

What worse could have had to happen – my granny was shattered, her beloved
brother who lived just 3-4 blocks away, died. She couldn’t even summons over his
death as their whole family were quarantined.

My dad’s grief was palpable, even from behind the closed door, so was my granny’s.
The isolation that had been imposed to protect us now felt like a cruel barrier,
preventing us from offering the comfort and support he so desperately needed. I could
hear him crying at evening, a sound that broke my heart and made me feel more
helpless than ever. The man who had always been my hero was now a prisoner of his
own sorrow, confined not just by the virus, but by the weight of his loss.

The days that followed were a blur of sadness and longing. We mourned for their
uncle’s dead from afar, unable to gather with family or participate in the rituals that
bring solace in times of grief. My dad’s recovery from the virus was slow, his physical
weakness mirrored by an emotional frailty that I had never seen before. We did our
best to support him, to remind him that he wasn’t alone, but it was clear that the loss
had left a deep scar.

As the lockdown stretched on, I learned to cope with the new reality. I found solace in
small things—a text from a friend, a shared moment with my mom, the knowledge
that we were all doing our best to get through this together. I watched as my dad
slowly emerged from his isolation, his strength returning little by little. The pain of
losing them would never fully go away, but it was clear that his legacy lived on in my
dad, in the values he had instilled and the support he had provided.

This instance ended with lots of issues over time, holding grudges in deep down the
heart full of hatred. It never resolves overtime, unfortunately it gets better after a
while. After a while, it got harder for me to cope – I was also traumatised by whatever
happening around me, I too need care and love, how could anyone forget I’m a living
being with feeling and hundreds of thoughts, many were scary enough for sleepless
night.

They didn’t understand why I couldn’t just focus on my activities or classes, why I
seemed so withdrawn and irritable. I, on the other hand, couldn’t find the words to
explain the overwhelming sense of despair that had settled over me like a thick,
suffocating fog. Every attempt at conversation felt like speaking into a void, my
emotions bouncing back at me, unacknowledged and misunderstood.
The days blurred together in a haze of inactivity and restless energy. I tried to find
solace in the things I used to enjoy—Netflix and chill, books, even drawing—but
nothing seemed to hold my interest for long. My mind would drift, pulled back to the
stark reality of our situation, the relentless news updates, and the mounting death
tolls. The weight of it all felt crushing, a constant reminder of how fragile and uncertain
our world had become.

Sleep became elusive, my nights spent tossing and turning, haunted by a gnawing
anxiety that wouldn’t let me rest. The dark circles under my eyes deepened, a visible
testament to my inner turmoil. I longed for a sense of normalcy, for the simple comfort
of a hug from a friend, the reassuring presence of my grandparents, whom I hadn’t
seen in months. But all of it was out of reach, separated by invisible walls that felt as
impenetrable as steel.

In this new, disorienting reality, I found it hard to understand not just my parents, but
everyone around me. My friends seemed to be coping better, their social media posts
filled with new hobbies and virtual hangouts. I felt like an outsider, disconnected and
adrift in a sea of forced smiles and hollow words of encouragement. The advice to
“stay strong” and “stay positive” rang hollow, empty platitudes that did little to ease
the suffocating sense of isolation I felt.

It was only later, after many long, difficult months, that I began to understand that
everyone was struggling in their own way. My parents, despite their frayed nerves,
were doing their best to hold our family together. My friends, beneath their cheerful
posts, were grappling with their own fears and uncertainties. We were all trying to
navigate this unprecedented situation, each of us dealing with our own private battles.
 The World After Lockdown

Now, as I walked into the junior college, the weight of the past months hung heavily in
the air. Masks concealed smiles and expressions, making everyone seem a bit more
distant, a bit more guarded. The once lively campus was now a sea of socially distanced
desks and hand sanitizing stations. Precautions were everywhere, reminders of the
invisible threat that had upended our lives.

Stepping out of the house for the first time in months felt surreal. As I made my way to
the junior college, I couldn’t help but reflect on how much life had changed since the
world was thrust into lockdown.

Before the pandemic, life was a whirlwind of activity. The days were filled with the
comforting routines of school, sports, and hanging out with friends. The future seemed
predictable, almost monotonous in its consistency. We worried about exams, social
dramas, and the latest trends. It was a life of carefree normalcy, where the biggest
concern was whether I’d studied enough for the next test.

But then the lockdown came, and everything changed. The world shrank to the size of
our homes. Days blended into each other, marked only by online classes and virtual
meet-ups.

The first day back was a mix of anxiety and excitement. Seeing friends in person after
so long was both heartwarming and strange. We had all changed, in ways big and
small. Some had taken up new hobbies, others had grown more serious, their faces
etched with the weight of the past months. Conversations were tinged with stories of
lockdown experiences—of challenges faced, lessons learned, and the resilience that
had seen us through.

Despite the initial awkwardness, there was a sense of shared understanding, a

collective relief at being together again. The classrooms, though rearranged and
sterilized, once again buzzed with the energy of learning and interaction. There was a
new appreciation for things we had taken for granted—sitting next to a friend,
discussing a problem face-to-face, the simple act of being part of a community.

Life after lockdown was different, undeniably so. The carefree ease of the past had
been replaced with a cautious optimism. But there was also a newfound strength, a
recognition of our ability to adapt and persevere. The experience had changed us, but
it had also taught us to value the present, to cherish the connections we have, and to
face the future with a resilience we never knew we possessed.
 “Shattered Walls, United Hearts”

Junior college was full of breakdowns and heartbreaks – I lost my first love, my
maternal granny died but every storm brings the rainbow. I found my mentor and my
buddy – Sweety lord and Pratham Shende – both are the incredible person I ever got.
They have a way of bringing light into even the darkest moments, reminding me of the
strength I often forget I have.

Katherine was newly appointed biology teacher, who faced the existential crisis in the
beginning. I was the one she felt comfortable to reach out, and I feel fortunate to be
the chosen one for entire time period in college. She shared things which were beyond
the imagination of the teacher-student bond. Can’t ignore the fact – she was just 25,
way more mature than her age, so was I.

From the moment I walked into her classroom, I knew Katherine was different. Her
enthusiasm for biology was contagious. She spoke of cells, ecosystems, and evolution
with a passion that made the subject come alive. But it wasn't just her knowledge that
drew me in; it was the way she saw potential in every student, especially in me.

At a time when I was struggling with self-doubt and the pressures of growing up,
Katherine’s classroom became a sanctuary. She noticed my interest in biology early on
and encouraged it, pushing me to ask questions, think critically, and explore beyond
the textbooks. It was in her classroom that I first felt truly seen and valued for who I
was.

Our bond grew stronger with each passing day. I would stay after class, peppering her
with questions about everything from genetic mutations to the wonders of the human
body. She would answer each one patiently, often with a twinkle in her eye that
suggested she was just as excited to discuss these topics as I was. These after-college
sessions became the highlight of my days, a time when I could dive deep into the
subject I loved and share my thoughts with someone who genuinely cared.

Katherine wasn't just teaching me biology; she was teaching me about life. Through
our conversations, she imparted wisdom that went far beyond the curriculum. She
taught me the importance of perseverance, the value of curiosity, and the joy of
learning for its own sake. She shared stories of her own struggles and triumphs, making
me realize that everyone, even the people we look up to, faces challenges and
overcomes them.

One particular moment stands out in my memory. It was the day of the annual science
fair. I had poured my heart and soul into my project, but as the day approached, my
nerves got the better of me. I was convinced that my work wasn’t good enough, that I
would embarrass myself in front of everyone. Katherine noticed my anxiety and pulled
me aside.
She looked me straight in the eyes and said, "You have done incredible work, and you
should be proud of it. But remember, this fair isn't just about winning or losing. It's
about sharing your passion, learning from the experience, and growing as a person. No
matter what happens, know that I am proud of you."

Those words gave me the courage I needed. I went on to present my project with
confidence, and I won first place, the experience was transformative. It wasn't the
accolades that mattered, but the belief in myself that Katherine had installed in me.

As the day of the college farewell approached, I found myself flooded with mixed
emotions. The end of this chapter brought a sense of accomplishment, but also a
bittersweet feeling of leaving behind the people and places that had become so
integral to my journey. Among those, Katherine stood out as a towering figure of
influence and inspiration.

The farewell ceremony was a whirlwind of speeches, laughter, and tears. Friends and
teachers reminisced about the shared experiences and milestones we had achieved
together. When it was time to dance on the floor, we all rocked it. It was the happiest
and also the shattering day – with clouds full of sorrows, smile with a pain deep inside
the heart, wrenching the joyful soul out of me. I enjoyed – danced, cried.

After the ceremony, I sought out Katherine. We stood together in the now empty
auditorium, the echoes of the farewell still lingering in the air. "Thank you," I said, my
voice choked with emotion. "For everything."

She placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "You have always had the potential, and
I'm proud of how far you've come. Remember, this is just the beginning. Keep
questioning, keep exploring, and never stop believing in yourself."

Our bond lasted beyond junior college. Even as I moved on to higher education and
different paths, we are still in touch. She continued to offer guidance and
encouragement, always reminding me of the lessons I had learned in his classroom.
Her influence shaped not only my academic pursuits but also my approach to life. She
is still my all-time-go-to person whenever something happens, or whenever I need her.

Looking back, I realize that the most precious bond I shared with Katherine wasn't just
about a shared interest in biology. It was about finding a mentor who believed in me
when I struggled to believe in myself. It was about the countless lessons that extended
beyond the classroom walls, lessons that have stayed with me throughout my life.
friend
/frɛnd/
noun
 a person with whom one has
a bond of mutual affection,
typically - one exclusive of
family relations:

Pratham – (the one) a friend who would come to mean more to me than I ever
imagined. We had known of each other for years, passing each other in the corridors of
our old school without much more than a nod. But it wasn’t until we both stepped into
the uncharted territory of junior college that our paths truly converged.

What set our friendship apart from the start was the effortless ease with which we
connected. Unlike many friendships that seemed to be forged from shared activities or
mutual circles, ours was built on a profound understanding and acceptance of each
other’s true selves. We didn’t need to pretend or put on a front; our bond was a
sanctuary of authenticity in a world that often demands conformity.

We have spent countless hours together, doing everything from exploring new places
to simply enjoying each other's company in silence. There are the late-night talks, the
kind that stretch on for hours and cover every topic imaginable—from the minute
details of our day to the big questions about life, dreams, and the future. Those
conversations often begin casually but somehow always end up deep and meaningful,
leaving us both feeling more understood and connected.

Our friendship wasn’t defined by grand gestures but by the small, consistent acts of
kindness and support. We celebrated each other’s successes, no matter how minor,
and provided a shoulder to lean on during the inevitable setbacks. Whether it was
staying up late to help with last-minute study sessions or sharing the last slice of pizza,
our actions were driven by genuine care and a deep-rooted sense of camaraderie.

We had an unspoken understanding, an intuitive sense of each other’s needs and

moods. It was as if we spoke a language that only we could understand, built on shared
experiences and mutual respect. During the moments of silence between us, there was
a comforting presence that spoke louder than words. We didn’t need constant
communication to feel connected; our bond was resilient and unwavering.

That person fills the voids inside me – for some reasons I never thought I will be able to
be with someone who completes me and moreover, thoroughly understands me. We
shared immense pain, cry, sorrows, heartbreaks – but we also share the joy of being
together for completing each other. The bond is purely, admirable and happy to say,
righteousness.
You probably would understand by the verse I wrote for him.

Echoes of Friendship

I met you and at an instant, I knew you were different.

I longed to recall the familiarities, I knew you before this reality.

After you hugged me so intensively, I knew I loved you immensely.

I searched to understand my feelings, intense like our energies bouncing off the
ceilings.

You gave me a hug that changed my life, a bond realized so thick, it couldn't be cut
with a knife.

I needed to understand what it all was, wanted to explore what it all does.

We continued on, but became more distant, but you were always there in every
instant.

It grew stronger and stronger, as we felt the pull, it kept us anything but dull.

I always knew a lot more than I would say, I never wanted to scare you away.

Ups and downs, we went through a lot, we got to the cusp of giving it a shot.

Then chaos flipped it for us, which I found a little sus.

So many people trying to intervene, what did it mean?

You stopped your replies, I sit here crying as my soul dies.

Not knowing what really happened, I am sure I am to blame on the back end.

However we both have fault in this, we both knew it was going to take time before
bliss.

You questioned my goals, when all it was for us to connect our souls.

I didn't worry about the little things, I didn't really worry about if it had strings.

I was completely out of tears, because somehow, I managed to produce my worst

fears.
I wish you would talk to me and clear any miscommunication, we both know there is
some miscommunication.

I hope you can forgive whatever I have done, having you in my life has been so much
fun.

I see posts all over the place, some sound so much like us, but it’s always a different
face.

I gave up on the post, because you can text back like we boast.

Things are going to change in place, I am dropping my social circles at record pace.

Alone is better if not with you, so I will just adapt to make do.

It was all 100% you and with all your flaws, I have them too so let's not pause.

I am sorry for whatever it is, but we need to communicate before it turns to fizz.

No one will ever be you, then remember who do we do?

[This poem depicts the idea of us, beholds the thought of being there for each other –
makes us who we are and why we are the way we are.]
 6.
You left me crying

29th June 2023.

The rain began in the late afternoon, a gentle drizzle that quickly transformed into a
relentless downpour. By evening, the sky was a deep, foreboding grey, and the sound
of raindrops against the windowpane created a melancholic symphony. My roommate,
always up for an adventure, had left for a trip, leaving me alone in our dimly lit hostel
room.

As the night wore on, the storm outside mirrored the turmoil within me. I was on the
edge, feeling an overwhelming sense of despair and hopelessness. The weight of my
thoughts pressed down on me, suffocating and unrelenting. "Is this it? Can I keep
going?" The questions echoed through my mind, growing louder with each passing
minute.

In a desperate bid to hold on, I tried reaching out to those I loved. My parents, my Di,
my close friends—they were my lifeline. I dial numbers with trembling fingers, my
voice shaky as I left messages, hoping someone would answer.

"Hi, it's me. I... I really need to talk. Please call me back."

But it was late, and the storm had likely disrupted the lines holding my heart. A storm –
life destroying, which none of anyone around me thought would trying to end. The
minutes felt like hours as I waited, hoping for a reply that never came. Each
unanswered call and unreturned message deepened my sense of isolation.

As the night dragged on, my emotions reached a breaking point. Tears streamed down
my face, mixing with the rain that had started seeping through a crack in the window. I
cried openly, sobs wracking my body as I felt the full weight of my pain and loneliness. I
paced the room, the four walls closing in on me, making it harder to breathe.

In my desperation, I considered ending it all. The thought of peace, of an end to the

pain, was tantalizing. I stood at the edge of my bed, staring at the bottle of pills I had
been prescribed for like headache or cold. My hands shook as I picked it up, the storm
outside growing fiercer, the wind howling through the cracks in the window.
With tears blurring my vision, I fumbled with the strip. "This is it," I thought, the
despair pulling me into a dark abyss. And as I raised the pills to my mouth, I gulped it
within fraction of seconds. It wasn’t a suicide, I just wanted to escape – escape from
pain and the constant fear of being abandoned by people I love, escape from the
distraction and the divergence, from career, and a constant fight with myself.

The first light of dawn filtered through the rain-soaked window, casting a pale glow
over the room. The storm had passed, leaving behind a world that felt eerily calm and
cleansed. I was still lying on the bed, my eyes swollen from crying, my body aching
from the tension.

As the effects of the pills began to take hold, I felt a heavy drowsiness wash over me.
My vision blurred, and the world around me started to fade.

At evening, a loud knock echoed through the room. It was faint at first, but grew more
insistent.

“Hey! Are you in there?” A concerned voice called out. It was one of my hostel mates.
The persistent knocking turned into banging as he realized something was wrong.

He was out with his friends, Sarthak my roommate – asked me what have had
happened? - what have I done? - why?

I was puzzled, so was he. I explained him everything, he made me realised the
consequences of my actions which now I was going to face. I was scarred not because
how will everyone react after knowing this, but by the fact that how will I be able to
cope again – live again?

Following day, he forced me to have various tests done like, CBC, urine and
heamogram. But none could give the answer to my relentless question of why’s.

The results of tests were supposed to be normal, because the real shit was going to
happen in my liver. Next day was nothing new, I went to college – felt happy, and
doesn’t seem to bothered by what I have done.

1st July 2023

Real pain has now started to begin, there was a hay of tiredness in my muscles,
followed by dizziness in brain – seems to have stopped functioned as a part of body.
Wanna throw up but couldn’t help it really, instead end up losing appetite for forever.

At 9’o clock, I was rushed to the hospital, Sarthak along with Soham took me to nearby
Sasoon hospital’s emergency ward. At first, the nurse after hearing my condition and
what had I done? questioned, whether I was mentally ill or what.

Perhaps she was spitting the fact in real, and of course they rejected my case and
refused to take me as a patient. Knowing this is going to lead to something scary, I
hadn’t thought it in my nightmares. Both of them were confused, what to do now?

Soham insisted to take me to the private hospital near my college, West valley hospital
was its name. after hearing what have I done, Dr immediately insisted to admit me as
soon as possible. I couldn’t think of anything else but the thought of what my parents
will think about me was scaring me more.

The hospital staff moved with practiced efficiency, guiding me through the intake
process with calm professionalism. A nurse gently checked my vitals, her nurturement
and reassuring. Despite the chaos of the emergency room, there was an underlying
sense of order and care.

In the midst of this, my phone rang. It was my father, his voice steady but laced with
concern. "We're on our way, beta. Hang in there."

Unbeknownst to me, my parents had received Sarthak’s call right after he had
contacted the hospital. They were with my paternal cousin brother at the time, and
upon hearing the gravity of the situation, they immediately set off to be by my side. It
was a journey that would take them hours, in the heavy signaling of railways lines.

That night in the hospital was a mix of pain and solitude. The room was dimly lit, the
sterile smell of disinfectant hanging in the air. I was hooked up to machines, the steady
beeping a constant reminder of where I was. The bed was uncomfortable, and the
ache in my abdomen made it difficult to find a position that didn’t hurt.

Sarthak noticed how restless I was. There was no one else around to offer comfort, so
he did something unexpected—he took a blanket and pillow, and settled down on the
cold, hard floor next to my bed. It wasn’t much, but knowing he was there, that
someone was close, offered a small sense of relief in the midst of everything.

As the night dragged on, I couldn’t sleep. The pain, the anxiety, and the loneliness all
kept me wide awake. Then, my phone buzzed—a call from shruti, I had texted her
about what have had happened and she promised to call me. She knew I was
struggling, and even though she was miles away, she wanted to be there for me.

“Hey,” her voice was soft, filled with concern. “How are you holding up?”

“I’ve been better,” I admitted, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s just…hard being
here, you know? And the pain, it’s…bad.”
“I wish I could be there with you,” she said, and I could hear the sincerity in her voice.
“But I’m here now, even if it’s just through the phone. Tell me how you’re feeling, or if
you want, we can talk about something else to take your mind off things.”

I appreciated her offer, and for the next hour, we talked about everything and nothing
—memories, inside jokes, future plans. Her voice was soothing, a lifeline in the dark,
helping me to focus on something other than the discomfort and fear. She stayed on
the line with me until I began to feel my eyes grow heavy.

“I’m going to stay here until you fall asleep,” she said, and I could almost see her
reassuring smile through the phone.

“Thank you,” I whispered, feeling a wave of gratitude. “You’re the best, you know
that?”

“I’m just doing what I can,” she replied gently. “You’re strong, and you’ll get through
this. Just rest now, okay?”

With her words still echoing in my mind, I finally drifted off to sleep, the phone resting
on the bed beside me. The pain wasn’t gone, but somehow, with their support, it felt
more bearable.

The next morning, the first rays of sunlight filtered through the window, casting a soft
glow across the room. Sarthak was still there on the floor, having spent the night
watching over me. And then I remembered—my parents were coming today. The
thought brought a sense of relief and comfort.

When they finally arrived at the hospital, my parents and my brother entered the
hospital room with a sense of urgent determination. Despite their fear and anxiety,
they approached me with calm and composed expressions.

My mother took my hand, her touch warm and reassuring. “We’re here now,” she said
softly, her voice steady. My father stood by her side, his presence a pillar of strength.
My brother, who had always been a source of wisdom and support, placed a
comforting hand on my shoulder.

In that moment, my parents showed no signs of the pain and worry that had surely
gripped them during their journey. Instead, they exuded a sense of calm and
unwavering support. My father, always the strong, silent type, gave me a reassuring
smile. “You’re going to be okay,” he said, his voice filled with quiet confidence.

My mother, ever the nurturer, stroked my hair gently. “We’re here for you, Vedu. We’ll
get through this together.”

Sarthak, who had been my rock throughout the night, stepped back to give my family
space but remained close by, ready to support in any way he could. His eyes met mine,
and in that silent exchange, I felt a deep sense of gratitude for his unwavering
friendship.
I have always sought validation from my parents, craving their approval and
recognition. Their support has been a cornerstone of my self-worth, and during
challenging times like being in the hospital, their presence was a profound comfort.
Their concern, love, and encouragement made me feel less alone, affirming that I was
important and that they were proud of my resilience. Their reassurance was a vital
source of strength, showing me that I mattered and that they were with me every step
of the way.

Even from a distance, di played a crucial role in my support system. While she couldn’t
be there physically, she offered her unique brand of comfort and understanding.
Through calls and texts, she provided laughter and distraction, reminding me of the
connection we shared. Her approach wasn’t about replacing my parents’ support but
about complementing it with her own way of showing love and solidarity. Her
presence, even from afar, was a reminder that I wasn’t alone, and her support helped
lighten my burden during a difficult time.

The doctors explained the next steps. They spoke of counseling, medication, and the
importance of rest and recovery. Throughout this, my family listened intently, their
faces a mask of calm determination.

As the days passed, the hospital became a place of healing, not just for my body but
for my spirit as well. The professional care I received was instrumental, but it was the
unwavering support of my loved ones that truly made the difference.

Their ability to see past my flaws and continue to stand by me gave me the courage to
forgive myself, learn from my mistakes, and move forward with a renewed sense of
hope and gratitude.

Garib Rath Express

I returned home, but it was anything but a normal homecoming. The weight of my
suicide attempt hung heavily in the air, a palpable presence that coloured every
interaction and conversation. My parents, though relieved to have me back, were filled
with a mix of anxiety and cautious optimism. They were determined to support me,
but the scars of the experience had left their mark on our family dynamics.

Word of my attempt had spread quickly among relatives and friends. Some visited to
express their concern, their faces a mixture of sympathy and discomfort. Others
avoided eye contact, unsure of what to say. It felt as if a shadow had been cast over my
relationships, with people looking at me differently, as if trying to understand the
depths of my despair.

When I went out, the whispers followed. I could feel the weight of their gazes, the
questions left unasked. It was as though I had become a living reminder of the fragility
of mental health, and many didn't know how to approach me. The looks of pity and
disguised curiosity were almost too much to bear, adding to the sense of isolation I
already felt.

Coming back in hometown, spending time with Shruti was exactly what I needed to
feel like myself again. The moment I saw her, it was as if a weight had lifted from my
shoulders. Her warm smile and infectious laughter instantly brightened my energy, and
I felt a sense of comfort that only a true friend could provide.

I spent hours catching up on everything I had missed—sharing stories, venting about

my hospital stay, and just enjoying each other’s company. Every laugh I shared felt like
a healing balm to my soul, each giggle making the bond between us stronger. We
reminisced about old times, recalling memories from our school days that made us
both double over in laughter. It was the kind of laughter that made my stomach hurt,
the kind that wiped away the pain and stress of the past few weeks.

I talked about my dreams, my fears, and everything in between. With Shruti, there was
no need to hold back. She listened to me with genuine interest, her eyes full of
understanding and empathy. She shared her own stories, too, and we both found
solace in each other's words, realizing just how much you’d missed these simple, yet
profound moments.

At home, my parents were vigilant, their concern manifesting in various ways. They
checked on me frequently, their footsteps soft but constant outside my bedroom door.
Every interaction was tinged with a new layer of caution. They monitored my
medication intake meticulously, ensuring I didn’t miss a dose and watching for any
signs of distress.

My mother prepared my meals with extra care, ensuring I had nutritious food to aid
my recovery. She would sit with me during meals, sometimes, she used to feed me just
like she used to do when I was a kid, her eyes searching mine for any signs of the
turmoil that had gripped me. My father, always the strong and silent type, now asked
more questions, trying to gauge my emotional state without being intrusive.

Despite their best efforts, the trust between us had been shaken. My parents, though
loving and supportive, now harboured a deep-seated fear of losing me again. This fear
manifested in subtle ways: the way they double-checked if I had taken my medication,
the anxious glances they exchanged when I was quiet for too long, the hesitation in
their voices when asking how I felt.

There were moments when their vigilance felt suffocating, but I understood their fear.
They had come so close to losing me, and the trauma of that night had left them with
an unshakeable need to protect me, even if it meant walking on eggshells around me.

Rebuilding trust was a slow and delicate process. I tried to reassure my parents, to
show them that I was committed to my recovery, but I knew it would take time. I
attended therapy sessions regularly, working through my feelings and learning
strategies to cope with my anxiety and depression.
My therapist encouraged open communication, and I started having honest
conversations with my parents about my progress and my struggles. These talks were
difficult but necessary. We began to rebuild our relationship on a foundation of
transparency and mutual support.

Despite the challenges, my parents' love and care never wavered. They arranged for
regular check-ins with my therapist, and my father even took time off work to be
around more. They made small gestures that spoke volumes: my mother would let me
cook and she would appreciate no matter what (though I cook good), and my father
would suggest walks together to get fresh air and clear our minds.

Reflection
Every time it’s time for me to leave for college, saying goodbye to my granny is one of
the hardest moments. She has always been deeply emotional during these farewells,
and as I prepare to go, I can see the tears welling up in her eyes. Her heart feels heavy,
and her hugs linger a bit longer, filled with a mix of love and sadness. For her, each
departure is a reminder of the distance that separates me and the empty space that
my absence creates in her daily life.

Returning to college after my suicide attempt was a daunting prospect. The familiar
campus now felt alien, the hallways filled with whispers and sidelong glances. News of
my ordeal had spread, and I could sense the judgment in the eyes of my peers.

As I walked through the corridors, I felt like an outsider. Conversations would abruptly
halt when I approached, only to resume in hushed tones as I passed by. It was as if I
had become a subject of morbid curiosity, a reminder of the fragility that everyone
feared but rarely acknowledged.

In classes, I noticed the subtle shifts in behaviour. Group practical became more
challenging as classmates hesitated to partner with me, unsure of how to interact.
Some offered awkward, forced sympathy, while others avoided me altogether. It was
isolating, and the sense of being judged was overwhelming.

Shruti reached out to me frequently, her messages and calls a lifeline during those
challenging days. Unlike others, she didn’t treat me with pity or awkwardness. Instead,
she listened without judgment, offering genuine empathy and understanding.

"How are you really feeling today?" she would ask, her voice filled with concern but
never patronizing.

I would share my struggles, my fears, and my frustrations, and she would listen
patiently, providing words of comfort and encouragement. She never tried to offer
solutions unless I asked for them, understanding that sometimes, I just needed
someone to hear me.
Our conversations became my safe haven. Shruti’s ability to understand my emotions,
despite the distance, was a source of immense comfort. She didn’t shy away from the
difficult topics, and her acceptance of my vulnerability helped me navigate the social
challenges at college.

When the judgment of my peers became too much to bear, I would find solace in her
words. “You are not defined by this experience,” she would remind me. “You are so
much more, and you will rise above it.”

With her support, I began to rebuild my resilience. I learned to cope with the judgment
and to focus on my recovery. Slowly, I started participating in class discussions again,
despite the whispers. I forced myself to engage in social activities, even when it felt
uncomfortable.

Then came the news that she had been accepted into a prestigious program in Russia.
She was ecstatic, and I shared in her excitement, despite the pang of sadness at the
thought of her being even further away. "It's an incredible opportunity," she said, her
eyes sparkling with anticipation. "I'll be in Kemerovo, studying what I love."

As She prepared to leave for Russia to pursue her MBBS, I felt a mix of pride and
sadness. Her departure was a significant milestone in her journey, but it also meant
that our connection would now span continents. Despite the physical distance, Shruti
promised to stay as connected as ever, her support unwavering.

The day she was leaving, we had a heartfelt conversation over video call. She was in
her room, her suitcase packed and ready.

“I’m going to miss you,” I admitted, my voice heavy with emotion.

“I’ll miss you too,” she replied, her eyes glistening with tears. “But remember, I’m
always just a call away. We’ve gotten through so much already; this distance won’t
change anything.”

Her words were reassuring, yet the reality of her absence was hard to accept.
Watching her board the plane through my phone screen, I felt a pang of loneliness. The
last message she sent before taking off was simple but powerful: “Stay strong. We’re in
this together, no matter where we are.”

True to her word, she remained a steadfast presence in my life. Despite the demanding
schedule of medical school, she found time to check in regularly. Our late-night
conversations continued, bridging the time difference between Russia and India. She
shared stories of her new experiences, the challenges of medical school, and the
beauty of her new surroundings.

“I had my first anatomy class today,” she texted one night. “It’s intense, but I love it.
How are you holding up?”
Her updates were a comforting reminder that life was moving forward for both of us.
She sent photos of snowy streets, the university campus, and her new friends, making
her world feel a little closer to mine.

Whenever I faced difficult days at college, Shruti was there, her virtual presence as
strong as ever. She listened to my struggles with the judgment of peers, offering
insights and encouragement.

“One day, they’ll see your strength,” she wrote. “Just keep being you. Your courage
inspires me every day.”

Her understanding and empathy transcended the miles between us. She was the one
person who truly knew the depth of my experiences and never judged me for them.

But as months passed, I began to notice subtle changes. Shruti’s messages became less
frequent, and our calls, though still regular, seemed shorter and more hurried. She was
always busy, her life consumed by the rigorous demands of medical school. While I
understood and admired her dedication, I couldn't help but feel the creeping sense of
distance between us.

There were moments when she seemed distracted during our conversations, her mind
elsewhere. "Everything okay?" I would ask, trying to mask my concern.

"Yeah, just tired," she would reply, her voice lacking its usual warmth. I wanted to
believe her, but a nagging suspicion began to grow in the back of my mind.

One evening, during one of our increasingly rare calls, she seemed particularly distant.
I could hear the background noise of a busy place, far removed from the quiet of her
dorm room.

"Where are you?" I asked, curiosity piqued.

"Oh, just out with some friends," she replied casually. But there was something in her
tone, a hesitation that I hadn't heard before.

As we continued to talk, I noticed her responses were clipped, her attention divided.
The connection between us felt strained, and I couldn't shake the feeling that
something was amiss. She had always been open and honest with me, but now it felt
like she was holding something back.

In the meadow of silence, I asked her, “what are we, Shruti?”

Holding her breath, as if she was about to have a breakdown she replied, “Tera mera
sath hona jitna khoosurat hai na, usse kai jyada daravana hai ek dusre se dur chale jana
hai!”

I opened my mouth, almost said something. Almost. The rest of my life might have
turned out differently if I had, But I didn't.
 7.
Like I’ve been there before

It was a typical evening in Koregaon Park (KP), a vibrant neighborhood known for its
nightlife and bustling streets. I was on call with Adi, not knowing what was about to
happen. The streets were relatively empty, the shops closed, and the usual crowd
had thinned out. It was around 10 PM, and the night air was cool, a gentle breeze
rustling the leaves of the trees lining the road.

As I sat near the edge of the street, a bunch of passersby were going to their
homes after work, some were having an evening walk with their loved ones.
Suddenly, out of nowhere the silence grew. Place felt more like an asylum but now
soon enough – it was turning out into be the place of demons.

As I sat down the dimly lit street, I noticed a group of four men approaching from
the opposite direction. At first, I thought nothing of it; KP was generally safe, and
people often walked in groups. But as they drew closer, I sensed something was
wrong.
Their eyes were fixed on me, their expressions predatory.

Before I could react, they surrounded me, cutting off any chance of escape. The
leader of the group, a tall man with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward
and grabbed my arm roughly.

“Give us your money and phone,” he demanded, his voice low and menacing.

I tried to comply, hoping that if I gave them what they wanted, they would let me go.
My hands trembled as I handed over my wallet and phone. But it wasn’t enough. The
men began to push and shove me, their hands groping and touching me
inappropriately. Panic surged through me, and I felt paralyzed, unable to fight back.
“Stop, please,” I begged, my voice barely a whisper. But my pleas fell on deaf ears.
The assault continued, their laughter echoing in the empty street. The sense of
violation was overwhelming, and I felt tears sting my eyes.

Just when I thought it would never end, a loud shout pierced the night. An old man,
perhaps in his sixties, stood at the end of the street, waving his arms and yelling at
the men to stop.

“Hey! Leave him alone!” he shouted, his voice strong and commanding.

The men hesitated, glancing at each other. The leader cursed under his breath and
reluctantly let go of me. With one final shove, they ran off into the darkness,
disappearing as quickly as they had appeared.

The old man approached me, his face etched with concern. “Are you okay?” he
asked, his voice gentle now.

I nodded, though I felt anything but okay. My body ached from the assault, and the
fear still clung to me like a second skin. He stayed with me, make sure I was okay and
asked me whether to drop a complaint to police or not – I didn’t know what to do, so
I just ask for my sake of sanity and went to hostel.

I slipped into the hostel quietly, not wanting to draw attention. The usual late-night
chatter of students echoed through the corridors, but I felt disconnected from it all. I
kept my head down, avoiding eye contact, and made my way to my room.

As soon as I closed the door behind me, the weight of the night’s events hit me like a
tidal wave. I sank to the floor, my back against the door, and let out a shuddering
breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. The tears came then, uncontrollable sobs
that wracked my body. I felt violated, scared, and utterly alone.

The hours dragged on, each minute feeling like an eternity. The darkness outside
seemed to press in on me, amplifying my anxiety. I kept reliving the assault in
my mind, the men’s faces, their hands, the helplessness I felt. My body ached
where
they had grabbed and shoved me, phantom pains reminding me of my vulnerability.

Despite the trauma, I knew I couldn’t let fear dictate my life. I sought help, talking to
a therapist who specialized in trauma. Slowly, I began to reclaim my sense of
security. Through therapy, I learned coping mechanisms and strategies to manage
my anxiety.

The process was slow and painful, but it was also empowering. I began to venture
out again, cautiously at first, then with increasing confidence. The streets of KP,
while still daunting, started to lose their menacing aura. I learned to trust in my
strength and resilience, to take back control of my life.
Intimacy
I remember the last time when this heart broke, I remember how every piece of my
broken heart screamed "Stay, don't leave I am falling apart" I remember everything,
they say forgive and forget but a heart like mine forgives first and forget later, It takes
time to believe that it wasn't love that I was being fed, it takes time to believe that all
those promises were just words without any feeling, it takes time for this heart to
believe in love again, it takes time for this heart to beat in rhythm.

They say you are brave but the one who is trying to be brave knows how long it takes,
they say you look happy but the one who is trying to put a smile outside when the
world is falling apart inside knows how much it takes.

The one who left showed me where the exit was, people are like seasons one fine day
someone enters with flowers in both hands and a garden in their heart, their presence
is like summer is smiling from far, then in autumn gives a shoulder to lean on, but
suddenly in cold freezing winter takes away my bag of warmth.

Sometimes, it is hard to sit by the window and look at the sky but then suddenly a bird
passes by, the same bird that lost her home last night, it is hard sometimes but then
suddenly the sun hides behind the clouds but still light manages to pave its way
towards the day, it is hard sometimes but then to every fall there is a tree that still
stands still in Amazon, to every fall there is a flower that blooms as hope, to every fall
there are leaves that are green.

I learned it the hardest way but when I cried in the rain and no one saw me, at that
very moment power sneaked in, at that very moment I looked at the sky and I realized
that this is why the sky cried, maybe the storm must have been heavy last night, they
say what breaks you makes you stronger, I would rather say what breaks you makes
you unbreakable.

You know, with some people, no matter how hard you try, it's never enough. No
matter how much effort you put into the relationship, it will never be enough for
them. But with others, you just fit perfectly. You adjust to each other effortlessly, and
before you know it, everything falls into place.

My therapist once asked me, “When was the last time you had an intimate
relationship?” I was like, “I’m having one with you right now!” She gave me a side
eye saying we are in my counselling room, not on the couch of Koffee with Karan.
Well, talking about emotional intimacy, despite being a sensitive as a boy full with
emotions, for the first time in life I didn’t know what to say.

So, I always believed that if I open up to people, they will judge me and leave. So,
before they get a chance to leave me, I leave them. I’m still the loser but at least my
ego’s always up there.

Since childhood, I was always by myself. I was eight when I started visiting my Nani’s
home all by myself for whole summer. So, like an Indian ritual, everybody in
summer used to visit their Nani’s house. Once in a while, some other relatives
would also come to visit. I remember, one of them, a fifteen-year-old boy came up
to me and offered me chocolates.

Now for an eight-year-old kid, getting chocolate is like winning the goblet of fire. Isn’t
it? So, he asked me, “Do you want to get some rest under the blanket?” I was naïve.
As I was being tired after having a long day playing cricket with some neighbor’s kids,
I agreed. As I took a bite, a wave of dizziness hit me almost immediately. My vision
blurred, and the world around me started to spin. A strange, heavy feeling washed
over me, and I felt myself losing control, my body becoming limp. Suddenly, out of
nowhere, he pulled me closer, and before I could understand what exactly was
happening with me, it happened again. Yet another time, yet another evening. Some
more chocolates, and before I knew it, the wrappers started piling up. The realization
hit too late—there was something in the chocolate.
I hated the idea of being seen as a victim, I choose silence. When nobody knew what
was happening to me, I realized, these chocolates are expensive and have to repay
for it in the future. So, I left. Went back to square one.

The vacation was over and school was resumed. As a kid I kept this inside me for
three years, but couldn’t resists the impact it was making. When I was in second
grade, that’s when my silence become my enemy.

Without knowing, People say, “Just get over it, move on!” Sure, if only it were that
simple, right? It’s like having this uninvited guest in your head—constantly reminding
you that the world isn’t safe, that people can’t be trusted. You know, the kind of guest
who eats all your snacks and leaves without cleaning up? That’s my anxiety, just
hanging around, doing whatever it wants.

And here’s the kicker—it’s not just about the fear. It’s about control. That incident took
something from me—my sense of safety, my ability to relax and just be a kid. And it’s
like I’ve been trying to get that back ever since. Spoiler alert: it’s not going great. I’ve
spent years trying to reclaim that control, and it’s exhausting. It’s like playing a game of
tug-of-war with a ghost—you never win, and you’re the only one who gets tired.

So yeah, one little chocolate bar laced with some bad stuff, and suddenly you’re on a
lifelong journey of therapy, trust issues, and a deep, burning hatred for anything that
smells too sweet. Who knew that childhood trauma could be so…sticky? And here I am,
trying to make sense of it all, sharing my story with you, hoping maybe, just maybe,
you’ll get it. Or at least, you’ll keep your chocolate to yourself.

While writing this, I’m taking control of my life back in my hands and I can’t think of a
better platform to say it out loud. In the end, I guess what I’m saying is this: watch out
for those free chocolates, folks. They can really screw you up. Or, you know, just
screw you up enough to turn your life into a memoir. Either way, it’s a hell of a ride.

For those out there judging and gaslighting me, I would just say, “Avada Kedavra!”