19/03/2018: A Log

You were a stranger to sorrow: therefore Fate has cursed you.

—Euripides, Alcestis.

It is a struggle to wake up: mostly on days you are thoroughly accustomed to being alone in a house full of emptiness. My cousin and I cautiously lock the front door whenever we leave somewhere because we’re afraid of unwanted infiltration. We’re hardwired like that, I used to think it was foolish that one would possess a house one is not wanted in and then I grew up, I took locking doors casually but over time I developed a temperament for it. It is Monday morning, I lie in bed mustering the will to wake up for college, and it does not seem to come easy. As such, I have fell into a routine of waking up early, and I follow it like a machine; it helps me to stay busy with things rather sit in a solitary place and contemplate about existence; it is utterly depressing. Sometimes you may think that love is an answer to certain things; most likely to your depression, and that a substantial amount of attention will help you get through it like voodoo magic but you couldn’t be more wrong. I’ve been there, multiple times have I felt the world slipping beneath my feet, like I’ve lost all my concentration and a mysterious sorrow filled cloud is pouring itself all over my appearance. In this transition I think my only constant is sleep, I sleep excessively and I’m not the person you’d find awake at three a.m in the morning. Tradition says I should.

This morning as I stepped into the college premises, I was welcomed by a sight of numerous students and I’d love to give you a round figure but my mathematical intuition has proven itself as bad as an imbecile’s. Apparently, I was late, it was 11:23am and I’m usually early but today my lack of will to leave for college was staggering. Previous day, I had read the schedule wrong and therefore I darted for the wrong building to attend my class but to my surprise there were so many students in it that I was absolutely sure something was off. Also, my social awkwardness wouldn’t let me at least look for familiar faces in that morbid crowd and I don’t like that. On my way back I saw Doodlebug and Blackbeard at the intersection of the heritage building and the New Block. I greeted them, said some things that conspired to make the air between us denser and upon hearing that there was no Professor in Room 13, we took it upon ourselves to report it to the English Department but it was mostly me facing English department faculty with prominent blush. It took us a week to finally do it, we were so inclined to excuse ourselves to the pleasures of unaccounted time that to our idea it did not seem like a responsibility that we were in control of. So today  I looked at the head of the department dead in the eye while bringing it into their attention when she replied to my query like this: the 2nd semester does not literature and that felt like a complete denial of our existence. We definitely have literature in our curriculum; I was so sure about this, I’ve never been so confident in my entire life. So I corrected her and she corrected herself and then I was provided with the knowledge that the professor was in the class room already which was completely in contrast with what my company said. Also, we had run out of things to talk, I had run out of things to talk and hence the motivation.

Thus three of us huddled along and were gladly welcomed by the newly appointed professor and therefore began my long day. Nonetheless, the only time I actively participated was when we were asked to provide an example of Irony and I answered by saying Our College is wonderful! The professor seemed to take it well, she chuckled and the class too had a good laugh about it. One time, around the classroom corner, I saw Hondo taking a sneak peek through the window; he bunked out of impulse. He is impulsive like that. Meanwhile, Shakespeare had skipped, as I came to know later when I asked a variable of a person in our semester who knew him. Moody doesn’t seem to bother either. I think he’s at odds with everything in the world; perhaps he was born wearing a scowl on his face but who knows.

I had consecutive classes till two in the afternoon and I was supposed to leave as soon as possible, I promised my mother that both of us will go home together. To do that I had to go to my maternal home, lately I’ve been avoiding it because of what my uncle said but never mind that now. When I reached there, my mother wasn’t there and I did find it odd that she hadn’t called me yet to ask me of my whereabouts. Eventually, I came to know why when I called her; she had not taken her daily medication of her otherwise haywire blood pressure and it cost her. She had a minor brain hemorrhage, a capillary had burst in her eye section and thank god she recovered enough to consciously talk through it all. My father, who is in PGI Chandigarh at present to seek the cause of his pain, came to know about it and made her realize her negligence— she was silent and did not talk back, she receded into a silence of guilt and knew she couldn’t talk her way out of this— we have been focused on my father lately and I feel guilty about that. It has been a while since I have asked her how she is doing.

That sorrow sunk my heart to abysmal depths and there was just no way to land and land well, her left eye has an Antarctica shaped blood clot under her brown iris. My eyes are the same as hers but the clot is in my heart right now.

I’m inundated in the sorrow of my father’s pain and my guilty blind eye to my Ammi. I seem to be stuck with it, also loosely adjusted to it; in my years I’ve found the heart to tuck it under my skin and rage, on the outside I’m this thankful optimistic irony. I’m wonderful.