The Real Dementors.

“Inspired by a true story, Part I”
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“It tickles don’t do it, please no, bhai”, she chuckled as she tried to get free of her cousin’s grasp.
They were playing as usual in the lawn, the same game where bhai used to tickle her all over the body to cure her of her ticklish nature. But this time it was different, bhai was persistent even when she told him not to.

Courtesy: Tumblr
Courtesy: Tumblr

She was a girl of seven and bhai was five years older than her. He used to come live with their family during the summer holidays and sometimes during the winter vacations too. Every summer she used to wait for him, of her elder brother and his siblings. She used to dream of playing with them all year-long, she didn’t have anyone to play with, Baba used to be away for his job and Maa used to be busy in-house chores. Maa rarely let her get out of the house to play with the neighborhood kids, she used to say just one thing when Samia used to cry and beg her to go outside, “Shaitaan (devil) roams around in the human form outside and he can hurt you”, so it was only her cousins for whom she always longed for.
The next day bhai proposed to everyone that they play darkroom and everyone seemed to be happy with bhai’s choice of game. It was Madiha’s turn to find people in the dark room. Bhai hid everyone and then hid himself with Samia, when everyone was in their place and Madiha came knocking to ask if everyone was ready, bhai told her he wasn’t because he was hiding Samia in her place.
Samia was close with bhai, he used to buy her chocolates, take her side when everyone was fighting and was against her and when no one was playing he used to play with her.

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Courtesy: Tumblr

In the wake of the night when everyone was outside in the lawn because of no electricity bhai used to come to her maa and baba’s room where Samia used to be fast asleep and when no one was looking as the door used to be wide open he used to pull up Samia’s shirt and plant kisses all over her bare skin and then he used to pull down Samia’s pyjamas and then the underwear and then he used to pull his own pants and underwear down and sit on top of her and then he used to ask if Samia liked it, Samia didn’t know what to respond or how to respond or if it was right or wrong, maybe it was wrong but she used to nod anyway. This would continue until the one hour load shedding time was over or someone used to be in close vicinity of the room. Sometimes bhai used to play this game with her during the day when they were alone.

Courtesy: Tumblr
Courtesy: Tumblr

When Samia got older and she realised what was happening it was too late, for apparently there might be no physical damage but her self esteem and her soul was brutally scarred and crushed to rubble. She began questioning her morality, her own self, she began questioning of what could have been right had she known this before or had she shook her head in negation instead of affirmation. Did she know it was wrong all along or did she not? She wanted to burn every inch of her skin where bhai touched her, kissed her, inserted his genitals into her. How could she be so foolish to trust bhai, to trust someone who was just using her? How could bhai breach this wall of trust? How could bhai take advantage of her love? How could bhai be so heartless? He was her elder brother, her confidant. She should have known everything. How could she be so much naïve, so much of an idiot? And the list of the questions grew but there doesn’t seem to be any answers. All there was the blame, the blame that she put on herself for not knowing, for nodding, for not raising her voice. But how could have she raise her voice when everyone suppressed it? When no one helped her when she was bullied by the senior girls at school or when the cousins used to fight with her, call her names, make fun of her irrationally. Everyone thought they were playing, children do it. It’s all normal. It’s all normal, that’s what she thought, that’s what everyone made her think.

Courtesy: Tumblr
Courtesy: Tumblr

Maa used to say that there are monsters hiding in the skin of people outside, didn’t she know that monsters hide under our beds and closets? That Shaitaan can take the shape of the most trusted of relations. That people wear make-up to hide the zits and dark circles. That people grow beards to veil the devil inside of them. That people misuse trust and love. That people play games not just for the sake of the game but for their own enjoyment and fun. That what people play are not just games. That the physical scars heal but what about those that are obscured from others? How to heal them? What’s the cure? Which ointment to apply? Which pill to take? Which syrup to drink? Where’s the doctor for the wounds inside? Can we trust the doctor? How do you build that wall of trust again? What kind of bricks and cementing material is used? What do you do? Does Maa and Baba know all of this? Why didn’t she know about the masked devil? Why didn’t she protect her from the devil? Why? Would people accept her if she revealed? Would they think of her as a whore? Would they blame her? Was it her mistake? Did she find it pleasurable? Did she really?
These unanswered questions haunted her, hit her like an iron ball. Killed her every time. Pierced into her like knives thrown at her. How can she stop the nightmares that first started from her rape and then engulfed her mother and then her female cousins? The monsters under her bed seemed innocuous now because there were villains much more fatal and horrible, much more scarier and they didn’t just loose free during the night, they conquered day too. The scars they leave are for lifetime and the way to their cure is not written in any of the books. Bhais are not bhai anymore, mamus and chachas are not mamu and chacha anymore neither is any other relation. How could you trust someone unknown when the knowns stab you with burning poisons of the soul? What’s the correct way? What’s right and what’s wrong? Because now the lines of wrong doings and right doings seem to be blurred so much that they can’t be seen clearly even with the aided eye.

Courtesy: Tumblr
Courtesy: Tumblr
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Ramblings

I am getting better, or at least that’s what I like to think. My therapy is working. I don’t know it’s the medicine that I take or my perseverance but I don’t have panic attacks as much as I used to and the depressive episodes too have reduced. Although whenever I do, it drains the energy and will to live out of me but that’s part of its job, you know. If depression and anxiety were people they would have come with a job description of driving people insane, dragging them through hell but nobody would ever know, they would be kind of like those villains in movies and dramas who work behind the camera, who are sweet and all things positive up front but in actuality they are all the evils imaginable and while putting that facade of righteousness, they wreak havoc. But it’s not that they only wreak havoc, their job description has something positive about them too. Like giving the person the ability to understand others, to empathise more, to feel more and to create more. To create such beautiful art that when you even want to separate from those toxic entities you couldn’t because for the first time in your life you are doing something worthwhile. You are producing something that is not useless and that resonates with others and through which you can speak to a million others like yourself. It gives a medium to express yourself like you can never would. And you love it. It becomes a part of your identity. You start getting comfortable with it, with them.

But at the back of your mind you also know that it’s not good, it might seem a healthy relationship between you and your version of depression/anxiety but it still is toxic no matter how creative you have got or much hearts you have touched. It is still something to be worked upon to get rid off.

So here I am, working upon my depression and anxiety. And I think that I have won 51% of the battle. Why the extra 1%? Because I don’t want depression and anxiety to wallow and to rejoice in my failed attempts to get rid of them completely. So here I give myself the extra 1% for trying, for pushing hard, for working upon myself all alone. I want to be the last man standing and not the villains my brain associates myself.

Right now as I write this piece, a lot of things are going on in my mind, like I never meant to embody depression and anxiety from the start but the idea just jumped in and I did. And I like what I did and I think I should write about the embodiment of mental illnesses more but in a separate post. Anyway, coming back to my other thoughts, I am anxious. I am anxious right now. I am anxious because I don’t want my ability to write and to interpret what I feel into words more coherent taken away as I win this battle. I am afraid that when I’ll be perfectly fine and normal one day that I will not be able to write. And this is frightening. I don’t do much with my life. I am not as productive with my creativity as I ought to be and writing is one thing that satisfies me and that makes me proud of myself. I want to keep on writing despite being cured of my disease.

But here’s the drill, I don’t know how to. All that I have written, all that you have read on my blog, is a product of my panic attacks or depression. I can’t write when I am not suffering. So is it really worth it to sacrifice my sanity for art? Or should I sacrifice my art for my sanity? I am changed. I know. I feel too much, I empathise too much and ability to reach out to a person in an intimate way isn’t going away anywhere. I can detect mood changes from afar. I can perceive what a person is going through without getting to know about it from the person herself/himself. I observe both, consciously and subconsciously. And I know that this isn’t like Harry being a parselmouth as long as Voldemort was connected to him. My brain has grown and it has become more sensitive. But I need my art too. For myself. Not for anyone just for me. If it were for anyone, I would have gone to extreme lengths to write my poems on meters and notes etc but I never read them twice after writing them, I never edit them. Because those are just my thoughts and my experiences and how can I more change or edit my experiences. So I know one thing, that I write only for myself because it makes me hate myself a little less.

I am getting tired of dragging one point now. I now want to end this post. But I want you to tell me if I am wrong or not. Whether creating art is linked with mental illnesses or not. Whether it is like Harry Potter and Voldemort, each feeding on the other’s abilities. I want to be assured that I will keep on writing despite anything.

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Thank you for listening.

Profanation

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Courtesy: Tumblr.com

A rickshaw ride
A vacant mind
And it flashes back to you
A girl of 8
Sitting on his lap
And his hand fixing on you
A play date
That’s all you thought
Your innocence never reaching there
You spent your age of ignorance
But when things started to make sense
You wanted to burn the memory away
Why does it still clings on to you?
Why were you stupid,
To not realise?
Why didn’t you stop it there?
Why did you let his lust damage you?
All these questions haunting you.
You still feel the touch,
Vivid and pervert,
And you want to erase it to the core.
You want to cleanse your corporal being.
But no soap has been invented;
Yet to give you your purity.
Your father giving you away to those arms,
Un-mindful of its wicked charms.
His face masked by his beard,
His lust obscured by his turban.
He’s sick, he’s not the protective uncle,
He portrayed to you.
And now you’re 20
Fighting alone,
In the midst of people;
Been through abuse.
You can’t tell that to your ageing parents,
It will be a burden upon their tired souls.
It’s okay, most of us have experienced it,
The justifications you give yourself.
But it never resonates,
It never makes sense.
Why me? Why us?
Why our innocence tarnished so brutally?
Where do these beasts find solace?
How do they sleep at night?
When will we get the justice?
When will our bodies be unpolluted?
When will my small hands;
Stop his advancing animosity?
When will my naïvity;
Make him human again?
Where do these perpetrators of evil go?
How do they breathe so peacefully
After ruining a life?
We lost our childhood,
We bargained with our demons.
We are the children of profanity.

Greek Love

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Sing me songs of the buried past,

Odes of the tales forgotten,

Of lovers un-betrothed.

Sing to me,

For thine is the mercy.

I yearn for all these years.

Sing to me the ballads of unrequited love.

The anguish that veils the night,

Compels me to drink from your form divine.

Your soul is the chalice,

Your love the purest wine.

Your melodious voice;

Beholds me in a trance.

I am the devotee, the worshiper

Drunk in your grandeur.

Your mighty form halcyonian.

I am the servant,

Waiting for submission,

In this holy night.

 


​The darkness of the night descends

The rush of the hour thins

And I am left alone again

And like a pang it hits.

Reminding me of its existence.

Which I’d forgotten throughout the day.

Now it has come to visit me another night.

I want scream, I want to cry.

I want to wail till my lungs burst.

Till I lose my voice, I am rendered breathless

Till there aren’t any tears to shed.

Only numbness and the laughter of a maniac

That follows after that.

I will know that I have reached my goal.

I have reached my goal of apathy towards myself

I have developed a shield of indifference towards the over powering visitor 

And I will smile and I will sleep again

But this doesn’t happen.

I suffer in the dark.

Do not be confused, I love darkness. 

I find comfort in it.

Light is blinding, a nuisance.

A famine of peace has been my side

For a time, I can’t measure.

Is the heart being calm peace?

Or is there more to it?

I am questioning it now, as I am writing this verse.

Is it even a verse?

Does it even have to rhyme?

I am overwhelmed by the visitor.

But I am still facing it.

Guarding the closed door with all my strength.

I don’t have much to say.

Just know that I am not okay.

I am trying.

One day I might succeed or it might.

But I will be happy with both.

Because my suffering would end,

Either way.

Anxiety.

The buzzing in the mind. 

Like the thoughts over powering.

Losing control.

Gaining it.

Losing it again.

Are you even trying?

I think it controls me now.

You never tried.

Coward. Coward. Coward.

One. Two. Three.

How many more pills,

You pop before it ceases.

It never ceases.

It just increases. 

To the top.

Hear that noise?

No.

Oh well, that’s my heart bombarding.

Never mind.

I can hear it so clearly.

Can you make it stop?

Will the ear plugs help?

No.

They will only worsen it.

The noise is from within.

Do you understand? 

Or have I failed to do so again?

Of course you don’t. 

You never hear it.

You never feel it

At the tips of your fingers.

It’s so unnerving.

But it happens most of the time.

I am okay now. I will be. I know that for sure.

On and off. Like a switch. Someone else has the controls.

Take control. Take control. Take control.

You never know

When you’ve lost it all.

My heart thumps too hard. 

I am staring at the ceiling.

Lost somewhere I don’t even know.

This sudden found change in my demeanour

Something is driving me to be like this.

I am trying to push the thoughts away.

But this rage inside of me isn’t going anywhere.

It’s a build up of all that frustration.

The frustration I can’t dump.

The frustration of not being enough.

The frustration, the anger of being useless.

The frustration, the helplessness of being unwanted.

The frustration of being lonely.

It’s a monster clawing at me.

I can feel the gashes on my heart.

I can feel it stepping on my trachea.

I feel as if I can’t breathe.

Yet I am perfectly unblemished.

Breathing in and out normally.
They ask me, what is happening to you, who are you becoming?

They scream at me, blame me for being different than they are.

For not adjusting.

For being stubborn.

They say that I am turning into a psycho.

They say that I have gone mental.

They say that my disease is contagious. 

They say I have changed.

They say they regret having me.

They say I am a result of their sins.
Are you listening to me?

Do you think I am complaining? 

I just need someone to care for once.

I just need to feel your hands

Reaching out to me.

To make sure that it’s real

That you are real and not just some ghost.

I miss the feel of your skin

As you held my hands.

I miss your reassurances

Those little gestures of care.

They meant a world to me.
Dear beloved,

Tell them I am sane.

Tell them I am recovering

From this hurricane.

Tell them to accept me.

That I will do whatever

To make them comfortable

Of my presence.

Dear beloved,

Return to me.

Dear beloved,

I am lonely.

Dear beloved,

I am falling

Once again

In to the pit

Of nothingness.

Learn, Unlearn.


I know, it’s not a very good quality picture, but I was trying to capture the new moon on the last night of this year.

So what I learned this year or unlearned this year?

• It is totally okay to be lost. Because after that you can set your own direction. You eventually find your way.

• You need people around you to give that support to you when you pick yourself up. Although your determination and your strength counts the most but sometimes that one last push comes from those who love you and care about you.

• Don’t ever underestimate yourself and the power social media. It can sometime result in you almost getting a show cause notice (don’t want to scare you guys) but you must acknowledge your own power and try to use it wisely and justly.

• Try to keep your circle of friends small. Not everyone is and frankly sometimes just one is enough.

• People don’t like it when you rant. Try writing a personal diary or just don’t bother listen to them when they snide or mock you when you rant.

• Families fight, siblings are annoying and sometimes you even want to leave your parents for whatever differences and arguments you might have with them, but you just can’t hate them or hurt them, no matter what. And they really love you. They just show it in a more strict way or different way.

• People change, even you do. Don’t hold grudges against them for that. Let them grow and accept them as an individual different than the rest.

• There’s a huge difference between love and attraction, don’t mistake the latter to be former and be hasty in your declarations.

• People, like you deserve chances to correct them. Just be cautious.

• Believe in whatever a person is telling you, that doesn’t mean that you have to trust them.

• If you love someone, give them freedom to be who they are.

• Always be open and flexible to other opinions and beliefs. That way you will learn and unlearn and be a better person.

• Always strive to be a better version of yourself, not anyone else’s but yourself.

• Learn to accept. That’s the start of your healing process.

• Don’t ever hesitate to visit a psych for any mental illness you have. They might help you in so many ways unfathomable.

• Personal beliefs and opinions about anything be it politics, religion or about life shouldn’t limit you to love them. They are their own. There’s no need for you to change them. Accept them for who they are. Believe me they aren’t harming your opinions in anyway.

• Whoever you believe in or not, you are not superior to anyone. Drop that thinking right away.

• Love and accept. Half of the problems will be solved.

• God hasn’t left you. He never did. He helps you when you have forgotten the most about Him.

• Be with people who make you fall in love with God. Not with the ones who scare you away. Because that is one support system that will always stay with you.

• Start reading. It is never too late. If you don’t like it, read short stories, articles anything. Just start. It will stimulate your mind and will help keep it occupied.

• Vacant mind is the magnet to mental problems.

• Meet new people, try going to different places, broaden your horizons.

• Wonderful things happen when you least expect them.

• Failure is really not the end. It eventually gets better but you need constant vigilance.

• Laziness and procrastination is not something to be proud of. Just let it go. Set your goals and work towards them. Being lazy is a setback.

• Cook for others. It’s pleasing when they like the food and go into a food coma because of it.

• It is not cool whatsoever to mock anyone’s illness in anyway.

• Don’t be ashamed to call yourself a feminist but be ashamed of labelling others awful stuff before knowing them.

• And last, solitude. Solitude is important for your growth. Learn to love it and try to spend time with yourself, you are with the most beautiful person in the whole world at that moment.