how do you reach out to someone you have not spoken to in a decade and say hey listen, i need to let you go and move on. how do you say good bye to your mothers ghost. how do you leave home. or abandon a dream, for which you walked away from the world.
on a different note, what is the difference between depression and reaction to trauma? how do you know which is which. if i am in a funk and cant shake it off, is it just me, or the world, or is it your memory? am i crazy? or are you mad not to be crazed by this horrendous world
I heard it is raining in Calcutta. Though I am so far away, I can feel the dampness in the air, and I can almost hear the last tired drops falling from the deep dark leaves outside my balcony. in my mind, i can run to the terrace and look out all the way to golpark, while the rain hammers down. The rikshawalla is frowning in the rain, and thinking of him i feel guilty for my middle-class-licensed-poetic euphoria. My mother is sitting down with a brownish plastic bottle of brittania marie biscuit and meticulously brewed tea - middle grade orange pekoe from that same shop in Lake Market, from a mismatched cup and plate. and looking wistfully at the rain out of the window. Maybe my sister will ask her what she is thinking about - and she will say she wonders if I am feeling better, and how my paper is coming along
How would we live, if we had noone to live for?

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