“What?” she asked, a hint of alarm in her voice. “Please cool down. I’ll tell you later.”
“No, no. Tell me now.” She was surprisingly demanding.
“Okay, I’m suffering from mild depression, and now I’m under the consultation of a psychologist for the past three months, and she prescribed that medicine. But no one else knows about it; now you are the third person after the doctor. So, please, keep it a secret.”
“Okay, you can trust me,” she said softly, “But you are young, happy-going, educated, employed. How can you be?”
“So what? Depression is a psychological issue. ” “But the reason?”
Suddenly, the power came back, flooding the room with light. “I’ll tell you later. You go and have a shower; I’ll get the food ready. I have to make a phone call.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t forget the medicine, please.” “Okay, okay.”
I called my doctor, and she told me it was good to share things with someone I trusted. She also reminded me that yoga was helpful for stress and added, “If someone around is there the best option is talking and if no one is there then some other ways also there.”
Confused, I asked, “What other ways?”
She lowered her voice and said, “As a doctor, I shouldn’t say it, but as a friend, I can say it: masturbation is a stress reliever.”
“Oh ok doctor. i understand “. I hung up the phone.
When I came back, Anasooya had finished dinner. The plates were outside, and the room was dark. I felt a strange warmth spreading through me.
DAY 3
The aroma of puttu and kadala, a testament to my improving culinary skills, hung in the air. Anasooya, her eyes sparkling with amusement, finished her breakfast. “Vishal,” she said, her voice a soft melody, “or should I say, Vishu?”
A warmth spread through me. “Vishu,” I confirmed, a grin tugging at my lips. “Thank you,” I added, appreciating her approval.
“Between,” she continued, her tone turning playful, “don’t forget the promise you made yesterday.” My heart skipped a beat. Feigning ignorance, I chuckled, “What promise? I don’t remember.”
Her smile hinted at her knowing better. “See? Don’t make me angry. Remember what your doctor said? About sharing things?”
The doctor’s words echoed in my mind: “Sharing your feelings is crucial for healing, Vishal. It’s a form of therapy.” He had also, rather awkwardly, added, “And don’t be afraid to share… other things too.”
“Yes,” I mumbled, a blush creeping up my neck. “The doctor… he said… other hot things also. Yeah, Madam, I’ll tell you… in the evening session.”
The day melted into a blur of work-from-home tasks, punctuated by a healthy lunch of kanji. As darkness fell, a familiar power cut plunged us into silence. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows as I found myself sitting outside Anasooya’s room, my heart pounding a rhythm against my ribs. She emerged, settling on the opposite side of the small space.
“So,” I began, my voice barely a whisper, feeling the weight of unspoken words. “You want to hear it? Are you sure?”
“How many times do I have to tell you?” she replied, her voice firm yet gentle. “I have to hear it.”
The candlelight danced in her eyes, reflecting a depth of emotion I hadn’t fully understood until now. My story, a tale of heartbreak and healing, of stumbling through grief and rediscovering hope, tumbled out. It wasn’t just about sharing the past; it was about sharing myself, my vulnerability, my hopes for the future—a future I suddenly envisioned with her by my side.
