The Changing Landscape
The changing seasons were not a crucial part of my memories. Mumbai was always humid. I woke up to the sounds of bells and honks, in a city of concrete structures and faint sounds of birds. This landscape of stacked homes and towers didn’t encourage curiosity for nature.
When I moved to Melbourne, the sound of dried leaves, the sight of blooming flowers, and the touch of branches became the new landscape. To catch a glimpse of this vastness, I walked the winding path along the Yarra River. The road was adorned with patches of trees and few houses.
“Scars became a recurring theme during my solo walks.”
Walking became a ritual during the long Melbourne lockdown. The open sky, the sudden wave of fragrant Wattle during spring, and the calm river added to the scenery. Few cars and cyclists frequented this path.
I couldn’t turn cycling into a ritual. I’d reminisce on days riding in the narrow streets of Mumbai. The uneven roads and deep potholes. Scraped knees, shins, or elbows from falling off the bicycle etched in my memory. I used to sneak into my small house and clean the wounds. My mother always found the bruises and, after yelling, she applied several ointments to heal the wounds. I was always told to apply various kinds of ointments to lighten even the slightest scars.
Scars became a recurring theme during my solo walks. I was visited by memories of faint spots on my exterior body, and frequently by deep wounds from within. On most days, my scars were calm like the river I visited on evenings. Occasionally, I felt ripples followed by an intense feeling of guilt and pain.
I struggled with managing a routine and taking care of my body. Mostly, I felt that I needed to have a sound mind. I remember my mother telling my younger self about the several ways to lighten blemishes, but I don’t remember any conversations on healing scars that were buried under these layers.
Photo by Ksenia Mostovaya on Unsplash
Towards the end of last year, I discovered dark revelations of a relationship I cherished, continued working in a toxic place due to job uncertainty, and squeezed my stomach to fit into clothes that no longer recognised my body. The days outside grew longer while my walks to the river shortened. Long showers gave rise to conflicting life events.
The betrayal experienced in my closest relationship became the inciting action in my story to grapple with life. I banged utensils in rage, cried profusely, and swiftly transitioned the brokenness into a sound body. I found it difficult to complete simple tasks without weeping in silence. If I was in Mumbai, I wouldn't have the space and place to express these emotions.
I had to find a pathway to overcome this heaviness and speaking to someone was the only recurring image in my head.
When I first met my psychiatrist on a Zoom call, I smiled profusely from anxiety. Speaking about my life was harder than writing. I narrated my story while the psychiatrist made notes, and this followed for few more sessions. I felt awakened but was expecting results as quick as the changing hues during sunsets. The notion of ‘happy ending’ seen around pushed me to crave instant gratification. I thought I could bloom again like the flowers I spotted on my solo walks but realised there was immense digging, rooting and rising to be done.
On completing my last session, I realised that I had to pick up the broken pieces and that this was a continual process. There were days where I resonated with the vibrant autumn sunsets, while gloomy days gave me mild shivers.
“Every day, I go about picking up the broken pieces and work on building a sound body”
Every day, I go about picking up the broken pieces and work on building a sound body. Sometimes, my scars cause mild shivers and I immediately make mental notes. Some notes include meeting a psychiatrist again. Not only when things get worse, but to find ways to heal wounds that I’ve been carrying for years.
WORDLY Magazine ‘Bloom’ Edition 4 2021
Published on Feb 17, 2022