Stories

170,000

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– the number of suicides in India every year. India holds the top position in the world in very few things. This is one of them. Of these deaths, more than 40% are under the age of thirty. Both these facts possibly underestimate the problem due to poor data collection, criminalisation of suicidal attempts, inefficient registration systems, lack of medical certification of deaths and biggest of all, stigma. Every eight minutes a young Indian person dies by suicide. Year on year, the rates are rising by 4-7%.

The incidence of student suicides surpasses population growth rates. Over the last decade, the number of student suicides increased from 7,696 to 13,089.

Source: A report released on Sept 10th 2024: Student Suicides: an epidemic sweeping India.

Today, to mark World Mental Health Day, a brave young lady, Jayeta Biswas, published an article remembering her brother, Jayanta. Aside from revealing some shocking statistics, it lamented the seriously negative societal attitudes towards poor mental health and suicide in India:

“A home that was always filled with visitors when my brother was alive saw no one from his school, college, professional life or network after his departure. None of his friends, including those he had contacted in his last hours – attended his funeral, nor did they visit our house. I am certain that this is because they heard that he died by suicide.”

We have a long way to go as a society but small school initiatives such as SEHER give me hope.

The Wednesday Group.

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Dear Saagar,

Ten is a strange one. Who knew an innocent, round, even number like this could inflict such pain on one. The last note I had from you was ten years ago. It turned each moment of each day into an unwanted debt, heavily owed to God-knows-who. Potential decades stretched out before me like a horizon-less dark desert. I wished they would disappear. Time became the enemy, unfolding in fits and starts in wiggly circular patterns, etching lines of blood and tears on the surface of mighty oceans.  

Now, this gone decade demands recognition. It wants to be acknowledged in some way, however small. It deserves a pat on the back for braving through such turmoil and finally becoming a friend.

Hugo, Azin, Phoebe and some other friends, yours and ours came over for a Sunday lunch in early August and brought their friends along. Many of them, musicians. Remember Corinne Bailey Rae? You bought me her CD, Girl put your records on one Christmas? Remember how I sang along to it in the kitchen while cooking? On Sunday, we sang that song together. The Dock of the Bay and Ain’t no sunshine and Stand by me too.

We cut a chocolate cake for everyone who turned thirty this year. We were together for five glorious hours. Tens of sun-flowers smiled in vases dotted around the room and the sun shone on us as we talked and laughed and sang, just like the old times.

You won’t believe this but I resigned from my job recently. I know. I was so proud of it. I got so much from it. It meant so much to me but I feel liberated. Now someone else can do that lovely job while I work with my unique gift. In a world increasingly obsessed with labels, I am happy to lighten myself and shed a few.  

Last weekend, Si and I hosted a retreat for eleven bereaved parents. It was The Wednesday Group of the Circle of Remembrance that had started meeting online in May 2022. For more than two years we met for an hour and a half online every fortnight, sharing the most personal of things. This was the first occasion for us to meet in person as a group. It was divine.

One brown butterfly alighted on the left side of Si’s chest and rested on his white shirt peacefully for quite a while as we all talked and laughed and sipped our teas and coffees.

After returning home, one mum wrote to say,

“…this weekend has reminded me of who I am and what I am capable of as I continue to navigate this life I never expected or wanted to have.” 

What could be better?

I am blessed. Thank you for being my son.

Your essence remains here, with us.

Love you my darling.

Mamma. xxx

(Please visit http://www.core-community.com and contact us to join our loving and understanding community or recommend it to anyone who might find peer support after child loss helpful.)

(A handmade patchwork wall-piece for the home of CORe)

It’s a story. It’s not a story.

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Last weekend I was part of a team of volunteers. The Compassionate Friends hosted a summer retreat for parents who have lost a child to suicide or substance use. We expected seventy parents to arrive, some as couples, some by themselves. Many of us drove for many miles through road works and traffic jams. Some changed trains more than once and persevered through serious delays due to fatalities on the tracks on two successive days. Even though their own hearts ached, they traveled from all over the UK to Leeds.

The venue was a new one, Hinsley Hall. It was true to the pictures on its website – majestic. Having never worked there before, many of us arrived a day prior, to familiarise ourselves with the space and allocate rooms to activities depending on their size and suitability, getting to know the staff and setting out folders, notice boards and programes.

The job at hand was to belong to those who attended and have them belong to us. I went up to my room and drew the curtain. I gasped at the view. My window looked over a deep-green lawn with dark old trees and two parallel hedges with patches of yellow.

As the participants arrived through the gates, we welcomed and escorted them despite their visible anxiety and fatigue, a reluctance to acknowledge their eligibility to be here, attending this retreat. Slowly, cups of tea, coffee and glasses of water loosened the atmosphere.

At the Writing workshop, words like ‘disassembled’ and ‘brown silt’ were shared and felt. A bronze sculpture of a young woman in the courtyard, standing with her arms wide open was a constant encouragement to open our hearts.

Over the next couple of days, each of us felt seen, listened to, acknowledged and our grief felt witnessed. Friendships were born. There was much laughter and many tears flowing through truck-loads of memories. Grace was at work. It was allowing something within us to soften and relax.

At the end, one mum said she met some lovely people and found much comfort and connection. Another said, she met herself, this time with gentleness.

Being there, volunteering, was a good way to honour Saagar’s  life and mine.  What better way to spend our days than to hold our kids, ourselves and each other in a warm embrace?

I am here. He is here.

Why do you write?

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Before Day 0, I hardly ever wrote, except for work. Then, this blog became a lifeline.

A friend. A vent.

A hook to hang my days on.

A thing that helped me stay on.

A messenger. A mouthpiece.

A repository of memories.

An unencumbered voice.

A determined choice.

“Have you published anything?” a writer friend asked me recently.

‘No. I am a writer. I write.’

“Don’t you want to be published?”

‘Yes. It would be nice. But for me, writing is an end in itself.’

“Why else do you write?”

‘Because I am fascinated by the terror of a blank page.

Because I have something to say.

Because I want to reach others, especially those who feel very alone.

Because I love the scratchy sound of pen moving on paper.

Because it helps me connect with myself in a tender manner.

Because I can trust the words that come out. I can mess with them. Play.

Because I need to write what I’m thinking in order to understand what I’m thinking.

Because writing wants to happen through me. It can be a wooo-hooo surprise!

No reason. Simply.’

After nearly ten years of writing, in March this year I made my first submission and thankfully it was accepted. A short story, “The Order” was published earlier this month on an online literary magazine, Kitaab.org:

Short Story: The Order by Sangeeta Mahajan

This story made its debut in an unrefined form on this blog and my brother commented that I should try to get it published. That was in July 2018. Six years ago! Gosh! I must be slow.

The beetle and the shield.

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Who needs flowers? A few months in the tropics and I am mesmerised by the stunning leaves in these parts, huge and spectacular. Every colour and shape is present amongst them. If I stop and look closely, they hypnotise me. If I stand back and take in the view of the canopy, I have a sense of abundance! Such lushness and vibrancy. No two leaves are exactly the same. Each one a miracle. Monstera, Rattlesnake plant, Purple blush, ferns, Beauty star, Zebra plant, Prayer plants, palms, Coconut fronds, Banana leaves and the list goes to over 7500 species.

Walking on the edge of the Arabian sea, along the west coast of India, I see shapely leaves in orange, yellow, red and auburn strewn on the golden beach. I pick one up and it feels thick and waxy, seasoned well by its prolonged contact with salt water. Their shape is that of jack-fruit leaves. I can’t help but pick a few, hold them in the shallow waves as they get the sand off them, pat them dry against my cotton top and carefully bring them home. Press them under a sofa cushion and a few days later, they emerge flat and textured as a fabric, ready to receive some more colour.

These plain fascinating leaves invite the five-years-old in me to play. I jump at the invitation and spend some timeless moments with them. Together we build little bugs and African shields. In our world, it doesn’t matter that the bug and the shield are the same size. It also doesn’t matter that these things have no practical use at all. The fact that they may not last for more than a few days as a possible bookmark or a decoration, also does not matter.

All that matters is that these gorgeous creations came into being through us and briefly delighted.