suicide

170,000

Posted by

0

– 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.

Early autumn

Posted by

2

How can people not know that their coat buttons are misaligned and one side is hanging lower than the other? One buttonhole is so very obviously exposed at the top, middle or at the bottom. And one button hanging loose somewhere along that vertical line. How can they not notice before they leave their front door? I used to be baffled when I saw patients like this in the hospital or random people on the streets, oblivious of this blatant asymmetry.

This afternoon, I went walking around my neighbourhood, taking delight in the profusion of red oval rosehips on roadside bushes and the yellowish-brown tinge starting to appear at the edges of leaves. Dense clouds were threatening to break open and fall on my head while my head was in the past. A few years ago, this date would have been a busy one for me.

10th of September – World Suicide Prevention Day

Not today. After years of searching for answers, raising awareness and trying to change the narrative, I have stepped back from it all. I accept the mystery that is life and death. I have slowed right down and found this to be the right way to live, for me.

Death is not a defeat or a failure. It’s not caused by a weakness or a flaw. It simply is. Its timing is its own. It has a wide range of imaginative excuses to visit. We like to impose a timing on it but it is a free agent.

Yesterday, a friend asked “I would love to show you my boy’s wedding album but it must be hard for you to see things like that because your son … Do you ever wonder how things might have been if he was alive?” After a brief silence, I replied “Every time my mind wants to go there I point out the one big assumption it’s making – if he was alive he would be in good health. I don’t know that. In fact, I don’t know much about anything at all. That allows me to live in awe, in wonder. I would love to see your boy’s wedding album.”

As I ambled along the empty streets this afternoon, I felt we are all dying a little bit every moment of every day, amidst celebrations and conversations, hopes and aspirations. Just then I noticed that the right side of my shirt-dress was hanging three inches lower than the left. The top button on the left side of my neck was hanging loose.

Resource: Online support for bereaved parents: Circle of Remembrance: http://www.core-community.com

It’s a story. It’s not a story.

Posted by

0

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.

Do we really need another one?

Posted by

0

No one reads books anymore they say.

Publishing is a dying industry they say and I love books. I know hundreds of people who do.

Presently I am in the world of trying to get a book published. I am witnessing an interesting phenomenon of humane, helpless and kind rejections such as this: “We think you are an emotive writer and your story is very moving. It would undoubtedly provide comfort to those who have lost children, whether by suicide or otherwise. But there is so much work that goes into publishing a book and we have to believe that it can work commercially to a certain degree. I worry that it would be very difficult to get media attention/reviews and therefore retailer traction in this case.”

These letters leave me strangely encouraged to persist and keep refining the manuscript, keep working on the craft of writing and keep remembering what this is about. I write in singular first person but denote the third person plural. I am They, Them, We.

It’s about kissing the ground that supports my weight. It is where my son, all my ancestors and circumstances stand in me through all the seasons and storms. In every moment, it is and has been my home whether I like it or not. It tells me who I am and how, from my very foundations I can hold a conversation with life even when it seems terribly treacherous. Strangely, it is also a place of grace that surprises me by its ability to humble and elevate me, even after being dragged through the mud. It enables me to step off onto a softer ground of gentle understanding where grief finds expression as what it truly is, pure love, often known by safer names such as compassion and connection. I kiss this wise ground that has taught me what it means to be free, be love and be human.

One way or another, I am sure my words will find their way to those with whom they will resonate. If you have any helpful ideas around publishing, please do write a comment. Thank you for reading. This blog is the birthplace of the book.

Varanasi

Posted by

0

This ancient city of learning and burning sits on the banks of the river Ganga which is home to Saagar’s ashes. We were here twice, within a few months of Saagar’s passing for various ceremonies related with the sudden and tragic nature of his death. A year ago, my Irish medium who I have come to rely on, informed me that the elaborate prayer services that were held for him here had been greatly helpful in freeing his soul. I have no reason to not believe her as everything else she tells me makes sense.

Last month I was back in this iconic city for a long weekend, celebrating the writings of my favourite 15th century poet and philosopher, Saint Kabir.

“Scholars are never made 

from reading countless books.

You only need to understand ‘love’

to be a true scholar.”

Twenty three years ago I left India as a motivated young professional thirsty for knowledge, professional growth and ‘success’. I was a naive kid. I did not know who I was. Now it feels like I’ve taken a tortuous and torturous route to finally come back home, to myself.

Yes, I passed many exams. In the year 2000, I traveled to Dublin for the day, for my first post-graduate exam at the Royal College. As soon as I returned home, Saagar, who was six at that time asked me, “Mamma, did you win?” A huge smile descended on my face and my entire being. I forgot about the stress of that day and the preceding months and got lost in our cuddles and giggles.

I did grow in my work and was ‘successful’ but the most important lesson I am learning is to understand, experience and be love.

The only lesson that is worth learning.