gps’s ‘Depression’ One-liners for the Wise and the Otherwise

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http://bobsnewheart.files.wordpress.com/2013/08/depression-cartoon.jpg?w=283

1. Depression is not madness; it is life-threatening sadness.

2. Depression can hit introverts, extroverts, perverts; and even stalwarts like Lincoln.

3. All are prone to Depression: men, women, transsexuals, heterosexuals and metrosexuals; they just bide their chance.

4. Depression is as hereditary as libido or the lack of it.

5. Depression can hit the toothy as well as the toothless.

6. Post-Depression life is like the post-marital: once bitten twice shy.

7. Taken sportingly, Depression is cathartic and not pathetic.

8. Those who haven’t gone through Depression are like kids who haven’t yet known that the tool is a two-in-one device.

9. The rich are as prone to Depression as the poor, the bold, the beautiful and the ugly…...it is the greatest leveler after Death.

10. Mild Depression is like mild Virginity.…there is no such thing.

11. You can’t buy genuine Depression across the counter just like you can’t buy genuine Genius; it has to be bestowed!!!!

12. Have a nice Night!

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A Teacher is born, with a LESSON

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A Teacher is born, with a LESSON

The whiff of nascent Freedom wafting through the winds of the early fifties, the sandy, sleepy, seaside village of Muthukur saw me turn from a playful kid into a proper lad.

Muthukur had only three ‘Government Officials’: the benign-tyrannical Headmaster of the High School (my father), the Country Doctor ringed by his array of big bottles of colored concoctions, and the awesome Sub-Inspector, keys of his one-cell jail dangling from his starched ‘uniform’ pocket. They formed a loose team (I recall the evening the Headmaster and the Doctor, as august members of the Official Committee, rendered the convincing verdict that the dead chap in the jail did die of suicide).

As Headmasters go, my father was rather a micro-Arnold, and our School a nano-Rugby in fun and frolic if nothing else. (It is tough to write of one’s late father…..he sort of peers down one’s shoulders.). Truth and Justice were his fixes, but he tended to forget that kids have a partiality to ‘convenience’, and abstract morals are sparingly soluble in their tender hearts. Thus, there never was a day when my father didn’t invoke the Golden Rule: ‘Spare the Rod and Spoil the Child’. Indeed, the one piece of ‘furniture’ wantonly granted to the Headmaster from his ‘contingency’ fund was the 3-foot long Madras cane. Come Monday morning, the School Pupil Leader (a largely nominated idol) would read out the roster of culprits of the past week in the Assembly; and they would file one behind the other to take the allotted number of ‘canes’ from the H.M.: their Judge, Jury and the Executor. I sensed that some of the routine miscreants were rather pleased with this drill, and pushed up their palms cheekily, fancying that the little ladies of their school adored their nonchalance. Attention was all they craved; and this they got one way or the other.

Life is never normal for the son of a H.M. (I had the double trouble of graduating from a Headmaster’s son to a Principal’s nephew……frying pan to fire).

First the teachers: They fall into two sets. One would treat the son with embarrassing deference to try and curry favor with their boss. The other would taunt and bully him for the imagined wrongs of his father.

Then the classmates: One set would converge under the bowers of the cashew tree boisterously laughing and yelling, but would fall eloquently silent when the son tries and joins them. The other would tail him beseeching his attention willy-nilly. He could never hope to have true unalloyed friends, for what he was worth.

Same with the public.

The exception was the Village Master Tailor, Jaan Saab, a pious kindhearted Muslim. I was 13 and he was like 43. But, he treated me as I loved to be treated: just another naughty boy. Whenever I was free from play and more play, I was in his thatched shop housing two heritage Pfaff Sewing Machines, the older manned by his taciturn nephew and the gleaming new piece reserved exclusively for his use. Often, however, he would squat on the floor-mat and set about the delicate job of ‘cutting’ the cloth to order. The pleasing whirr of the pedaled wheel below, the purring whirl of the driven wheel above, the tic-tak, tic-tak, of the sewing needle, the fine brow of Jaan Saab, tape draped round his neck, pencil in his ear; the smooth curves of his colored chalks on the cloth, the hefty scissors waiting to follow, the tribal belles haggling over their bashful blouses, the messy oil oozing out of its wood-pecker can, the exotic scents of fabric fresh from mills, the colored strips and striped ribbons of wasted cloth littering the floor, the rag pickers racing for them…… it was all a heady feast for the surging senses of a growing kid.

Jaan Saab’s sewing machine witnessed my rites of passage into my teens. At first I would climb his stool awkwardly, feet not yet reaching the pedal, and gingerly turn the wheel and watch the needle settle into its dance, Jaan Saab gently warning: Nakore Baeta! Over the three years I ran his shop, my feet landed firmly on the pedal, and learned the subtle art of setting the wheel into its swinging motion. Very like yo-yo, it was a sexy affair. Soon I learned threading the needle, pushing the cloth and pulling it under it; and in general being a nuisance to Jaan Saab, with his constant remonstration: Nakore Baeta!.

After convincing the nephew that I can sew, I begged him to let me do the re-stitching: some works required double stitches for strength. The leading first stitch he would do, and let me do the follow-up job. This suited him as well; but Jaan Saab wasn’t amused; yet he was too mild to shoo me out.

Then came the day of my just deserts: One sultry somnolent afternoon, when the master and his nephew broke for their lunch, I was playing with the machine, stitching the borders of a silk hanky. And soon, the thread in the bobbin gave out, and needed refilling. I had often watched Jaan Saab and his nephew do this delicate task, but never dared do it myself. It called for sliding the palm under the sewing plate and pulling out the bobbin blindfold, deftly releasing it from its catch. I was in a hurry and couldn’t wait for the duo to finish their meal. I stuck in my hand and did some fingering. Failing to feel the release, I finally tugged at the bobbin. Something snapped and I found the broken bobbin staring at me in my palm.

My first instinct was to CUT and RUN. But, I was growing up, and that route didn’t appeal. Further, there was nowhere I could flee; I was all alone all the while: no alibi and the evidence tight. I had to sit it through and wait for the music. By and by, Jaan Saab returned and saw my ashen face. He was aghast looking at the broken bobbin. He let out a grief-stricken cry. And fell silent. And his nephew came in. And found us face to face fighting our emotions. And I gathered from their talk that the bobbin cost a good 14 annas, roughly a day’s earnings for the shop. And, it had to be got from Madras. And that meant a 3-day shutdown for the Master’s machine.

Jaan Saab looked at me and read my face. He mentioned to his nephew that the H.M. was an upright man and would surely fork out the 14 annas, but he would whack me black and blue: my father was hard up, with a platoon of young ones to feed and dress. And Jaan Saab was a pious man. But he couldn’t let it pass. A pristine quandary: A poor noble soul facing a stupid growing kid.

It is at such times that the brain marvels.

I recalled the chink in Jaan Saab’s armor: his son Rahim. Jaan Saab wanted Rahim to be a Government Official; not another tailor like himself. Rahim was a studious lad, all sold to realize his father’s dreams. But the catch was two-fold: English and Algebra. They foxed him. When he passed in the one, he failed in the other. And so, he got detained twice in Class IX losing two precious years. Jaan Saab used to visit my father imploring him to pass his son. But the H.M. was an upright man; and failed his own kids when rules ruled them out. And the Day of Judgment used to be a day of despair for son and the father. And, it was the third and last chance for Rahim.

I got down from the wretched stool and made my plea to Jaan Saab: If he keeps my misdeed all to himself forever, I would coach Rahim gratis for the next 3 months before his final exams.

I was a little precocious in English and Algebra. English came as liberation to me from my mother tongue Telugu. It had only half the alphabet, there were no convoluted conjuncts; the writing was smooth and cursive, not involving letters beneath letters and dots in their bellies; and was devoid of the absolutely mystical half-nulls. Algebra again was free from the interminable transactions of Arithmetic involving purchase and sale and profit and loss and the abominable Janus-faced Rule of Three with its double standards for Time and Work vs Time and Speed.

Jaan Saab jumped up and embraced me, and the deal was struck. I stopped visiting his shop.

From then on, my routine changed. Every evening, at 6 P.M., Rahim would come over to our home and I would curtail an hour or two of my precious playtime. I would take him upstairs and we two would try and find out what could be done. It was a little awkward at first: Rahim was a year or two older than me, bristles sprouting on his upper lip. And he was way bigger than me. But I soon found out that he was as charming as his quiet father. And a couple of weeks were all we needed to get the thing going.

The H.M. was too busy to notice the change in my routine. But my mother was mystified, but said nothing. After a couple of weeks, she apparently liked the change and would send up coffee for two.

The exams were done and I was back with my full-time playmates. But, it seemed I had grown up meanwhile and it would never be the same again.

One fine evening, Rahim ran to me in the foot ball field and dragged me home. And, there he was, Jaan Saab squatting on the floor, his loose limbs spread-eagled, and speaking courteously to the H.M., my mother peeping from the curtains. Apparently, Rahim passed in flying colors and the doors were again ajar for his father’s dreams. Jaan Saab pulled out the tape from his neck and bade me stand beside him. And, measurements were taken for my first FULL PANT and FULL SHIRT.

Jaan Saab knew my own ambition: to get out of the regulation Khakhi Knicker and Drill Bush Shirt, and join the exclusive club of grown ups’ outfit. Parents always lag behind others noticing the dawn of adolescence in their own kids. Apparently, Jaan Saab offered his deal to the H.M. He would stitch my full pant and full shirt for free if the H.M. foots the bill only for the cloth. A quick consultation between my parents settled the deal.

A week later, I walked over to Jaan Saab’s shop all dressed up to display his precious gift. He cuddled and blessed me with all the verses in the Holy Quran he knew.

Very soon, I left Muthukur for college studies. And my father left as H.M. for a bigger school some place else.

I never visited Muthukur again. And I haven’t heard of Jaan Saab and Rahim.

But they remain part of my life, such as it is.

First, I got to know that I could teach. And, Teach I did for the next half century for my bread and pleasure.

Next, I learned the lesson of my life: Never touch another’s gizmos that you can’t replace.

Jaan Saab’s shop saw the moth fly away.

May his tribe increase!


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World Mental Health Day

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World Mental Health Day

Today being the World Mental Health Day, I thought I should write up my own experience of Severe Clinical Depression:

For most of 62 years I was a light sleeper. Between the ages of 40 and 60, I had watched and helped quite a few of my friends who had gone through one or more bouts of Clinical Depression. They had all completely recovered with medication prescribed by qualified psychiatrists, and so I knew that it was eminently curable if diagnosed early and medicines taken regularly with support from family and friends.

But when I myself was struck, I couldn’t at first recognize it, since my symptoms were different. This led to a delay in diagnosis and treatment and caused prolonged suffering and delayed recovery.

It is well known that although there is a genetic component lending to susceptibility, Clinical Depression can hit anyone. It is also well known that though it can be due to a traumatic incident, it can also be caused by a congregation of several circumstances each of which appears individually trivial to onlookers.

In my own case these were:

1. Retirement and relocation at the age of 62.
2. Transplantation from a secure rural campus into an unruly metropolis.
3. Pending family responsibilities.
4. Culture shock due to a sudden shift from an environment of intellectual life of academics to an unaccustomed ‘worldly’ life.
5. Mild financial issues.



I was accustomed to a 20-minute afternoon nap all through my working life. It was refreshing and regenerating.

But one afternoon, I found that when I was drowsy and felt like snoozing, I was struck by an electric-like shock with all its symptoms of heart palpitation; and woke up and couldn’t go to bed again. These attacks went on and a stage had come when I couldn’t sleep at all either by day or by night although I was dying to sleep. And the palpitations became practically a permanent feature.

I never read anywhere nor heard that fibrillations could indicate the onset of Depression, and so delayed going to a psychiatrist. This worsened and made it a severe case. Finally after eliminating all other causes such as heart problem, hypertension etc I myself visited a psychiatrist who at once said it was an untypical case of Severe Clinical Depression (the ‘electric-like shocks’ were apparently symptoms of ‘arousal’).

The treatment started with the routine drugs to cure the ‘biochemical imbalance’ (serotonin uptake), and sedatives; but there was no improvement. My insomnia worsened and after a month of absolutely nil sleep I was becoming crazier than ever. The good doctor tried increasing the dosages but it didn’t help at all. And I was growing more and more despondent. All known tranquillizers in ever-increasing doses were tried but to no avail…….no sleep at all for more than a month.

Finally, late one evening, when the suffering became unbearable, my intimate son and medico wife decided to SOS my psychiatrist, who instructed on phone to buy a tablet of Olanzipine and administer it immediately. I was skeptical and refused but my loving son and wife prevailed on me and pushed one tablet in.




The result was miraculous! Within half an hour I cooled down and slept for the first time in months for a few hours. From the Internet my son gathered that this drug which is routinely prescribed for bipolar disorder and schizophrenia is given in the rarest of rare cases of Resistant Depression when everything else fails.

I continued to sleep well for months but also had pleasant side effects like a sweet tooth (which I never had), an increase in weight over-compensating for the few kilos I lost, a sudden mythical sense of ‘power and confidence’ etc.

The drug was gradually withdrawn and my recovery was steady; and is now complete after nearly 5 years:

1. I found a ‘second string to my bow’ in the form of a literary hobby which helped overcome the ‘useless’ feeling that came upon retirement.
2. I got used to the chaotic metropolis and took to driving on its unruly roads…an achievement indeed.
3. Most of the pending family responsibilities got resolved fortunately.
4. The culture shock is, if anything, on the other foot now.
5. Family finances have improved and are apparently on a sound footing.

I rigorously take the one mild maintenance pill of Dothpriene at bed time which is supposed to ‘protect’ me from future attacks.

Sine Qua Non:

Without the support of family and friends it is very difficult to diagnose and treat oneself. Depression is a vicious circle. In my own case, my relatives, friends, ex-colleagues and students all helped me in various incremental ways unknown to them.



Lighter Side:

My wife and son used to religiously take me to the psychiatrist every week or ten days in the beginning months. The good doctor, apart from regulating the drugs, used to advise me to;

1. Take a walk.
2. Go to a library.
3. Listen to soothing music.
4. Watch TV.
5. Take up some gainful employment.
6. And so on

On the sixth or seventh visit I smiled and the Doctor was curious. I replied that I was feeling like an truant student who comes to the class without doing any of the prescribed ‘home work’. We all had a laugh…but I was bluffing. My smile actually conveyed my feeling that if I could do all those things which he had asked me to do, I would be a normal person and wouldn’t have visited him at all!

Moral:

Depression can manifest with a variety of symptoms, but is ‘curable’ by proper drugs; and needs the support of a capable psychiatrist, understanding family and friends, and ‘luck’. Without these it can be fatal.

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Book of Morals- 3

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Scriptures’re our guiding light,
Wives our homes’ delight;
Harvest’s our labor’s fruit,
Wealth and Pelf this World’s root!
O’ Raadhaa Raadhey Shyam!

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Loaded with fruits, boughs bend,
Laden with rain, clouds descend,
Filled with Love the wise befriend;
For kind deeds where is the end?
O’ Raadhaa Raadhey Shyam!

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Dreaming sans Doing,
Drinking sans Dining,
Fasting sans Feasting;
Is Flirting sans Futtering!
O’ Raadhaa Raadhey Shyam!

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My Own China War

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My Own China War

In March 1962, I stood first in the Mains Physics B. Sc. (Hons) Exams at the Andhra University, Waltair. My friend and benefactor, Linga Murty, (now Emeritus Professor at Raleigh) stood second somewhat way behind (He nonetheless bagged the prestigious Sripati Medal given to the First All-rounder including the Pass subjects Math and Chemistry which I barely scraped through).

And then the Chinese hordes swept Tawang, Chusul and co inflicting a humiliating defeat on our young minds.

The immediate aftermath was that the moribund NCC at our University was reactivated. Students were enticed with a whopping 5% of the aggregate marks to be added for those enrolling for NCC. There was thus a veritable flood from us the Final Year M. Sc.s whose exams were barely a couple of months away. We all thought that if only we slog every evening for a couple of hours at the NCC parade grounds, we would all be in the pink; and we compromised: except one lateral entry offside genius, Trivikrama Rao (later TIFR + NEHU). He took up the challenge that he would spend that time with books and outshine us all.

For two good months we all invented ways and means of cheating the unwonted PT, March Past, ‘dayaee mood’, ‘baayee mood’ and all other bad moods. Creativity of us lazy final year lubbers was met with equanimity from the genuine Junior Leaders, and we all managed to extract the necessary ‘Pass Certificates’.

Final Exams were held in March 1963, and I dropped down to a mean fourth rank, largely because of the Quantum Mechanics Paper. The Cal Univ Paper-setter (I now have reasons to suspect it was SDM, my subsequent Ph. D. guide at KGP) cruelly set 4 of the 8 questions ‘out of syllabus’. I walked out sullenly, but later learned that anyone who attempted those ‘ghost’ questions got 5 marks each gratis.

As expected, Linga Murty stood first and was awarded the Metcalfe Medal. But when the marks lists came out, we found to our dismay that Trivikrama Rao actually stood first sans the 5% NCC grace. I wrote a Letter to the Editor of Indian Express that he too deserves a Prize for his meritorious performance, and was gratified to learn that a Special Prize was awarded to him at a later date (he left for TIFR). Linga Murty left for Cornell.

Those of us who were stranded at Waltair all applied for CSIR Junior Research Fellowships. CSIR used to award at best one or two JRFs @ Rs. 100 each in previous years upon Interviews held at Delhi. So, we were all exploring other avenues too. I lectured part-time at the RSS-run Bharat Tutorial College at a measly but badly needed Rs. 30.

But Chinese invasion woke up the Central Govt too; and our humiliating defeat was attributed to the lack of encouragement for Scientific Research. As a result, all those who applied (22 in all in Physics) were awarded Fellowships at the staggering enhanced rate of Rs. 250 (equivalent to permanent University Lecturers) without any Interview!

And our JOY knew no bounds, thanks to Bloody Red China!

It is a different matter that our University couldn’t withstand the onrushing flood of JRFs with the earlier creaky infrastructure; and many of us had to flee, myself to IIT KGP as an Associate Lecturer with a princely take-home of Rs. 490.

But we did spend a 2-year picnic at Waltair which helped us all get good Govt jobs citing our (frustrating) 2-year ‘Research Experience’!

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Book of Morals - 2

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Lord pervades All,
Truth pervades Lord;
Stick to Truth & fall
Like Christ, Gandhi & odd;
O’ Raadhaa Raadhey Shyam!

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Best earn your own bread,
Else father’s bequest;
Worst a brother to request;
Than beg your wife better be dead;
O’ Raadhaa Raadhey Shyam!

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Sun blooms lotus,
Moon blossoms lily,
Clouds pour waters,
Great do good willy-nilly;
O’ Raadhaa Raadhey Shyam!

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Craving Brahmin & a Content King,
Lusting Wife & a Loving Whore
Will get Nothing
& Go Nowhere
O’ Raadhaa Raadhey Shyam!

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Letter to DC: YSR Nallamala Forest

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Sir:

This has reference to the Report on page 3 of 1st October. The proposal to institute a memorial for YSR in the Wildlife Management Division is certainly ill-advised. In a decade or so people will forget, and it will lie neglected and its maintenance will be costly and purposeless. Instead, it is better to just rename the Nallamala forest as YSR Nallamala Forest; like Nellore District has been renamed PSR Nellore District 50 years after the martyrdom of Potti Sri Ramulu for a separate Andhra State. Generations later, people would still be curious as to the who and why of PSR and YSR; and they will be remembered forever.