Analysis of Emotions


I was the weirdest student. I took up psychology as an elective in 11th and 12th grade despite being a science student. Apart from the constant “Psychology is an arts subject vs Psychology is a science subject” debate, there was a lot more to arguments than just reaching a consensus. For example, look at my first sentence. Obviously, I wasn’t the only science student to take up Psych (pardon my use of short form, it’s how I prove to the world that I know more than them), there were others just as thick in the head. But it’s a general tendency to derogate oneself in order to feel more important. Half of you probably just thought, “Well, I don’t do that”. Again, a lot of people don’t. You’re not special here. And with that, maybe now it’s easier to realise that: we’ll do anything to make ourselves feel like we’re different and more important. You’re a unique snowflake alright, but a snowflake at the end of it, just like everyone else.


“You have the potential, you just don’t realise it”, is a statement twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools. You either get the Rudyard Kipling reference or you don’t. You can’t possibly have the ‘potential’ to get it. This is a very deceiving statement, it lets you believe that you’re intelligent. And perhaps you are, good for you. But what it unfortunately does is; it let’s you justify your laziness. “Oh, I have the potential, I just haven’t gotten around to really showing it”. Well how very noble of you. If there’s a boulevard people would hide behind, it’s this one. The real problem rises when high achievers become complacent and low achievers tire their souls out to the point that they sacrifice their own health. The statement in itself isn’t ‘damaging’. It’s just unfortunate that very few people can find a balance that does more good to them than bad. And until everyone hasn’t found that balance, the statement should be tweaked and reconstructed.


But what really is the point of these two random paragraphs, I mean, people don’t write out of nowhere, right? Point number three. Stop analysing where it isn’t required. Not everything has a reason we can be consciously aware of. My psych teacher had a extravagant quote that she’d say on repeat, “There are no just because in life, only because ofs”, and if you peel that onion it basically means that everything has a reason behind it. What half my class failed to understand was that she didn’t imply to us to ponder over the entirety of the incidences in our life. NO. That’s insane, it’s completely and utterly, and I say this in a very crude manner because no other word would quite express the same intent: STUPID. You can’t live your life wait deep in thought, trying to understand the WHY’s of life. Focus on the WHAT, move on. The whole meaning of her statement was that things do happen for a reason yes, but that reason doesn’t necessarily need to be in our consciousness. Lesson time, there are three levels of consciousness: The Conscious, The Sub Conscious and The Unconscious. The conscious is in the here and now. It makes us aware of the immediate things happening. The second lets us have intuitions and gut feelings and the third, well, we’ll never know. And that’s the point. Some things are better of not being known, so there is NO POINT, in trying to make sense of everything around us. Move on.


Now at this point in this piece of writing, you’ll realise that the title seems purely irrelevant. I am clearly not talking about different emotions and how they make us feel. But I am also clearly not in primary school. Anger, sadness, ecstasy, happiness, these are all noble emotions, but the subtle change in your body as you’re dipped in unexplainable emotions, this is what makes life worth living. Again, you either get that, or you don’t. My aim here was to make you feel, not just emote. To stir more than just tags for an emotion. To make you think, yet relate. The Fault in Our Stars really just taught me one thing; life is abrupt. Not everything has a conclusion. Not everything has an end to give you a closure. Not everything will feel complete.

And with that, I’d just say, peace out. The lame pun very much intended.



Darling, won’t you leave me alone?

You’re a sly one. Didn’t you sneak up on me while I was sleeping one day and run your fingers through my hair? You’ve been there ever since. By there I mean on my mind. It’s a boring place; when do you plan to leave? You’re a clever one you know, with all those furtive glances and lopsided smiles which drew me in to a cocoon of comfort I was too unwise to realize about. Clever indeed, because it’s making me feel so stuffy, this blanket of comfort –  help me take it off, won’t you? What is it with your gliding soul, the kind which merges in mine so that for a while I feel nothing at all? Oh but you aren’t that simple, I now understand, because you won’t let me feel ‘nothing’. Trying new things can be great but do tell me why you have to make me taste every emotion in such magnitude? When do you plan to leave?

You stare back at me every time I close my eyes and somehow, at the beginning, I couldn’t understand what you really were. It felt like home, the only explanation to the frenzy raging inside me. You pride yourself for being my answer, don’t you? On nights you kissed my eyes and cheeks, I felt like every inch of me was finally making sense. It was a clearing. Except- to hell. Because you see, you, you alone, were the answer to the days and nights of confused existence. Finally, I found the reason, you. Only, it was the worst answer I could have unraveled. Oh I wished I was wrong. But sometimes you still kiss my neck in the exact spots I want to slit my throat at.

Let go of my hand, people are looking. The old couple in their seventies won’t understand your attachment to me. It’s frowned upon, you see. Let go. But you see through me don’t you? You’re quite gifted and powerful. You know already, it isn’t just other people, it’s me. I don’t want a single touch of you on my skin. Let go.

You skirt around my ankles holding me back, you don’t want me to leave you. And the truth is, you won’t let me leave. You waft into an embrace every time I drop my hands defenseless and cover me from all sides. Your grip is too tight, I can’t breathe. Sometimes when I close my eyes to music which makes me smile and I let my feet and hands dance a ballet with the winds, I feel your hands slip onto my waist and palm and dance with me. We’re so in sync. Oh how I wish you’d let go. You make me enjoy dwelling in your presence. Sweet little touches here, piercing my heart, and imprinting little thoughts there, marking my mind. Quite the charmer, huh? I’m almost addicted to you.

You seem easy. The obvious ‘go-to’ thing. You seem convenient, kind of like stealing love lines from Wordsworth’s poetry. It does make an impression, alright. You’ve been a good friend, but now it’s time to go. You’ve loved me when no one else has, but I’m brave enough to watch you leave. And sure I’ll meet you on days I stare at the night stars or the dying sun, I won’t forget you, you’ve made me so much stronger after all. Take care of yourself, and don’t run off to others. It’s time for you to leave.

Things would be so much easier if you were a real person and I could explain all this to you, while sitting across with tea I made and some crumbly digestive biscuits…sorry that was all I would have at home. Things would be easier if I could hold your hand and tell you…go. And the funny thing is, they all call you a name I’m too afraid to even take, because that’s not what you are. You’re so many things. Nevertheless, I know not what else to call you, and so I must take your name.

I can’t say I’ll miss you, because you’ll linger inside of me in one way or another and I can only hope one day you’ll realize this isn’t where you belong.

Oh Depression my darling, here, I am acknowledging you, will you please leave me alone?


We are all going to die.

Oh wow, such a gloomy start to such a positive title. Well done.

No, but it is true, might as well just get the daunting truth out of the way. I met someone who changed my life. Or at least the way I look at things in general. We are all going to die. This corporeal anatomy is subject to decay, might as well make the moments our heart beats count.

Writing this isn’t what I ever intended to do after how things have been playing (rather falling) in my life, but one might have worse things to be sorry for or crib about. With this persisting state of mind, it isn’t an aberration (because it has been done by many before me in moments of enlightenment) to be talking of why it is important to be a fighter. Of course, irony will smile cheek to cheek as I hammer words onto my screen, but hey, trying is step one, right?

The general idea is to mope around or sulk when sad because life is devoid of bubbles of happiness. I am sorry you traveled the road not taken and I am sorry thorns along the way burst those bubbles, but hold your horses just for one second. Do you feel it? Now you can breathe better. All the forced boisterous joyous smiles and laughter is simply tiring. It is constricting as our grins extend from one side of the face to another and our windpipe becomes thinner and thinner. So when that bubble is burst, we can finally breathe. Maybe the filth and stench of the decaying failures, or maybe the finality of an end to murky unrealistic dreams, or maybe the fresh bouncing spring leaves of endless possibilities which our tinted bubbles wouldn’t let us see earlier. The moping and sulking is also done to gain infamous attention, which may be otherwise be impossible for some to get (remember: spotlights can be blinding). It is done because “what’s wrong, are you okay?” sends gushing coolness of Adam’s ale to the love parched soul. Say it again. Ask me again. It feels good. My general response will be “Nothing, I’m fine” but please for god’s sake, ask me again. Don’t stop. The uncanny ability a moping face has to overturn the brusque nature of unmoving personalities is purely magical.

But that’s the general idea. Fighters aren’t sadness conformists. They emulate even in the toughest of times. Yes, everything is going downhill. Yes, your plan has gone haywire. Yes, you’re clinging onto shreds of what used to make you happy. Yes, you’re denying the fact that it isn’t the same, yes it is true, SO TRUE that you’re hiding, avoiding, unready to face the fact that maybe just maybe this is all failing and you’re stuck in a whirlwind of memories, hopes, aspirations with Beethoven’s Fur Elise increasing rapidly in pitch and tempo, palms sweating, undecided mind pulling and tugging at comfort and running away from it at the same time, an exploding heart jumping from one open road to the next and then scurrying back to its own cage. And then it all collapses in the pitch-black taste of ashes on your burnt tongue.

But fighters aren’t sadness conformists. Fortitude peeks into their eyes, blinding at first like sun rays streaming playfully between leaves. A sideways glance and a head out of the ashes is all it takes to have your breath sucked in by its beauty. And like dust flakes dancing and floating an elegant ballet in the falling sunlight, fortitude shimmies and sinks deep into the fighter’s soul. And like a phoenix, it rises from the ashes and soars into the sky.

We’ve been so busy looking ahead for control, we have forgotten to look down at our own hands holding the leash of our lives. Over the years of negligence, it has become invisible to perfidious eyes. Our charlatan soul fools us into believing everything is rainbows and sunshine. It cheats us into clinging onto false happiness when the gut is screaming: IT IS NOT. And true valour comes from accepting it is not. The harder the denial, the longer the persistence. Learn to celebrate the lowest points of lives. Learn to let the leash loose if not let it go. And it is important to be a fighter because every human whether happy or unhappy deserves or feel and realise and understand the emotions which fix and unfix us, guide us and throw us off track. We DESERVE to say “hm well, this is what this feels like, nice”. Being denied from sadness, or happiness or guilt or disgust or envy or pride or any other feeling in the world, makes us less human and more mechanical. Choosing to feel just ONE way might be in our hands but it isn’t always the easiest or healthiest thing to do. It isn’t prudent to say “no I will not deal with this emotion right now, I made a box of steel and I will fill it till it needs to be dealt with”. And say it is a one-way box and you’re filling it up with unresolved thoughts. And say you’re standing right over it just as the top comes flying off and you’re hit right across the face with the flying piece of steel and years of trauma and disturbed, knee-weakening memories. The human body has no switch. Don’t try to make one.

The inner child within us is dying a little every day. Life seeping out and nerves drying up into crackled lifeless pipes. We don’t see children fighting and swearing to never speak again, no, they’re back to playing in minutes. That’s a little technique to embrace life. Fight with it, but love it just the same. Why is it important to be a fighter? Because life isn’t just the view from a section of a four- sectioned window hidden behind curtains, it is an untameable multitude of things and limiting ourselves in the way of abstaining from feeling it’s full power is injustice to this human life and a fighter and only a fighter…gains and understands the ability and power to face life head on and feel every little spray of paint it decorates our souls with. It is important to be a fighter for us. For our individual selves and hey, if you don’t feel the need to be one, don’t be one. If that is what works for you, then maybe you already are one without realising it. For those of you struggling just remember one thing. You might feel like something is worth your whole life. And it might feel like it at the moment. But tides change so give everything some time. Sometimes: it is not worth it. And when you realise it, learn to accept it. Learning to accepting it is a step to becoming a fighter. Human mind doesn’t want to change its course of things. It doesn’t want a grand new plan when an existing one is right there. Chuck it away. It’s punctured with splinters. Let it go. Just let it go. Drop it. All those complex feelings and justifications and running away and avoidance or sad songs or basking in a cold hard persona in the name of solitude. Drop it. It won’t seem worth it in a few years. Caress what you have. I have time and again made the mistake of pushing away my now in search of a future. I have seen things fall apart and I have seen myself rise back up. And so, I say, what we have now, is in our hands, shape it, mold it, embrace it, love it. Whatever in the world you want. Being afraid might be natural but sometimes it isn’t an option. And everything in this universe comes down to one thing: how willing you are.

And life has a way of changing things around. So yes. I met someone three days ago who told me everything which has inspired me to write. And this feels like no assignment, it feels like an announcement, perhaps to life, perhaps to myself: I am a fighter in making.


White Rose

A short story by Saumyaa Sinha
“It’s your word against mine, whom do you think would they believe?”. Little specks of dust
were dancing in the tunnel of sunlight which streamed through their barely open window, it
was coated with dust, just like the rest of the house and the clothes. The negligence must
have taken some real effort though. For the curtains were heavy with dust laden layers, the
hem skirted over the ground, wanting to fall dramatically. An armchair sat oddly in the
corner, greased with oil spills and a table barely big enough to fit two pieces of crockery,
stood sleepily in the centre, there was a lonely piece of copperware, for silver burnt far too
much of the pocket, on a cracked mantelpiece. Life seemed to be squeezed so wretchedly
out of every furniture, there was a lull thrown over the entire living room. If one could call it
that. A carpet stretched across the flooring, the once intricate patterns were now reduced to
patches of dark mouldy patterns. It couldn’t stop raining outside.
Arnold Atwood shifted from one leg to another, his open trench coat swaying as he did so,
his smooth lips escaping a sigh of evident frustration. He wore a top hat, the edges made of
silk. Silk was far too expensive, some would say. Atwood had different priorities. He tapped
his brogue wingtips and the firm tap tap tap of it added to the pride in his posture, he
straightened up, a hand over his stubbled hubristic face, he continued tapping impatiently,
and as he did so he brought about a dance of dust as though one had just blown a
“You killed our child,”. Bethany Atwood’s voice lingered in the air. It was a mix of what you’d
call sweet as nectar and firm as tar. She wore a plain frock, little patterns of lilies lay dull
upon the dull shade of cotton. Her hair was a dirt shade of blonde, the kind which was once
a shimmering golden but with consistent negligence, came down to the lifeless colour of her
wall. Her eyes didn’t have the sharpness of her husband’s. No. They were plain. Dull, just
like her visage. As she said those words, she stared at Arnold’s tapping feet and at once he
stopped. There was a pain in her voice, something her heavy throat and heart gave away.
“It had to be done and you know it to be true,”. He said in a low, deep rumble. It rose from
his belly like a dead body floating upwards. “It had to be done,”.
“How a fool I have been, to marry a soulless man, petty enough to kill his own blood. Your
eyes haunt me like knives dripped in venom and the very hands which caressed me on the
moon my corse was blessed, are now abrased and scrape my skin with acid like touch. What
a fool I have been to put not trust and faith but also love beyond comprehend in a man
hollow and decaying from within. Selfish, are you. Selfish, selfish and soulless,” she clutched
the cloth of her frock and began pacing towards the window.
“And fool I was to think you had in you a sense of maturity. An understanding. Look around
you!” he bellowed, grasping Bethany by her arm, flinging her across the room like a little toy.
“Do you see the rusted chairs, the cracks in the walls and the half torn curtains? Do you see
the only picture of my mother, coated with dust, the framework, we had to sell for a mere loaf
of bread. Bread! My mother’s pride sold for bread!”

Bethany looked up, clutching her arm, she marched ahead, until her head levelled with his
chin and she could feel the taste of smoke on her chapped lips and dry tongue as she
spoke. “Pride!” she scoffed, “what pride do you talk of! The same which has us indebted to
the landlords for years! The same landlords who were equals to us once, walk past us in
carriages and mock us! What kind of a mindless monster are you, to call her incessant lust
for jewels and riches, pride!”. She took a gulp to say more but Arnold spoke in a bare
“Then how do you suppose we were to feed the extra mouth, huh? IT HAD TO BE DONE!
How long do you suppose before we had to collect for her marriage? None!”. Arnold
coughed, for he wasn’t used to talking this much. His mouth was always filled with a pipe.
Bethany scoffed yet again. “And by work you mean, you giving up that wretched game of
gambling for a day, two at maximum and not losing more than you have? How would we
feed her, indeed for all our earnings are spent on silk hats and trenches and footwear the
rich can only afford to wear! Look at me, I remain a humble servant to life as we have it. And
yet you live off me, a leech of lavish addiction. You have no concern, you have lust. Lust for
money and power and image,” she spit.
The next thing she felt, left her on the ground, it took a moment for her hand to travel to her
left cheek, which was hot and burning. Tears streamed down her cheeks involuntarily. Her
plain placid hairbun came half undone. She looked up to see Arnold standing above her,
eyes wide with rage. Perhaps she had said too much. But nothing but the truth.
“You dare talk to me in that way, your own husband? You belong at my feet and yet you
forget that I have let you rise to my level. Other women wouldn’t dare to as much as look at
their husbands in their eyes and yet your foul tongue twists words of preposterous arrogance
onto my way! Have you no shame, you servant? Have you no disgust at your own thoughts
and being?”
“Never have I said a word against your wrong doings,” she spoke looking down at the
ground, tears burning her eyes. “Never have I said a word as I, a daughter of a well
established family, gave into the whimsical life of an arrogant man,” and suddenly she
launched herself up and roared, eyes still on the ground “BUT THIS IS MY DAUGHTER
YOU HAVE KILLED! I saw you in the eve, strangling her fragile throat, her cries a mere wisp
of air, I SAW you do it before my very eyes…but, but I was too late, my poor poor child,”
suddenly there was nothing but silence. “And so it must be done,” she spoke, tears-tired
eyes staring right into the eyes of the man she hated with all her heart.
The man stood there ready to give her another blow, another lesson, another reminder of
where he stood and where did she. Bethany opened her kitchen drawer, and with her shaky
hands turned fearless, plunged the knife into her husband’s heart with an undeterred swing.
Like pulled by an upward force, his eyes stretched wide as he sucked in a gasp, the last gulp
of air he’d ever take into his now feeble and mortal coil, the white beneath his extravagant
trench witnessed an amusing transition of crimson, first nothing, and then a lot at once. He
was soaked in his own blood. Quiet and helpless was the man of such pride and power, his
hands clutching the knife wedged deep into his heart, eyes fixed upon hers with bewilderment, shock and boundless hatred. He never thought he’d see this day. The
betrayal of a wife was the strength of a mother. And it was the first time that in the pale, dull
house of theirs, the soft boring creams of the walls, and the fireplace, and the curtains and
the furniture, a vibrant hue of deep scarlet invaded the dull whiteness.
The dust swam in the streaming sunlight from the window and in the stillness of the air,
everything seemed as though a painting. Nothing moved, nothing happened. Until the last
thing to be heard was a gentle thud on the wooden floor, a clink of the drenched metal blade
hitting the ground, and a horrid frenzied laughter, escaping from the mouth of a woman, with
a blood-stained frock and hair cascading into messy clumps, the first and only thing full of
lurid life in the Atwood house.
And suddenly there was an eruption of applause and whistles and shoulders being thumped
and the dollying and panning of cameras came to a halt as the director rushed with footsteps
of an excited child to offer a congratulatory handshake to the actor and the actress whose
brilliance he fell in awe with. There were chattering crew men, camera lights dimming out
one by one, and the customary red velvet cake pieces being passed around to the entire
team for the immense success and finality of their new film- White Rose. The director stood
by the actress speaking everything all at once and complimenting her on her authenticity to
the character and using this element here and that improvisation there. There was a merry
aura hanging around the whole set, and it wouldn’t have broken lest a woman crew hadn’t let
out the most clamouring shriek. And all at once, in the new silence, the metallic scent of
blood hung in the air. The actor lay motionless on the wooden floor.
15 years later, the speculation and curiosity to why the beloved film awaited by many
common men and women and the rich alike never touched the screens, came to an end. A
documentary was released by an anonymous artist titled- “White Rose- the movie which
never got released”. And after the credit role, written in plain white, were the words “TO