I wrote my first proper poem sitting in front of half mutilated cadaver. I still remember how vividly I could recall that dream of mine and put it down in those almost perfectly rhyming lines in a room where six hard from preservatives and mummified bodies laid. Wasn’t i relieved a little? A lot. In a long time I felt like I did something asked to be done.
I still remember all he said was ‘why don’t you write a poem?’ Not in very serious tone but just a friendly advice while his gaze was focused on the road in front as he drove me back to my hostel. Of course I didn’t take it seriously because all i did was a little shrug in response. I didn’t know his words could impact my subconscious outside his office equally as they did inside during those sessions.
It was effortless to be honest. I didn’t do much except for the putting up rhyming words at the end of each sentence. It was relieving and rejuvenating to have myself do something in completely spontaneous manner. More than half a year had passed since I actually had done anything even miles close to that. I named that poem Dilemma. I named it more than a year after I wrote it. Because it was more than a year after I realized why I had been depressed. That is the thing with depression. Even after you are fixed from it, it might take you ages to know exactly what lead you there. Its like a revelation.
I wrote many poems after that. One after another as I paved my path away from the unhappiness with his help. I am not a very proud person. I am glad I let him help me. His help had been the greatest blessing nature gave me. He is like my godfather who help me come out to this world again but this time I was free and in love.
And may his soul rest in peace, whose cadaver I was supposed to be studying to get through my anatomy class. I did pay attention eventually but only when I was ready to learn from that life less teacher.