The Anxiety Series
The feeling that you’re just a split-second away from being engulfed in a pyre of blazing flames. That the ghosts of your present loom around you, playing a constant cacophony of your fears and insecurities. That you’re unsafe in your own home, like every object and person in there is excogitating to kill you. That’s how it is with this monster called Anxiety. It slowly creeps up in the palace of your mind and starts devouring everything inside, till all that remains is grim wreckage. In the recent past, I had a stern encounter with the beast myself, which left me feeling uneasy, confined, and helpless for months. It got to the point where it changed the way I perceived and reacted to many things, and it was extremely nerve-wracking for me to be in a constant state of discomfort and unrest. Luckily for me, talking to the people I was close to helped immensely. But at the same time, not everyone gets this lucky, do they?
As I was fighting my own demons, it occurred to me that in a time when people should be able to open up about their mental health issues and seek help, they’re still fighting with the stigma around it. Sadly, this only exacerbates their situation, pulling them further into the black hole of their minds. In my efforts to help people like me and those who have it worse, I wanted to come up with a pictorial representation of how it feels to deal with this disorder. The Anxiety Series was born out of this thought, in the hopes to serve as a visual medium to a furtive, deep-rooted feeling. I wanted the viewer to be able to step inside the mind of someone who is suffering from anxiety—to be able to hear the sounds, taste the fear, and feel the state of things. To my comfort, once I released the pictures, many people who’d been through something similar reached out to me, grateful that someone had put their feelings into pictures and words. I’m grateful too, to everyone who stood by me in my tough times and to my team of The Anxiety Series, who agreed to take this challenge head-on. It was only with 6 months of planning and curation that I could do justice to the subject, from creating 8 different worlds to charting out the emotions and writing and rewriting the poems till I had something meaningful.
I believe that Anxiety is a disorder that needs to be discussed openly and with a lot of tenderness. If we fail at that as a society, a disturbing amount of people will continue to suffer silently and never have the courage to open up, heal, and step out of this hell.
It’s important to note that anxiety disorders often keep people from sleeping, concentrating, talking to others, or even leaving their home. The Anxiety that may need treatment is often irrational, overwhelming, and disproportionate to the situation. It becomes classified as a disorder when normal anxiety becomes irrational and begins to recur and interfere with daily life. It makes sufferers feel as though they have no control over their feelings, and it can involve severe physical symptoms like headaches, nausea, or trembling.
The flames roar with abandon,
Intensifying the mingling scents
Of fresh jasmine and charred flesh.
‘Help me!’
The anxiety brethren ignore the plea.
They tighten their grips, dragging Gopi to the pyre;
The crematorium is a mute witness
.
Blurred vision, fluttering eyes,
The horrific daily ritual is underway
As Gopi relives his worst nightmare
Yet again
.
As the walls of the crematorium recede,
An infinite stretch of parched land appears.
Gopi's pupils dilate before the familiar scene:
The blue house stands in the distance,
While the tranquil sky transitions to fiery red
With a ghostly silence.
Rushing forward. . . Gopi is too late:
Ravenous flames consume the house.
‘My family—!’ He sinks to his knees
.
Lightning—a harsh, unforgiving white—
illuminates the searing house.
Gopi's eyes close, his mouth is agape;
He’s jolted back to the crematorium.
The anxiety brethren dance in rhythm to Gopi’s rapid breathing;
‘It’s your turn’, they chant in unison.
The pyre crackles gleefully as it burns.
Sinister thunder howls,
And the brethren surround him.
Fire paints the insides of Gopi’s eyelids red.
He frantically rubs them;
Tears falling,
Hands sinking,
Gopi slowly opens his eyes
.
At home—in bed—all alone.
No fire, no crematorium.
The brethren, with their flame-flower hoods, are gone.
Gopi gazes at the picture on the wall before him
Of his smiling family.
All of them
devoured
a decade ago
.
The anxiety brethren applaud inside Gopi’s head.
‘We’ll be back’, they promise, chuckling.
Silent tears fall, seeping into his tattered lungi.
The family photo pulls Gopi from his bed and draws him forward.
The smiling faces gnaw at his heart,
Exposing endless desolation
.
Just another day,
An abominable life sentence
Gopi - Ponappa
Styling - Wardha Ahamed
Production Design - Studio.Slip
AD - Stories by Vinit
MUA - Makeup by Pragna
Story, Creative Direction, Photography, Poetry - Arjun Kamath
Their barrage of noise shatters the sweltering sky;
The bandsmen push closer.
Rini flinches, shrinking in.
Her lungs burn as beads of icy sweat form on her skin.
She claws the car window,
her knuckles turning white
.
Restrained by red roses,
The music booms.
Her eyes widen.
Through the glass,
the musicians’ exhale hangs like smoke in the air.
Rini’s limbs tingle, saliva thickens;
Not yet!
She was shoved into this blind cacophony,
A gaudy play-act
Just to appease
.
Do it for your parents!
You’re growing old!
Do you want to die alone?
Voices hiss through the fog,
enveloping Rini’s thoughts
.
The smell of dried mehendi,
Wilted jasmine,
Make Rini’s chest heavy.
She pushes the car door,
The bandsmen swarm, ‘The guests are waiting!’
Rini falls back into her seat
.
She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes
.
Was it right?
Would she be happy?
Could she love him?
Her parents had done it.
Her friends vouched for it.
Maybe it was the right time.
But Rini had made mistakes…
She couldn’t afford another one
.
Rini opens her eyes.
She’s in her apartment,
all by herself,
looking down at her wedding invitation.
Sharp looking bandsmen and a rose-adorned car
embellish its cover.
After all the years of preparation,
The reality is still alien
.
Rini looks up, eyes misty.
Her late grandmother’s picture whispers,
‘Marriages are made in heaven’.
Next to it,
Innocent 11-year-old Rini runs in a verdant meadow,
feet dirty, laughing loud.
A yellow kite soars from her hand.
She’s all by herself,
a free-spirited soul,
away from worldly worries,
at a time before she made her very first mistake
Rini - Battatawada
Styling - Wardha Ahamed
Production Design - Studio.Slip
AD - Stories by Vinit
MUA - Makeup by Pragna
Hair - Awon Wungkhai
Story, Creative Direction, Photography, Poetry - Arjun Kamath
Back home, dog-tired
Shilom stands by his bed.
A cursory glance at his phone reveals
No messages,
No calls
.
Was he well-dressed that night?
Was his shirt too tight?
Did he eat too much?
He sinks into bed, chest heavy
.
’It’s not about looks’, his friends would chirp
’You look handsome’, his mother assured
But he grew up chubby,
Treated with disdain,
Faced with unrelenting scrutiny.
He ploughed through insults
Day,
After day
.
Tears welling in the dark,
Plump face lit by the phone screen,
No notifications from her
The darkness now his blanket of protection
.
’Have you looked at yourself?’ a kooky voice summons.
He bolts upright, jostled,
Surrounded by skinny mannequins
’Overgrown numbskull!’
Shilom’s eyes widen
His bedroom spins, walls collapse
An alleyway stretches without end,
Bright spotlights flash;
Illuminating his tubby frame.
Mild murmuring;
An audience hides in the dark
.
He would fit in.
Thunderous applause would follow.
Somehow…
Yes!
.
’You could never be us!’ the lanky mannequins jeer
Their eyes bore holes in his bulbous flesh.
Shilom confronts a mannequin
Meets its gaze
Tries on new pants;
They don’t fit!
Another pair…
Too tight!
Another…
His stomach bulges
And the mannequins smirk.
Useless,
An oversized ratbag at best
.
The mound of discarded clothes grows
As his confidence drains.
The murmuring stops
His heart pounding impossibly hard,
The mannequins eye his protruding belly,
Shame.
The audience boos
The spotlights dim. ’No! Wait!’
The darkness presses in
.
’Ping!’ Shilom opens his eyes,
Phone illuminated on his chest
A message from her:
’I really like you— ‘
Deep breath
’—but only as a friend’.
Shilom looks up
The mannequins hang from the ceiling
Like rabid bats
Frothing from their mouths
Swinging freely
“You overgrown mess!” they sneer.
.
The room starts to spin
all over again
Shilom - PDSChandra
Styling - Wardha Ahamed
Production Design - Studio.Slip
AD - Stories by Vinit
MUA - Makeup by Pragna
Story, Creative Direction, Photography, Poetry - Arjun Kamath
Samar hops off the school bus
A bounce in his step
A glint in his eyes
Suave
Fuchsia glosses his lips
Rouge dusts his cheeks
A fountain of happiness
Bubbles within,
Eyes twinkling, the sun catching the charm in his eyes
.
He strides through the school’s gates,
His grin slowly reaching from ear to ear
Lost in his own bubble
Thoughts mimicking a kaleidoscope
His friends would greet him warmly,
Embrace him
Compliment him
Yes!
.
Parents away
He’d finally dressed the way he’d always wanted to
.
Samar was an explorer,
But the world wasn’t ready
to see him soar
to see him comfortable
in his own skin.
“My boy! My man!” his father often quipped
Therefore
The rules had to be followed
.
His beaming smile falls upon his astounded friends
Aghast
They march closer
Scrutinizing his pink lips and rosy cheeks.
Mumbling ensues
What’s wrong with him?
Was he pretending to be a girl?
“You look like a friggin chick!” a friend blurts
Whistles, hooting
“I told you he’s weird!” screams another guy
As Samar’s spirit cracks
.
Fountains of nausea erupt
As his heart claws up his parched throat
Slimy yellow bugs
Reeking of fresh bile
Jump from his mouth
squealing
cascading onto his soft skin
Invisible to the world
But eating Samar alive
Manifesting his innermost fears
As their eyes unrelentingly
bore into him
.
Samar had always felt different
Very different
It wasn’t easy to be his ‘Papa’s boy’
But he played along
.
But today, when he finally felt free
His peers had burnt his wings
Before he could truly fly
.
Although tormented
Samar would still be Papa’s boy
He would survive
The games would continue
Silently
Because come what may
The rules had to be followed
Samar - Mohammed
Styling - Wardha Ahamed
Production Design - Studio.Slip
AD - Stories by Vinit
MUA - Makeup by Pragna
Story, Creative Direction, Photography, Poetry - Arjun Kamath
As work deadlines creep closer
Jitters envelop Naina
Frozen on her tiny bed
Her mind strays
Heart trembles
Would she finish in time?
Beads of sweat collect on her skin
As loneliness slowly spread its veil
A perfect breeding ground
For furry spiders
Descending from sticky lines of silk
Suddenly delirious
Cascading with abandon
.
Loved ones absent
Darkness free to bare its fangs
Crushing Naina
Now powerless
All rationale purged
A perfect playground
For the arachnids
.
Naina feels ambushed
Her room inundated with work files
Spiders multiplying
Shoulders stiff, mouth drying
Mind a bustling nest
Hatching new worries, new spiders
Invisible to the world
But consuming her inside out
.
Sanity eroded
A missed call
A doorbell’s chime
A screen filled with notifications
Transform into a million fangs
puncturing Naina’s lungs
Leaving her breathless
.
Sunlight breaks through the curtains
Spiders dance wildly in the spotlight
On Naina’s sweaty skin, her paling face
Some shriek inside her mouth
.
She wasn’t invited to the office party
Her friends didn’t respond to her texts
He cheated on her
She was worthless
Yes!
A broken, repulsive mess
.
But the conniving spiders
Were her only friends
They stuck with her
Through tears, her fears
Chittered at her, if not with her
Oh, the beautiful scurrying spiders!
.
Uncertainty choking Naina
Heart pounding
Mind racing
Her ominous presence was unwanted
To end the madness,
The spiders must be silenced
But the cobwebs had strayed deep
She couldn’t murder her only companions!
They had been faithful
She would let them gnaw
Screech
Churn her insides
Maybe she was unknowingly addicted to the mess
Painfully in love with the catastrophe
Naina - Battatawada
Styling - Wardha Ahamed
Production Design - Studio.Slip
AD - Stories by Vinit
MUA - Makeup by Pragna
Hair - Awon Wungkhai
Story, Creative Direction, Photography, Poetry - Arjun Kamath
Soft music humming in the background
The room full of life and colourful gossip
Tea, cookies on the side
The ladies and men chuckle
Dressed in colourful sarees, smart coats
They talk about good old days
Lost love
Drunken nights
Nostalgia envelops the room
Everyone grinning like Cheshire cats
.
Delilah, in the centre of the room
Her house; her tea party
Chirpier than usual
Every joke spurring laughter
Complimenting outfits
Munching on cookies
Gulping down cups of chai
And coaxing everyone to do the same
.
Amidst the buzz
A guests’ cup of chai falls to the floor
Delilah’s eyes widen
Grips the chair
A feeling of foreboding
Shattered thoughts
A cell phone rings noisily
Then another
Her heart pounds
The sounds in the room intensify
Jaw clenches
Eyes shut
Veins on her forehead
Mimic slithery serpents
.
Amidst the clamour
A stranger grips Delilah’s shoulder, hand like ice
Jostled, Delilah’s eyes open
Heart claws up her ribcage
.
She gazes around the room
Eerie silence
Green mould infests the cookies
Doors locked
The ladies and men smirk
Wielding massive butcher’s knives
.
Delilah’s body trembles
Blinded by fear
Her eyes craft a different story
Far from reality
.
The guests surround her
Barbaric monsters
Blood drips from their knives
Delilah’s ribs heave
Fitful maggots jump in her abdomen
Unable to breathe, tears dripping .
.
Delilah hadn’t seen her son in years
Her alcoholic husband left her a decade ago
Not before stabbing her in the back
Muffin, her beloved pet dachshund
Mercilessly mowed down by a truck
Just a month ago
Skipping meals, overdosing on caffeine
Her life was a wreck
The tea parties a brief evasion
She was the damned one
Yes!
.
Her vision blurs
Delilah collapses to the floor, mouth agape
Flashes of her son
A blood-soaked Muffin
Skim her hazy eyes
As the world melts into darkness
Delilah - Yasmin Sheikh
Styling - Wardha Ahamed
Production Design - Studio.Slip
MU and hair - Makeup by Pragna, Makeovers by Priyankark, Pragnav Krishna
Accessories - Creative Gems and Jewels
Story, Creative Direction, Photography, Poetry - Arjun Kamath
“He’s got everything,”
the neighbourhood hums.
“A doting partner,
a baby girl,
a supportive family,
a new job.
A glossy life—
he is blessed, indeed!”
.
But Madhav hasn’t slept all night.
His fatigued eyes follow the first light,
uneasiness sets in
yet again.
The cave beckons:
his new workplace,
a nest, infested
with humiliation,
stacked files
and curses
scattered across desks
harsh syllables
float to Madhav
in his grimy chair.
Time slides like slime
.
Madhav settles into his humid cave.
Eyes judge,
bore into the family picture on his desk.
“They deserve better!”
Distant voices press,
puncture his self-worth.
If he could only behave normally,
meet deadlines,
perfect his work
.
He lunches in solitude
.
His white shirt clings damply to his skin.
He sends incorrect files,
loses papers,
misses staff meetings,
spills coffee,
mispronounces his boss’s name,
mispronounces his own name,
limps towards deadlines,
creeps like a lame rat,
hands in work late
.
Madhav’s boss sneers,
his moustache lopsided
and pale lip raised.
“This is your last chance.”
He brandishes his right hand.
like Madhav is a mucky fly,
in the dark cave.
His boss chews away,
a ravenous termite
feasting on self-worth
.
Colleagues rush past;
their breezes disturb pages.
He sees their backs,
hears their nasty whispers,
feels glances over their shoulders.
He lowers his head,
closes his moist eyes
.
He spends sleepless nights
on the couch at home,
away from his wife,
away from his daughter,
who miss his goodnight kisses.
Madhav is
worthless
.
The cave calls to him
in nightmares
and cold sweats,
a loud engine
powering his family.
Madhav surrenders,
shoulders slumped,
back to the cave,
to his daily mudslinging ritual.
He ploughs through horrific insults,
numbs himself with painkillers,
proves his dedication.
He can’t afford to get fired.
The very thought
Prickling his skin with goosebumps
.
He has it all,
doesn’t he?
A doting partner,
A baby girl,
A supportive family,
a new cave
.
What more could he need?
Madhav - Arvind Dev (TheWildVind)
Styling - Wardha Ahamed
Production Design - Studio.Slip
AD - Stories by Vinit
MUA - Makeup by Pragna
Story, Creative Direction, Photography, Poetry - Arjun Kamath
A spicy aroma,
In the heart of the middle-class home,
Sanvi gives her husband his lunchbox.
“Poha with extra groundnuts,” she says.
Arvind pulls her close,
A delicious silence.
Sanvi smiles.
A mundane morning, spun into gold
.
Sanvi has always been
the eye of storms.
Dish soap in hand,
The diligent host with bubbling laughter.
Adept at marketing,
meeting deadlines,
and serving hot platters.
fashionable and coiffed,
Starched aprons,
Tiny waist,
Strong arms.
Arvind brags,
“She’s Superwoman,”
with a smile
.
But
time slips like water down the drain,
never recalled.
.
The sun rises
on identical cribs,
wipes and bottles,
warm blankets,
smiling lips
Together, the young couple journey,
and Sanvi decides:
a break from work,
for her beautiful babies,
no stone unturned.
She gives them
love, care, all.
.
And time floats,
soft petals in the wind;
the children grow,
Sanvi’s break
now a Pandora’s box.
.
Sanvi cooks for Arvind.
She puts the children to bed.
Rises at night
to comfort them.
Picks up milk, shops for bread,
changes diapers,
makes the bed.
A clean house,
perfect meals
Her dreams
in a distant garbage can
.
Confined, her guilt grows,
as toddlers cry
“Do I play with them enough?”
“Am I feeding them enough?”
“Am I enough?”
.
Suffocated, drained,
Sanvi longs for bedtime
Yet Arvind works at odd hours
and her woes grow,
“Superwoman”
a curse
.
Arvind changes hours,
He spends time with the kids,
when he can.
His kisses
Meet pursed lips.
She is overwhelmed.
He is confused.
“What’s wrong?”’
.
Shaking,
breaking,
Sanvi is alone.
Enduring—
for her kids,
for Arvind.
She is the glue in their cracks,
fills the chips in her mind
against the wishes of her soul.
Sanvi is Superwoman
after all
Sanvi - Shreya Krishnan(drama.rani)
Arvind - Venkat Dhondale
Styling - Wardha Ahamed
Production Design - Studio.Slip
MUA - Makeup by Pragna
Hair - Awon Wungkhai
Story, Creative Direction, Photography, Poetry - Arjun Kamath