The Thud

The pain wasn’t searing. It was a dull thud. Like the sound made by a sack of grain when you drop it to the floor. Thud. The feeling within, too, was dull. She felt distant from herself, as though submerged in water or trapped in a dream, her awareness hazy. She dealt with the pain as if it belonged to someone else.

The breakup happened out of the blue, just when she was expecting their relationship to turn into something larger, more meaningful. The blow felt like one from a hammer. Thud. Strong, yet heavy and dull. She struggled to process the what, why, and how of it, but her brain felt slow and heavy, like the very hammer that had hit her.

There were no major fights, no unbridgeable differences. Yet he had dumped her and walked away, like dropping a weight by accident at the gym. Thud. He had told her his reason, but to her, it felt silly and stupid. She couldn’t even get her emotions out in the form of tears. Everything felt frozen inside.

She applied for leave and headed to her hometown, assuming a few days with her loving—but clueless about her love life—parents would help her process her plight. It was festival time, but she couldn’t participate in any of the fervor. She heard the same real-life thud as her mom and dad pounded away the rice to prepare kajjaya, the traditional sweet. Her heart thudded too. Her perceptive mom asked if everything was alright, and she carefully avoided talking about him. Why bother them and make them worry more?

He wasn’t a bad guy, far from it. He had stood by her during their six years together. In his company, she had grown, shedding her morose, sad veneer. She had learned to embrace happiness and stay happy, letting go of the fear that sadness was lurking, waiting to pounce. He had taught her how not to nurse grudges, how to handle fights, and, importantly, how to start every day afresh. Yet today, it felt as if all those lessons were merely preparation for this eventuality, thudding down to terra firma.

Who was to blame? Did he cause it? Was she responsible? Did she ignore any signs? The more she thought about it, the more her heart thudded. She knew she was slipping into depression, and she didn’t know a way out. When friends asked, she struggled to respond; she couldn’t blame him. He and she still exchanged messages and tended to the pets they both had raised—she brought them to her place whenever he traveled instead of letting them stay at a pet minder. She wondered if she wasn’t willing to let go, secretly expecting him to reconcile. Her struggles were accentuated further by the fact that she was a therapist herself!

Months passed. She still stayed stuck. He didn’t tell her he had begun dating someone else, nor did he let her in on his plans to move out of the country and marry the person he was newly invested in. But the news still reached her ears. Had he broken up because he found this new person, or was this after they broke up? She concluded she would never know. It shouldn’t matter—it was in the past. But it did, because she still lived in the past in her head, moping daily about her memories, and struggling to see life beyond the breakup.

Her older, perceptive brother reached out and gently asked her to talk to him. “I’ve noticed how you’re struggling to look normal. I know it’s a façade. Do not hide. You know you can share with me.” With great reluctance, and also to unburden herself, she told him bits and pieces. “My little one, you’re struggling to seek help. Let go of your embarrassment about approaching another. You cannot be your own therapist.” He had struck at the root of the matter. She agreed to see one.

One session led to some more. She liked the conversations with the therapist and finally realized what she had failed to do.

She contacted her ex and said she wanted to talk. She finally told him, her heart thudding away, what she felt about the breakup and the impact it had had on her, calling him out for being an asshole who had made her feel the fault was hers while he might have been planning his exit all along. She knew now the real problem wasn't the weight he dropped, but the heavy weight of silence she had been carrying alone. 

A year passed. It was the same festival time, and she was back at home. She woke up to her mother pounding the rice to make the same traditional sweet. She joined her with a smile, and said, “Let me do it this time.” She brought the pestle down. It was a solid thud, but this time, it was the sound of being alive, not defeat. Her brother, who was helping their mother in the task, smiled. She smiled back, and thought, “Thank you for saving me from myself”.