The Dark Undercurrents of Depression

The suicide of celebrity chef and TV host Anthony Bourdain in June prompted an eruption of discussion on mental health. The fact that he was suffering from depression left many aghast. How could anyone as successful as he suffer from depression? And why would it prompt anyone to take their own life? For that matter, what could possibly vex any rich, successful, young, educated person – presumably enjoying good health and a happy family?

Closer home, actor Deepika Padukone’s disclosure about suffering, and successfully recovering, from depression also triggered discussions on mental health. But such exercises are often short-lived. Soon after, the issue retreats into the domain of taboo – as has been in the case in most parts of the world.

It is within this domain that those suffering from depression find themselves. Considered just another form of sadness, victims are expected to emerge from it without much support. Which is why, even when 7.5% of Indians suffer from mental disorders that require medical assistance, it still isn’t regarded as a public health epidemic outside the closed circuit of medical professionals.

Udayan Mukherjee’s debut novel Dark Circles sheds light on this widely neglected but important issue. The story revolves around a Bengali family which is visited by different forms of unhappiness that tear every member apart in one way or another. Reading it brings to one’s mind what Tolstoy wrote in Anna Karenina: “Happy families are all alike, every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

Initially, the Bengali family is the quintessential Indian middle-class happy family: Subir, an architect and Mala, a History lecturer, are fond of each other. Their sons, Ronojoy and Sujoy, grow up and study in Delhi, travelling to the mountains for occasional family retreats. But things begin to fall apart over time. The estrangement that grows in Subir and Mala’s relationship is passed off as normal wear and tear in a marriage, especially after the birth of their first child.

Years pass before anyone realising that Subir is unable to wrestle out of the vice-like grip of poor mental health. It torments him to the extent of committing suicide – an act that leaves a long trail of vulnerability and tragedy in the family. The boys are packed off to a boarding school in Nainital, and Mala, who holds herself responsible for her husband’s death, turns a recluse, taking refuge in an ashram in Rishikesh. She torments herself, questioning her very existence, to such an extent that it is only death that can save her.

Almost every character in the novel has an underlying sadness, partly defined and mostly undefined. Both Ronojoy and Sujoy are emotionally vulnerable – a trait they derive from their family. They lack social lives or close friends, and their well-paying jobs mean little to them. Mala’s last letter to Ronojoy – with which the novel actually begins – unravels the hidden pains and disruptions that both her sons have been exposed to in the past.

The sons aren’t sure what to make of their mother’s choices. Her choices – and secrets – revealed in the last letter bring the sons together in shared agony for a while, but they ultimately find themselves retracting to aloofness. Mala’s revelation about her infidelity devastates the already fragile mental condition of the brothers. So much so that they believe that their father’s suicide may have been triggered by it.

Sujoy, the younger one, is particularly vulnerable, unable to elevate himself from the anger and depression that deteriorates his quality of life further. He is averse to even acknowledge that he is suffering from poor mental health, and this, in fact, becomes his undoing. He thus fails to build any meaningful relationship with anyone. Ronojoy, though, acknowledges his condition, even thinking that his clinical depression could have been passed on to him through his father, and seeks medical help. This is where the reader is left thinking aloud: Could Subir’s suicide have been averted had he had access to timely medical care or a support system?

The narrative is straightforward and left open-ended, thereby letting readers decide how they want the story to end. There are parts where the reader wishes the author had made things more complex, and parts where one wishes he had kept things simple and aesthetically appealing. Mukherjee’s prose is beautiful, but the grimness of the plot leaves little space to relish it.

Fathima M is a PhD student at the Centre for English Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University. She was a Fulbright fellow at the University of Texas at Austin in 2017-2018.