The silence in the room

Mental health is like the family secret everyone knows but refuses to say aloud.
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There is a particular kind of silence that sits heavy in Indian homes. It is the silence that knows something is wrong but does not have the courage to name it. It is the silence that grows thicker at dinner tables, in curt nods, in the brushing off of tears with a quick nod.

In our households, there is no space for sadness that lingers. One may cry when a relative dies, but crying in the middle of a regular day is treated with suspicion. The idea that someone could be sad without a visible reason feels absurd. And so, it begins, the great hiding, the act of tucking away sorrow like a shameful object, behind half-closed doors and fake smiles.

Mental health is like the family secret everyone knows but refuses to say aloud. Depression is Lord Voldemort. It is He-Who- Must-Not-Be-Named. The fear is not of the condition itself, but of what it might imply. That something has gone wrong in the family. That we, in all our discipline and duty, have failed to raise someone who is “strong”.

Ask around in any middle-class neighbourhood and you will hear the same script. “He has everything. Why would he be depressed?” “She just needs to get married, then things will settle.” “Don’t talk nonsense. In our time, we didn’t have the luxury to be depressed.”

That last one stings more than the rest. It carries the weight of generations which were told to suppress their pain, swallow their tears, and continue to walk like nothing happened. It is said with a certain pride, as if endurance is the highest form of character. And perhaps it was, once. But the problem with untreated wounds is that they fester.

What is passed down is not only land or jewellery, but also silence. The unspoken grief of our mothers, the frustrations of fathers who never learnt to say they were hurting, the quiet suffering of grandmothers who cried in kitchens and then wiped their faces before anyone noticed. Trauma is inherited, even when we don’t speak of it. Especially when we don’t. I remember a classmate from school. Always cheerful, always laughing. When we heard, years later, that he had taken his life, there was disbelief. Then came the murmurs. “But he was doing so well.” “He should’ve just talked to someone.” Someone. That elusive figure we all believe is out there. But how does one talk when the walls themselves seem to frown upon such conversations? The truth is, we have made it nearly impossible. A boy who cries is mocked. A young man who seeks therapy is laughed at for being too “modern”. There is still a prevailing belief that anything related to the mind can be willed away. As if sadness is a guest you can shoo out with a broom. As if sleepless nights, the crushing weight in one’s chest, the endless thoughts of worthlessness, all of it can be silenced with a walk in the park or a few spoonfuls of ghee.

To be fair, it isn’t always cruelty. Sometimes, it’s ignorance wrapped in affection. Mothers offering turmeric milk, thinking it might cure the emptiness. Fathers suggesting a change of city, hoping it will change the mood. These are attempts at help, even if misplaced. The tragedy is that many people genuinely don’t know what depression looks like, not because they haven’t seen it, but because they’ve seen it so often that it has become normal. We all know someone, and sometimes, we are that someone.

The way forward is not grand. It begins with smaller things. Listening without interrupting. Letting someone cry without asking them to stop. Not labelling every difficult feeling as weakness. Allowing space for people to say, “I am not okay,” and not following it up with advice, but with presence.

We do not need to pretend to have all the answers. Most of us don’t. But we can begin by saying the name. Depression. Anxiety. Loneliness. Words that should not sound foreign in our homes. Words that should not be whispered behind closed doors. There is no shame in feeling. There is only shame in forcing people not to.

Until we speak, the silence will keep winning. And in that silence, too many stories will end before they were ever told.

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