"The Art of Smiling When the World Isn’t watching" is a tale of Manjiri, a spirited woman in the town of Darvila, battling high-functioning depression. Her seemingly perfect life hides a storm. As she navigates her emotions and relationships, readers are drawn into her world through reflection.
The façade
Darvila, nestled in the heart of the Eastern Ghats, could have been plucked straight out of a travel brochure. The town, with its cobbled streets and timeless air, was flanked by orchards bursting with mangoes, guavas, and jackfruits. Hibiscus bushes lined the pathways, their vibrant petals undeterred by the ceaseless drizzle.
And then there was me, Manjiri, a librarian by day and an invisible tempest by night.
“Manjiri, you make it all seem so easy!” Kavita exclaimed one afternoon over tea. Her perfect curls framed a face untouched by worry.
I smiled, the kind of smile practiced in front of mirrors for decades. “What can I say? Years of working with dusty books toughen you up.”
The truth was, I had mastered the art of appearing calm. My days were routine—opening the library’s mahogany doors, cataloging books with meticulous care, and slipping witty remarks into conversations.
But inside? It was as if I were sinking into quicksand, all the while waving cheerfully at passers-by.
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2. The library and its keeper
The Darvila Library was a relic of colonial times, with its wood-panelled walls, spiral staircases, and a peculiar smell that combined old paper and mildew. It was here I sought refuge, surrounded by the wisdom of Dickens and the melancholy of the Brontës.
My favourite corner held an armchair by the window. From there, I could watch rain trickling down hibiscus leaves, their resilience mocking my fragility.
“Mrs. Chowgule wants War and Peace, and she is in one of her moods,” grumbled Tara, my assistant.
“Let her have it,” I said, smirking. “Heavy reading for a heavy soul.”
Mrs. Chowgule, a formidable woman in her seventies, peered at me over her spectacles. “Your jokes are wasted here, child. You should try stand-up comedy.”
Ah, the irony.
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3. Cracks begin to show
The first real crack appeared on a Tuesday. Tuesdays were uneventful, typically spent rearranging shelves and listening to rain drum against the roof. But that day, a patron pointed out that I had forgotten to process their return.
It was an innocent mistake, but the murmurs stung. “Isn’t Manjiri supposed to be the sharp one?”
That night, at home, I poured my unease into my journal:
"The river looks calm, but its depths are deadly."
Anant, my husband, found it on the coffee table. “Your poetry is improving,” he said, chuckling as he sipped his whisky—a bottle of Glenfiddich, his prized indulgence.
I forced another smile. “What can I say? Inspiration strikes.”
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4. The weight of the invisible
Evenings in Darvila were usually serene. The town was a symphony of crickets, rustling leaves, and distant temple bells. But inside my mind, the noise was deafening.
Dinner with Anant and our two children was a ritual, punctuated by half-hearted pleasantries. That day, I tried to broach the subject of my struggles.
“I have been feeling… off lately,” I began, picking at my food.
Anant looked up, concern flickering briefly before being replaced by dismissal. “Everyone feels off sometimes. You just need to relax.”
The children nodded, distracted by their phones.
It hit me like a blow—I was invisible even to those closest to me.
5. Nature's solace
The next day, I sought solace in Darvila’s orchards. The air was thick with the scent of guava, and the ground was a patchwork of fallen mangoes. I wandered aimlessly until I reached the riverbank.
Amma’s voice echoed in my mind: “The heaviest rains always leave the brightest blooms.”
Amma, who had been the only one to see through my bravado, was long gone. But her words lingered like a balm on my aching soul.
6. The letter
Frustrated by the futility of speaking to my family, I penned an anonymous letter to the editor of the Darvila Gazette.
"To the world, I am the perfect picture of composure. But inside, I am crumbling. How many others wear smiles that hide storms?"
I mailed it and thought little of it—until the letter was published the following week.
“Did you read this?” Kavita asked, waving the paper in my face. “It is heartbreaking.”
I nodded, pretending to be just as moved as she was.
7. An unexpected reply
Days later, I found a note slipped into the library’s suggestion box.
"Your words touched me deeply. Please know you are not alone. Let’s meet—no names, no judgments. Just listening."
The note was signed with a simple initial: R.
Intrigued and desperate, I agreed.
8. Meeting R
We met at a quiet tea shop on the outskirts of town. R turned out to be Revati, a retired schoolteacher with kind eyes and a firm handshake.
“You wrote that letter?” she asked.
I hesitated, then nodded.
“You are braver than you know,” she said, her voice steady.
For hours, we talked. Revati shared her own battles with grief after losing her husband, and I poured out years of pent-up emotion.
9. Seeking help
Encouraged by Revati, I booked a session with Dr. Payal, a therapist who came highly recommended. It was terrifying at first, peeling back layers of my carefully constructed façade.
Anant joined one session reluctantly but gradually began to understand.
“I didn’t realise…” he began, guilt etched into his features.
“You weren’t supposed to,” I replied softly.
10. The bloom after the rain
As the weeks turned into months, the storm inside me began to quiet. I started a diary series, “Letters to Myself,” sharing my journey anonymously in the Gazette.
To my surprise, the letters resonated with readers. Strangers began leaving notes in the library, thanking me for giving voice to their struggles.
Epilogue: The art of smiling for real
Darvila’s skies were clear the day I realised I was smiling—not the practised smile of old, but one born of genuine peace.
The hibiscus flowers swayed in the breeze as if nodding in approval.
I was not cured, but I was healing. And that, I realised, was enough.
Frequently Asked Questions
What is high-functioning depression?
A condition where individuals mask their symptoms behind a façade of normalcy.- How can one help someone struggling silently?Listen without judgment and encourage professional help.
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Tushar Mangl, Energy Healer and Author of The Avenging Act. Writes on personal finance, Vastu, mental health, food, leisure, and a greener, better society.
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