"Would you like to tell us about yourself, ahem, new girl?" A lady in a sombre pink shirt and black skirt asked. "We'd love to hear from you."

I crawled up from the comfort of my chair. My palpitation subdued, my hand twitched, lips curled up as I watched every eye, every face. Nobody smiled.

Tough crowd.

"Hi, I am Mia. Mia Francis. I am-"

"Hi Mia," everyone spoke in unison, cracking the rails of my thought train. 

I gawked into the crown, letting out a tight smile. I had never interacted with a crown so gloomy, so lost in thoughts.

"I am from India and I arrived just yesterday. I got the scholarship for my course, sooo.."

Nothing.

No clap. No head nod in appreciation. Nil. Nada.

Every moment in this room was being split into seconds, each having its own centuries. The air in the room felt dry, searing my nostrils. 

A mix of heat and bile fireball from the depths of my gut, meeting the taunting Mama Mia, here we go again rendition in my head.

You are so gonna screw this up.

The blonde lady standing at the centre slowly blinked at me. Her assurance proved lifeguard to my drowning self.

"I have my godparents who stay here. But..not the Mario Puzo version."

To my respite, a few men smiled. 

Godfather will always do the trick. Dad's words bounced in my mind.

Then another dry spell.

Think dammit, think.

"Ohh, I have an elder sister who's studying at Harvard. She is only a year and a half older, though." Say anything. "Ohh... And I love all sorts of animals."

What the hell did I just say?

My speech was not great but extemporary enough for the musician in me to feel elated. I fell onto the comfort of my chair. 

Thud.

I tugged at the collar of my shirt in a failed attempt to oxygenate my insides. Adrenaline was leaving my body, the haze was clearing and I could see, stone cold faces staring back at me, eying me as if I was naked.

I looked into the ceiling, letting disappointment burn its course.

"Mia," the blonde lady called. "We are still waiting on the troubles that you had. The part for which you came here."

With a laser-focused stare at my fellow mates, I faked a smile. 

The boy in the corner seemed to have missed blinking a couple of times. His wide eyes and perfectly arched eyebrows bridged as I stood up again.

"I always have trouble with the up-and-down bow staccato. So I need to perfect that before the performance," I grinned at the crowd. Everyone peeled their eyes from the lady to me. "The rest I can perfect on my own."

Still nothing.

Were Brits supposed to be so unfriendly?

When the blonde lady gazed over my violin case, I recollected what my former teacher narrated. "Sometimes impressing with a performance is easier than with words."

Diving towards my case, I unzipped it. The track traced by the zipper echoed inside the silent room.

"Which class do you think this is?" The lady asked, boring her eyes over my instrument.

The burn of everyone's vision was peeling my skin.

"Violin," I whispered.

Blondie nodded sidewise. Her shoulders heaved, up then down and her mouth led soft huffs of air. 

With watery eyes, she scanned the room. Some of the entities joined her infectious laughter crusade. Whispers and giggles filled the air.

Wrong class.

Scrambling my things, I peered at the door for a bolt faster than Usain's.

"Mia, wait..." Another voice halted my stride.

A woman with salt pepper hair, rosy skin and maroon lipstick called me. She reminded me of my grandmother who would proudly wear bold colours. I could sense a familiar smell of her rosy perfume, just watching her.

"I liked your introduction. Would you, I mean if you don't mind..." Pausing midway, she looked away and dropped back into her chair.

"We would love for you to stay for the day." The blonde lady, whom I foolishly assumed was the maestro, spoke. "Even if it's the wrong class."

She looked at her audience. Many nodded in affirmation. After deliberating for a couple of moments, I walked back to my former place.

This time was my do-over.

Mouthing "thank you," to me, she continued. "So where were we? Oh yes, Ivan."

She turned to the non-blinking, mute boy.

Oh, Ivan.

The mute boy was shy. His head dipped low when called to action. He smirked, dismissively waving his hands. I felt rattled by his passing look.

When someone raised their hand, the non-maestro lady walked over. 

The person stood from her chair, narrating about an accident that snatched away her daughter's life. Her breakdown plummeted at the centre of my chest.

I looked around.

Posters and images of mental health struck semblance with the circular seating and group talks. I saw no violin cases. 

Stupid Mia.

This was a self-help talk group for people with depression and anxiety.

A sudden shift occurred in my focus. I was no longer feeling the room or checking the audience to form a good opinion about me.

I was concentrating on the speaker. 

Her bloodshot eyes and reddened nose withered away all my plans. Her pain transpired into my skin. Her words pricked at my throat. 

Her motherly ache reminded me of my mother and her face as I waved her goodbye at the airport.

When the room drew into another lull, I looked up.

"It's Mary." The lady introduced herself. Suddenly, we weren't strangers anymore. She knew who I was, I knew what she suffered.

The corner I sat in, felt intimidating. 

The walls were somehow closing in on me. My forehead leaned over my knuckles, resting as another woman shared - the demise of her husband.

Her share was chaotic cries of her soul, wailing on the inside for comfort. 

She was narrating a loss but gingerly hiding the stitches on her wrist. She was crying but digging into her lower lips to avoid breaking down. 

She was coming undone with her narration yet, somehow, holding onto the pillars of her words, bearing through the sorrow storm.

"Mia." My name drew everything to a close. The blonde lady was towering over, her eyes filled with kindness and concern. "How about you tell us something about where you came from? We would like to hear more about that. Innit guys?"

Nodded affirmation was the rocket fuel that made me lift off. The toll of the share eased its hold over my back.

Tucking my hair behind my ears, I looked around.

Never pity the sufferer. Respect their struggle. Help them.

This was a bittersweet moment for me, standing amongst survivors. 

Pangs of what they suffered and suffering plunged like a dagger into my chest and gut every time I met someone's swollen eyes, someone's distant stares.

The solace came in the form of acceptance. They wanted me here, wanted me to stay.

I spoke about Mumbai, my place of residence. 

Most of them had heard of Bollywood and Priyanka Chopra so it was a huge respite for I could cut short on the detailed analytics and move on to the architectural marvels of the country. 

By the end of what could have very well been a tourism promotional script, I received some applause and some affirmation on the next destination from travel junkies.

In all, what seemed to be a disaster, took a turn for the best.

When I looked at the mute boy, Ivan, he didn't look away. I remembered stuttering at one point when he leaned back on his chair, arms crossed across his chest. 

I wasn't bothered if he didn't listen. I was scared of otherwise.

"Halcyon." I ended my extempore with a favourite word.

Not many knew the meaning and the lady, actually, the Doctor asked them to check it. Ivan smiled to himself as if he already knew the meaning.

After a few minutes of certain crucial therapy pointers, the doctor rose with the class. 

Chairs dragged up, murdering the tranquillity. I remained fixed at my place, watching everyone gather their stuff, talking, whispering, and moving out.

The world would never know their soul-crushing struggles.

"Mia, that was lovely, what you spoke." The doctor towered over me, adjusting her bags on dipped shoulders. "I know this may sound weird and I don't even know why, but I wanted to try something new. And if you can, I mean it's all up to you." She shifted her weight over her feet. "Do you want to join our sessions? I know you don't require help but-"

"I would love to but I don't know how I'd manage. I have violin classes too so-"

As much as I wanted to help, I was split between my head and heart.

All this while, my focus was only on being the first chair and performing at the Royal Albert Hall. After listening to the shares, something felt different.

I wasn't able to place a finger on it but surely it felt like my centre of gravity had shifted. 

The earth stopped spinning around me. My rotation began.

The doctor nodded, pursing her lips. "I won't force you but I thought I could try something new..."

"Why me?" I cut her words. 

Was I exhibiting some early symptoms?

"Because I saw how different their behavior was when you were speaking. You were like a bundle of positive energy. And I loved the word innovation too. So I wanted to see how it goes with you being in there. Like an observer, an influencer."

An hour ago, I could have walked away, unaware of anyone's pain, clueless of someone's suffering. 

But I didn't. I couldn't.

I was not a therapist, not an inspiring person. 

I was ordinary yet, here I stood, outside the door of the room which carried in its air their tormented cries and bone-breaking hardships. 

Nailed to its walls, their hard-earned rebounds and remoulded fervors.

I stood at the crossroads, a defining juncture in my life - the bright and the dark path.

I could have walked away, I could have very well focused on my career, my before-twenty checklist and the things I set out to do since I held the violin at the age of three.

But the darkness of the adjacent road was alluring, calling me out with its siren songs, asking me to toss away my inhibitions. 

The light from the road much travelled seemed unconvincing, fake even.

That day, I stood at the fork in the road, looking down at the pamphlet in my hand. Kids playing the violin reminded me why I was here. What I had to do.

"Don't deviate." Those children from the pamphlet spoke to me. "Hold on tight. Focus on your career."

Then there was the doctor, standing in front of me.

I lied to her, asking for more time to think. 

The decision was already made.

~

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