I was sitting on the floor. Back pressed to the wall, crammed in between the sofa, clinching my legs and arms to occupy as less space as possible and avoid being seen by anyone from the room. There was I, lying on the bed right in front of me, dressed in my gray pajamas and white T-shirt, my favorite one. A man was bent over me, at an angle that hid his face completely from me. Not that if I saw him I would recognize him. I don’t think I know him. I tried to concentrate on his movements, trying to employ my intuitive powers and read what he would do next. I could read nothing. I stared into his eyes and could see nothing. Something cold and steel like pierced into me. His stare? No. He has a scissor in his hand. I screamed. Pleaded. For mercy. For life. No, I must help. I must help before all of this gets over. I extended my hands and reached out. But it doesn't seem like I can feel or touch a thing. I pulled at the man’s shirt. For a second my hands registered the damp and smooth fabric. Momentarily it reminded me of waking up on a misty November morning. The feeling was akin to the wet feeling you have when you open the window and reaches out to touch the fog. You can feel something cold and wispy . Yet you have touched nothing. Suddenly he turned and looked straight into my eyes. I recoiled and pulled back my hands. For five seconds he looked straight into my eyes searching for something. And then he got back to work. Cutting me open with the scissor. I realized that I could do nothing to help. So I turned back and shrank behind the chair. Hearing myself scream, watching him cutting my skin in a geometric straight line. The cold metal made a creaking sound every time the blades came together. From the neck, in between my breast, my navel, and then further down below. A thin line of blood ran from the center of the bed to the lower right-hand side edge of the bed. I waited and calculated the time each drop of blood took to hang on the hem of the bed sheet, contemplating and then come crashing down on the floor and splash into the small puddle that had accumulated there, perfectly at home. I could see myself scream. I saw the stranger laugh. But the only thing I heard was the sound of the drops falling on the floor. Like someone forgot to close the tap in the bathroom downstairs. Muffled, yet undoubtedly the sound of drops falling. One every 6 seconds.
*******************************
I dragged my poor being into office early morning. Eyes watering, red and laden with sleep. A bad night always translated into a bad next day. I picked up the receiver and dialed a number. I was greeted by the cold tone of an IVR asking me to record my message. 5 pm. And then I disconnected.
*******************************
The psychiatrist looked nothing like a psychiatrist. He looked like any other man on the street. I tried to imagine him as the paperwala, the grocery shop owner, the dentist. He seems a good fit everywhere. I was not quite sure why he called himself a specialist and was he special enough to solve my problem. Nevertheless for the 600 rupees I had already paid for this two hour session, I decided to stay on.
“So you have nightmares?”
I wished I could say something like “No I just like to hop around the town at 1.30 in the night, singing London Bridge is falling down and people think that’s abnormal. So I have come for a second opinion”. Instead I nodded a meek “Yes”.
“Are they that scary?”
‘Aren’t they called nightmares because they are scary? Which school gave you that degree?’
Another meek “yes”.
This time he looks deep into my eyes with a look as if he is going to detonate an atom bomb, “tell me what all do you dream about?”
So I tell him about rapes- mines and others, murders- gruesome ones, Ghosts and me trapped in large huge empty theaters together, deserted villages with a vulture sitting on a broken pot, having read chemistry and discovering 10 minutes before the final exam that its history paper today. Single child, can’t fail, can’t make friends, frustrated at something, looking for something- drugs, smoke, ethereality, delusions.
The specialist is silent, both thumbs stuck on the sides of the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, thin lips shut tight. I like the silence of the room , but I still expect him to speak up early. I need a coffee.
“The best way to understand why we have nightmares is to think of them as an early warning system or an alarm that alerts us that something is wrong in our lives and is hurting us. Being human, we do not always pay attention to the subtle hints or little nudges that tell us that we need to change something. We keep procrastinating instead of working out the problems, or we are so preoccupied with other matters that we miss the big issues. Drawing references through some parallel incidents that happened in the past or what we thought might have occurred, our mind seems to put us through a cognitive test that test our abilities and outlook on a given issue, to prepare us for going through a painful lesson in life such as the break-up of a relationship, loss of a loved one, fears of death, loss of health; any number of situations.”
Hmm..It would be nice if I had some coffee.
“Through alteration of what we think and behave like during the day we can understand the issues that are being brought to our attention and change our perception. They are actually sometimes helpful, the same way that pain alerts us that something is wrong with our bodies, nightmares are a helpful warning to alert us that our emotional and mental state has a glitch that needs to be fixed, because it's somehow making our lives harder and more painful Psychologist Ernest Rossi has put forth that one important function of dreaming is integration: the combining of separate psychological structures into a more balanced and comprehensive personality. Renown psychologist Carl Jung observed that portions of our whole personality which we knowingly or unknowingly judge become disowned, and are frequently projected outward in dreams, taking the form of aggressors, devils, monsters, intimidating animals or natural events (e.g. tidal waves), and so on. Jung referred to these symbolic figures as "the shadow". Whether we become aware of such elements of our shadow through nightmares or daymares, re-accepting these judged and disowned portions of ourselves is the message and the awaiting gift.”
Bullshit! I don’t want to give any cognitive tests or know what’s wrong in my life. If I set out to correct every thing that’s wrong I’d spend a life time just praying things got right someday. I just want to be left alone. And right now I need a coffee.
“You need to open up to people. Make friends, go out with them, spend good time with people whom you love, read good books, listen to good music...”
“I listen to music.”
“Oh thats nice! Whom do you listen to?”
“Led Zep, Pink Floyd, Metallica, Kishore, The Doors.....” I was about to pour in 83 names. He anticipated, overlooked the Kishore, frowned and interrupted me mid-way
“No, no that wouldn’t do”
“Why?” I asked indignantly.
“Its too loud .”
I have decided I don’t like him and I am dying for some coffee.
“But you said good music. You never said anything about the volume,” I protested.
“No no kid you don’t understand. You listen to what I say and do so. You will be fine in a week. Meditate in the morning while listening to soothing music, Make friends, go out and watch a movie, take some.....”
“Cant do”.
“Why? What’s your problem?”
I’m about to spurt out something like ‘yeah If I could tell that I wouldn’t have paid 600 bucks to come to you bugger’. Again I open my mouth meekly and was about to say something when the phone rang in the adjacent chamber, which the doctor used as his office.
“You will excuse me. I’ll be back in a minute. Meanwhile kindly think about the times you were happy, about the things that you wish for in life, think about things that you like, you would like to buy, placesyouwanttogo, boyfreeeiiiiii............”
His voice buzzed through the room and was taken over by whispers from his chamber. I looked around. I was bored and now I needed a coffee.
I left him a note on his desk. The first two lines of my favorite Syd Barrett song
It's awfully considerate of you to think of me here
And I'm much obliged to you for making it clear
That I'm not here
That I'm not here
*****************************
I walked out of office, plugged in my earphones and contemplated the long journey back home. Auto? No, no money. So a walk to the bus stop a kilometer and half away. It’s mid April and the hot summer afternoon hangs heavy around like the smell of the damp clothes at home. I walk out of the main gate and click on Fleetwood Mac. I walk, head down, gaze fixed on nowhere when I hear a scream. It is briefly followed by many people screaming. I look up to see a jet of blood, followed by a hand and then a body crushed. The bus wheezes past by in full speed and I cover my face with my hands. I run like that for over 50 yards and stop. Should I stop to help? Yes. But if I see all that blood and human corpse I might get scarier nightmares? What will I do to help? Can I even lift the corpse? Sure there are other people there.
I pick up the mobile and dial 108. I give them the details and walk away.
The next day morning I read in the newspaper that the man died on the way to the hospital because an ambulance couldn’t arrive in time.
**********************************
I was waiting for my friend Mukhtar at the cafe close to our college.
“ Stupid dumb fool. Must be high on marijuana and drugs and just forgot about handing over the notes. What am I gonna do for tomorrow’s exam?”
Just then I saw Mukhtar’s face and then his form unfold as the rim of my cup lowered. He dumped a pile of xerox papers on table and plummeted into the chair.
“You look sick,” I asked “Been on too much chemicals again?”
“No,” He timidly replied “have had fever and headache since the past two weeks”
“Nothing inside you is working fine. You fall sick so often because everything inside you has stopped working”
“Do you fall sick often?” he raised his head and looked at me.
“No”. I look at him expectantly.
Mukhtar shifts his gaze from my face to the window and said, “Then maybe something inside you has stopped working too,”
********************************
Since the accident I have not had a nightmare.
