The Eternal Dilemma...

The dusk has set in. I choose not to use tubelights today, I want a particular effect that is obtained in dim lighting. Three minutes into our meeting, we're plunged into a silence. Not a comfortable, companiable silence, but an awkward, uneasy one. Not a silence where one doesn't have anything to say. But a silence where one has just too much to say, but also too much is at stake in saying it all. A silence that is very open to interpretations...
I wait watchfully, to see who opens the conversation. Noone does. I feel the pressure of time ticking away on my wrist. If we don't get talking in the next hour, we wait for another seven days. And the last seven days, from the looks of it, haven't been good.
"Ok, Someone's got to start. I don't think this has been a good week."
That's the father. He always takes the initiative in these sessions. That is, when I don't.
"Why do you feel so?" I ask.
"Why don't you ask her?" He gestures towards his 16-year old.
She remains silent, glance averted, mouth set in a determined line. Something about that stance says "I so badly want to be indifferent to this drama, but I can't."
"Its your feeling. Why don't you talk about it first and then we can take it from there." I put the ball back in his court.
He explains that he was very miffed that his daughter was listening to music on MTV (which incidentally had a video of skimpily clad women) at 8 am instead of joining the family for prayers. He switched off the TV. She threw her coffee mug in the middle of the living room. They walked out on each other and didn't talk for the rest of the week.
Tension thickens. Emotions soar. Noone is willing to look the other in the eye. The mother who has been a relatively inactive participant in most sessions looks askance at me...as though she is willing me to mend the situation...or their daughter as the case may be for her. I call upon her to talk about it.
"She should sit with us and pray. These are family values. She should follow them. All we ask for is 10 minutes in the day." I suspect the coming up of a tirade and check it.
I look at the individual in question. Intelligent and outspoken in most previous encounters, she is suddenly rendered demure...as if in face of the number against her. She has an expression of one being teamed against. She looks up at me, carefully avoiding her parents' eyes.
"I don't believe in God. So what's the point?"
"Maybe its our fault. We should have taught her religion when she was younger." The father's voice filters into my subconscious, as I vaguely wonder if religion or faith can be taught. Perhaps it can. But can it, really?
"Its my decision, so will you stop blaming yourselves?" The girl sounds distraught and angry all at once. The anger is clearly one which is not allowed expression, nor existence. It's as though she wants to sound like an adult- independent, strong, firm and composed. The effect is opposite, she is on the verge of tears. She knows that the phase of talking her mind is only restricted to the session.
The father looks angry, but it is evident he is checking his emotions. "We are trying so hard to reach out, beta. Why do you have to make this so difficult?" Those words remain unspoken, but I sense them in the offing. I also sense that the reason they are unspoken could be that they may signify defeat in a way.
"So many people before us have been following these things. Are they all fools?" He asks instead.
"Why do you want me to do something just because you and your ancestors did it? Don't I have a right to a mind of my own?" She is in tears now. Angry, helpless tears.
"What is it that you want?" I ask her.
"I don't want to be forced to pray. I don't want to do things that I don't believe in."
"Is this really about religion? Is that what this is about?" I ask.
There is a pause. Long pause.
"Not really."
Another long pause.
" I don't want to be told what to do all the time." There is a finality in her tone that worries me, it makes me wonder whether we will talk anymore.
"Because..." I feel the need to lead her on.
Another long silence. A very pregnant pause.
And then an outburst.
"It makes me feel this small!" She holds up her thumb and index finger an inch or two apart. "Don't I have a right to think and decide for myself? Everyone except me knows whats good for me."
"Maybe you are too young to understand certain things. Your decisions in the past have reflected your immaturity. You want us to take risks with your future again?" The father says, also distraught.
"Maybe I wanted to make those mistakes, and learn from them!" That was a near-fatal blow. Now the parents look scared.
"You can't survive in this world making many mistakes. When you have wisdom and experience in front of you, why would you need to make mistakes?"
I quail. This is getting to be a dialogue. Not a conversation.
"Maybe because your experiences don't work for me, Dad! I'm a different person. I need my own experiences."
"Why can't you understand-" They stop in surprise. Both have spoken the exact same words at the exact same moment. And indeed, the crux of the issue. Understanding. Theoretically, the easiest thing to do. And practically, the toughest.
My mind applauds the moment. I look from one to the other. And hit upon a universal truth. Understanding the emotional needs of another person and responding to them accurately is a very very difficult thing to do. Even if you are bound by ties of blood. Or those of a client and therapist.

P.S.: I know, J this may cut close to what I read the other day, but couldn't help...I just had to post this...

Misused Words Series #1

One word that I find is often used in the wrong context is the word "Psychic".

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Edgar Cayce (1877 – 1945) was one of the best-known American psychics of the 20th century and made many highly publicized predictions.In popular culture the word psychic (pronounced /ˈsaɪkɨk/; from the Greek psychikos - "of the soul, mental") refers to the ability to perceive things hidden from the senses through means of extra-sensory perception.

Many people however appear to use it in the context of someone being eccentric, or weird.

Painfully Krrazy...

The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Yes, it really is. I discovered this the hard way on saturday. The means of discovery? A full two hours forty nine minutes of pure crap.
Had been to watch Krrazy 4 (or however else the makers of the movie want you to spell the name). The movie, predictably enough, is about four 'crazy' people. There is a man who believes he is living in Gandhi's time (or something like that, it wasn't very clear). Another one whose diagnosis is unclear, but the only thing obvious is that he doesn't talk atleast until the end of the movie (not that I'm complaining). Yet another who's vaguely a Mr. Goody-Two Shoes. And then there's this guy with the mercurial temper.
I'm not about to review the film here. The movie seems to have a message that the makers are not quite sure how to communicate to their audience. And so we are left with a not very convincing speech about the age-old 'abnormality vs normality'issue, and some painfully unfunny (is that a word? well, it is, after this movie!) sequences. It hurts to watch people play through cliched ideas of giving some one electroconvulsive therapy to 'turn them mad'. Or portray it in such a crass, insensitive way. Even if it is the villian who is being *rendered insane*. To watch someone play someone with a psychological infliction in Hindi Movies is quite literally painful, because they all seem to believe that such people are always regressed, aggressive, climbing trees, doing meaningless things, and basically imbecile. Very few movies dare to try and understand the method in the madness...What makes people 'tic', if you will. Like 15 Park Avenue. Or Maine Gandhi ko Nahi Mara. Or Taare Zameen Par.
There was just one scene in the movie, where Irfan Khan's daughter teaches him how to draw a star...There's something very poignant about a child having to play an adult's parent.
Indian Cinema has a long long way to go before it comes of age. Atleast in matters of the mind...

I believe...

This one is for J. Happy happy happy birthday Jamuna. The instigator for my blogs (well, most of them anyway!) And on your birthday, I post the lyrics of one of my favouritest songs ever....I LOVE this song...And I DO believe...


I believe the sun should never set upon an argument
I believe we place our happiness in other people's hands
I believe that junk food tastes so good because it's bad for you
I believe your parents did the best job they knew how to do
I believe that beauty magazines promote low self esteem
I believe I'm loved when I'm completely by myself alone

I believe in Karma what you give is what you get returned
I believe you can't appreciate real love 'til you've been burned
I believe the grass is no more greener on the other side
I believe you don't know what you've got until you say goodbye

I believe you can't control or choose your sexuality
I believe that trust is more important than monogamy
I believe your most attractive features are your heart and soul
I believe that family is worth more than money or gold
I believe the struggle for financial freedom is unfair
I believe the only ones who disagree are millionaires

I believe in Karma what you give is what you get returned
I believe you can't appreciate real love 'til you've been burned
I believe the grass is no more greener on the other side
I believe you don't know what you've got until you say goodbye

I believe forgiveness is the key to your own happiness
I believe that wedded bliss negates the need to be undressed
I believe that God does not endorse tv evangelists
I believe in love surviving death into eternity

I believe in Karma what you give is what you get returned
I believe you can't appreciate real love 'til you've been burned
I believe the grass is no more greener on the other side
I believe you don't know what you've got until you say goodbye
Until you say goodbye

I listen to this once everyday before I get my day started...and once when I sleep. Its almost like my anthem.
:)

Aman

Life's short. And everytime we lose someone we reiterate this fact to ourselves. I am not sure about how short it is...I don't have an opinion on how short is short, but I have come to learn a lot of other things about life.
I met Aman in May 2007, when I first joined MHS as a psychologist. Aman was 18, full of life, wise cracks and armed with a winning smile. He was admitted to the Neuro-Trauma ward on the eleventh floor after complaints of seizures, difficulty in concentrating, reading and severe headaches. I was on my usual rounds, it was a sultry Thursday (as sultry as Bangalore gets anyway) and I was itching to get done with work as I had plans with Navin and a couple of friends that evening. Aman's cheerful face and apparent lack of concern about his being there caught my attention, because it stood out. In the midst of pain, there was joy. No, not joy. But peace.
I casually chatted with him while the doctors were going through his medical records. He told me that he was a PUC student (thats HSC for us Mumbaikars), studying science, fond of computers and wanting to do something in animation. He said he couldnt concentrate, his head hurt. He had time-lapses when he did not know what was happening. Blackouts, he called them. Then with a smile of a naive four-year-old, he asked me to steal the medical records form the doctors and give them to him so he would finally know what his diagnosis was. Even at that point, not knowing what was wrong with him, I felt for him very deeply. Not very psychologist-like, I agree. But my empathy was what took me down. I have been for miniscule medical work ups, blood tests and eye tests and incessantly worried about the reports. To be kept in the dark about one's own medical condition, in my opinion is nothing short of denying the person a chance to grasp his position and come to terms with it. I told him I'd do what I could.
Once the doctors left, I was handed his file by the attendants. The prescribed CT scans and MRIs seemed to indicate that the provisional diagnosis was glioblastoma multiforme. To put it simply, a malignant tumor in the brain. I could recall the "rock-in-the-stomach" feeling that would come with having to communicate an HIV positive diagnosis to an unsuspecting testee, where I was working before in Mumbai...
By the time I could get back to Aman, he had been taken for some routine tests. Neuro surgery was scheduled for the following monday.
I couldn't make it to work on friday as it was pouring with rain (Yes, Bangalore is weird that way). Saturday was half day in the wards and with a lot of out patients I couldn't go visit. When I went on monday, Aman's bed was empty. He had been taken for his surgery. The nurses in the ward spoke fondly of him, as they would of a cheeky-but-sweet younger sibling.
When he came back from surgery, he was a different person. I for the first time witnessed the personality-changing aspect of neuro surgery. It was scary and I prayed (rather selfishly) that noone I knew would ever have to undergo this. Aman couldn't recognise people, was incapable of producing or comprehending any level of speech or even gestures. For four whole days, his caregivers had to second-guess his needs and play by the ear, as it were.Occasionally his eyes would well up with myriad unexpressed emotions. On the fifth day he was able to communicate by holding up fingers. After that I couldn't visit him until the following friday which was my birthday. And also my last day at work.
Aman, who always addressed me as Ramya, unlike any other patient before (or after him) gave me a small bouquet and a 'thankyou' card. I have no idea how he knew. But looking at the trouble he had gone to, to procure them (which involved the terms bribing and wardboys), I accepted. With grace. I asked him how he felt. He told me matter of factly that the tumor was grade V and surgery had failed. "Three months" He looked right into my eyes as he pronounced his death sentence. He smiled sadly and said that he didn't want to die yet. He had never even had a chance to ride a bike, he told me. When I left that day, I knew I'd never come back. I was to leave for Mumbai the following week. And then for UK. For three months. For some of us, that's a vacation. And for some, it's a lifetime, it's all that they have.
Its been 9 months since then. I don't know how his story ended. Or whether, miraculously, he is still around. But I like to think he is happy where he is. Ironically Aman means peace. I hope his name lived upto him, didn't let him down and he really is at peace somewhere.