The whirring sound of the fan in my counselling chamber broke the silence between us. I could see her nervously twirling the ends of her dupatta. Through my acumen and experience as a psychologist, I knew it to be a sign of grief and reluctance.Their struggle to break the dam was obvious as she shivered despite the warm June breeze.
“Dr. Priya,” her father choked.
His voice momentarily stunned me. I had forgotten his presence, seated next to my patient.
“ Dr, Priya,” he continued, having composed himself, “ Rathi is doing her third-semester, Electrical Engineering in K.B college, Cuddalore……”
“I know that, Sir. If you can excuse us, I wish to talk to Rathi alone.” I dismissed him quietly.
I could sense the defiance in her breath as I moved closer to her.
“So, your best friend from school, Rakesh, died six months ago.”
Her only reaction was a slight nod.
I have to break a strong wall…….taller and deeper than I thought. Maybe my story would help.
“Rathi, I lost my grandmother a few weeks back.She had brought me up and given me the best while my parents were away in Sharjah. I was shattered but I tried my best to behave normally with everyone. I didn’t think people would understand my grief. I went on as if nothing had happened. Even during her last rites, I never cried. I couldn’t bring myself to face the enormity of her loss.”
Rathi looked up but this time I didn’t face her. I could sense a flicker of sentience creeping in her. It encouraged me to continue my narrative.
“Her absence was creeping into me like an obstinate dense fog which clouded my mind and suffocated me. One day, I tried to escape hoping to cut the chains of captivity along the way. Before I could start off in my car, my father placed some boxes in the luggage hold.
“These may help you, Priya, in your mission.”
“I drove the car, down the highway, unmindful of the lush green countryside. The crimson ball on the far horizon seemed to mock my nonchalance. I stopped, roughly two hundred kilometres from home, when I remembered those boxes in my car.”
I paused to get up and sit by the window.
“The first box was labelled as REGRET. I put my hand inside and unfolded a crumpled shopping list, a reminder of the groceries I had promised to buy Paati but never did. My eyes blurred as I held it close to my chest. Before I lost control, I tore it into tiny pieces and let the sea-breeze carry away the unspoken apologies.
Next came GUILT. I held a faded photograph of me rolling my eyes impatiently at my Paati’s gentle directives in my cold hands for long, before letting it go.
ANGER was the next box. A small, chipped doll, a gift which I had carelessly broken rested there. The resentment felt petty now. With a sigh, I placed the doll on the sandy verge of the highway.
Finally, I opened GRIEF. It held an assortment of her persona which she couldn’t part with. An old handwritten diary, a dried string of Mogra flowers, a broken hand-mirror etc. I couldn’t discard these. It was a poignant reminder of her love that transcended death.”
I saw that a tiny portion of her suppressed grief had trickled down her eyelashes.
“Rathi,” I whispered, “Our life is a highway ride. We stuff ourselves with emotional baggage, more than we can handle. Our family and friends take the ride with us. They have to depart at their destination. When they leave, we must shed the emotional baggage and drive on with reminders of their love and values they have instilled in us.”
The heavy stone on my chest lifted only when Rathi’s loud sobs echoed through the sterile corridors of the treatment center.
I looked up and sent a silent prayer.
Glossary:
Paati: Maternal or Paternal grandmother
