Reverse Psychology

I look at my list again. Here's what it says.

Husband - Divorced - pain. Discouragement - Mark in his custody.

No job - counselor post offered - should/should not take. why.

Have to pay rent - after divorce - find better environment.

How to connect with Mark again.

Cabbage.

I take out a pen and immediately scratch the last thing on my list. Cabbage. I already bought that.

I look around me again and feel a sense of hope ballooning inside me. Maybe change is possible. Maybe after I talk to this counselor, maybe, just maybe I can patch up my life again.

My session starts at 4:00, and there about five minutes left. I scan my surroundings again. There are little kids on the carpet, playing with toys, there are large posters on the wall telling us that we can do whatever we want to, all we have to do is try. There is a large Tweety Bird staring at me from the other wall. The walls are painted warm colors, comforting shades of blue and light yellow and orange.

'Mrs. Deeney, your turn,' A woman wearing a bright blue nurse's uniform taps my shoulder.

'It's Ms. Deeney,' I say through gritted teeth, and allow the woman to show me the way.

'Here we are, ' she finally says and points to a door, painted purple.

'How dare you! - No, you don't get it! Shut up!' I hear faint, ok, not that faint, shouting from behind the door. I look at the nurse in alarm.

She shakes her head, 'Don't worry Ms. Deeney, Dr. Fern Itcher is slightly...uh, different, but still a very effective doctor.'

She opens the door and we both get a glimpse of Dr. Itcher, a plump blonde haired woman screaming into the phone.

Even the nurse can't hide her surprise, but she pushes me forward and softly says, 'Dr. Itcher, your patient, Ms. Deeney is here. She's a first-timer here.'

The woman doesn't even look the nurse's way.

Dr. Itcher's room is a large one. There's a black reclining chair, and after standing awkwardly at the doorway for two seconds, listening to Dr. Itcher's, 'No! Listen to me, you daft dumbo! Oh, yes, hon, I just called you that. Oh no, you didn't!', I decide to sit down.

Finally she slams the phone down and for the first time, since I came inside, looks at me.

'My dear husband, that sweet darling,' She says, sarcasm dripping from every syllable, 'doesn't know the difference between soya milk and regular milk.'

I decide to respond to this rather strange proclamation by giving her the wide-eyed-confused look.

There's a pause.

 I decide to take advantage of this fact by starting, 'My name is -'

'In fact,' Dr. Itcher says sitting down in her seat behind her desk, 'My husband doesn't know the difference between anything. It doesn't matter to him whether the shower curtain is open or closed when he bathes, nor does he know the difference between green and blue. Green clashes with pink, but blue doesn't. But of course, my color blind, lazy ass husband doesn't care.'

 I'm staring at her now, open mouthed.

'I'm sorry, ' she says, shaking her head.

I let out my held breath, and feel a sense of relief, 'Oh, it's quite all right..'

'I'm sorry. The person I should be complaining about is my brother. At thirty two, with no job and a pot belly, he still thinks he can attract women. He stops at my house every Sunday hoping to catch me with one of my girlfriends. Of course, my husband doesn't mind. Birds of a feather flock together, don't they?' Dr. Fern looks at me in the eye, as if daring me to go against what she's saying.

'I, well speaking of women, my husband decided -'

'Yes, speaking of women, can you believe that my brother was considered a catch? He used to work in the army. That's where he met my brother-in-law. My brother in law..' Her gaze drifts and I realize what must have happened.

'Oh, I'm so sorry.' I quickly say.

'Yes, I'm sorry too. My brother in law actually came back alive. Now he lives to control our lives. My husband has absolutely no spine of his own, and Older Brother is his constant mentor. What a dictator.' She huffs.

I know a thing or two about being told how to live constantly. 'You should tell him yourself. That you don't appreciate his constant mentoring,' I say.

Dr. Itcher looks at me, 'I've tried. But he's a soldier, who can go against him? Every time I say anything, he goes all, 'While you  were partying, I was busy defending my country.' How can you argue with that?'

I consider this for a moment. 'Don't counter it, go around it. You're a counselor, tell him you've counseled his fellow soldiers and tell him that they thought he was too bossy,'

'Hmm...' Dr. Itcher closes her eyes for a minute, 'so...lie?''

'Alter the truth, more like.'

'Well, I've tried altering the truth with my son. You know, the birds and bees, and all that? But he knows everything. How many second graders do you know who ask for Axe Men's Perfume for Christmas?'

I burst out laughing.

Dr. Itcher shakes her head, 'My daughter  is no better. We disagree about everything. Brands, boys, bands, everything. She just thinks she's right about everything.'

'You have to show them who's boss,' I say, 'I was a teacher for quite some time, teaching ninth graders, that too. You have to be firm, it's the only way that works. If you have a hard time, practice in front of the mirror.'

'I don't have the energy for anything. As if counseling isn't exhausting enough.' Dr. Itcher says, 'I'm an excellent counselor, though I don't really know what I do. All my patients say they have a change of perspective. I don't know what I do, I suppose it's innate.'

Change of perspective? I see what they mean. Suddenly, my problems don't seem that bad. I think.

'And don't even get me started on my patients. They are all so exhausting, always trying to tell me their  problems as if my life isn't hard enough. You know the other day....'

Suddenly the door bursts open.

'Excuse me, Ms. Deeney, I'm afraid your time is up.' The same nurse who led me to the room is speaking.

'Oh, well then,' I say, 'Nice to meet you, Dr. Fern.'

The doctor nods at me.

As the nurse leads me out, she asks, 'So, how was it?'

I shrug. Surprisingly, I'm feeling better. At least I've decided something on my list.

As I leave the center, I take out my mobile phone and dial a number.

'Hey, Mom. How are you? Yeah, remember the counseling post that was offered to me? I think I might take it...'

The Road Much Taken

When the traffic gets worse,

My mom begins to curse,

Stuck on the Bangalore roads,

She feels the need to unload,

Unburden her frustration,

Her anger, irritation,

And so she honks and hurls abuses,

At whomsoever she chooses,

And so you dare not cross her path,

Or else, you’ll incur her wrath.

By other’s stupidity, my mom is pained,

But we are thoroughly entertained,

We watch my mom’s vocabulary rock,

Every single time her car’s blocked,

It’s not often we see adults,

Lose their cool and insult,

Other grownups they pass,

Call them an idiot or an ass,

When it’s not us, who take the blame,

We quite enjoy my mom’s cursing game.

So Sachin and I sit at the back,

As mom pursues her verbal attack.

It’s important to note, dear reader,

That my brother turns cheerleader,

He might as well have pink pom-poms,

He constantly encourages my mom,

And even offers to pitch in,

And help her while she’s bitchin,

He finds the whole scene quite fantastic,

I’ve never seen him so enthusiastic,

As when my mother’s stuck on the road,

For Sachin, swear words are the way to go.

As for me, I remain amused,

When too many vehicles get confused,

She reminds me of angry cartoons,

When her head pops like a balloon,

I give a snigger, and a snort,

Because my mom’s usually the calm sort,

I just thank my lucky stars,

That I’m not the driver of those other cars.

To all those, at work,

Who have never seen her go berserk,

You actually think she is calm,

And she can be, my mom,

It’s a trait I share with my mama,

We both tend to do drama,

But otherwise she’s cucumber cool,

Is chill, and follows the rules,

If you do not always agree with her,

If you beg to differ,

Challenge her in the office, or on the streets,

But never when she’s in the driver’s seat.

And history repeats itself...

It's no mystery,
That my favorite subject is History,
My teacher is different, a bit unique,
But this class is what you history buffs seek.
My teacher is more obvious, more apparent,
She has no secrets, she's transparent.
She is much quieter than others, she makes no sound,
And she's quite bouncy, feet always off the ground.
She appears suddenly through the door, out of the blue,
But you have any question and she'll answer you.
She answers questions in a confident fashion,
Her life is history, it's not just a passion.
She knows what happened millennium ago,
And we're like, 'Ma'am, how do you know?'
She laughs and says, 'It's like I was there,'
And she fixes us with her rather pale stare.
She always seems a little out of breath, but she's also so cool,
She's the only one approving of parties in school.
When we passed with flying colors, she said, 'let's enjoy, let's hear it,'
I'm telling you, my teacher is a very lively spirit.
Let me give an example to show what I mean,
Take the case of last Halloween.
We had a fair at school, entered History class,
The effects were wicked, rather bad-ass.
Lights flickered, a chandelier hung,
Werewolves howled and banshees sung.
There were mean looking elves,
Things moved by themselves,
Goblins and trolls,
Blood on the walls,
Nails raked the board,
Weird eyeballs were stored,
I didn't know how to feel,
It all looked so real.
Then, I realized,
Why should I be surprised?
It should be obvious, I should know,
That a freaky Halloween party, my history teacher would throw,
After all what do you expect, when the host,
My dear History teacher, is herself a ghost?

Charactors

Sometimes, in my dreams, I become her. I crawl into her skin and her clothes, and I find myself in the same unpredictable situations that she finds herself in. There are cars racing about, explosions, betrayal, guns, blood. I feel her fear and her excitement – which are not really my own. I feel her feelings.

I know that I have to run, but I wait anxiously, watching, watching the top of that building, because that’s where he is, and I can’t leave him, I can never leave him. And as I see his body arch back gracefully, the scarlet blood pouring out of the bullet wound, I feel the strongest of terrors seize me, ‘JOHN!’

I wake up with my head pounding and tears in my eyes, tears that aren’t mine, tears that are hers.

Will grunts, and turns away from me. He’s awake, I know. There was a time when he used to comfort me when I had such dreams. He would rock me in his arms; sing lullabies with silly lyrics just to hear me giggle. He didn’t understand my fear, but he understood that I was frightened and that was enough for him.

Not anymore, though. I know what he thinks, what he suspects. And he knows that I know. He’s told me too, casually, of course. He wonders why I shout John and never Luke. Because she’s in love with Luke after all, not John. I don’t know, so I don’t answer.

A part of me falls a little more in love with John every time I see him. It’s not surprising considering my half and his half come together to make a whole. I see the love in his eyes, in the genuineness of his smile. He means it, he means his love.

Our relationship isn't describable off screen though. While it’s obvious that Luke loves Maya more than anything else in the world, with an earth-shattering romantic love, it’s hard to put into words what John and I have between us. It’s not sibling-hood, or friendship, or romance, it’s just love. Maybe that’s why I shout John in my dreams, because to me he was always John. Even when he portrays Luke, I see a bit of John in him, just the way he sees traces of Janice even in Maya. This doesn't have a bad impact on our acting though; in fact critics have praised our "chemistry".

I don’t know how to respond to these opinions, and so once again, I don’t answer.

Will and I fight very regularly now. It wasn't like this before. Before, he used to look at me the way Luke looks at Maya, and when I point this out he shouts some more.

‘Get your head out of your TV show! You’re letting it mess with you, you’re not you anymore! Where’s the Jan I know? The sweet one who likes extra sprinkles on her cupcakes. Not this tough, aggressive woman in front of me!’

‘I am me. What the hell do you mean by saying I’m not?’

‘See, there you go again! Aggressive!’

‘You’re accusing me unfairly, Will. I’m angry; don’t I have a right to show it? And what’s wrong with being aggressive?’

‘It’s not you, Jan.’

‘And who are you to define who I am?’

‘Goddamn it, Jan. I miss you. I miss you and I want you back to how you were. I’m sorry for ‘trying to define you’ but I just want you back.’

‘Will...I’m right here.’

‘I want Jan, not Maya. Jan.’

It’s Will’s birthday. I've told him I’m coming from work late, but actually I’m waiting for Martha to finish baking his favorite cake. Chocolate with nuts and a bunch of other ingredients that Martha puts together.

Martha’s is not some regular bakery, where they have the standard cakes that you order from. She’ll make what you want, and give it to you fresh out of the oven.  I asked for this cake yesterday, and in about half an hour, it’ll be ready for me to take home.

I read the magazines as I wait for the cake. Martha’s has got comfy sofas and armchairs and lots of magazines. Martha loves gossip though she’ll never admit it. ‘I just like seeing what they write about you celebrities, Janice. I know the truth, you are much better than they make you sound.’

I honestly find the magazines funny. They don’t really have much to report about me except for the fact that I have a close relationship with John. But then the tabloids have so many pictures of John with Sophie kissing, that they can’t really accuse me of anything.

‘Here you go, darling!’ Martha calls, and she shows me the beautiful cake before stowing it away in a box. I pay her the money, and leave, excited. I can’t wait to see Will’s expression. He seemed a little put out when I told him I am coming late, but we are making an honest effort to improve things and I know he’ll be delighted to see the cake.

The house is silent when I enter, the lights are off. Maybe he’s sleeping. I turn on the switch and wait for the lights, calling, ‘Will...’ No response.

The light flickers on. And I see the living room clean. Completely clean. Not one book on the table or newspaper under the chair. I turn to the kitchen and see a handwritten stuck on the fridge.

My heart beating fast, I near it, the cake still in my hand.

I’m sorry. I miss you Jan.

-          Will.

My heart stops for a second. It stays completely still. He’s gone. Gone.

I put down the cake before rushing to our room. His cupboard’s empty.

I feel a wave of shock wash over me. He can’t be gone, he can’t be.

But he is.

And in the end?

I’m left with a chocolate and nut cake. And a broken heart.

‘Shhh.’ John holds me as I cry. Tear after tear falls, and they seem to have no plan of stopping. Sophie watches me worriedly, the tea she made for me still in her hand.

‘Janice ...’ she starts. John shakes his head, and she quietly leaves the room.

‘Hey, Jan. He doesn't deserve you, get it? He didn't accept you. He isn't special. I can sing lullabies, too! See, Rock-a-bye beetle in a clay house...’

I smile with a sniffle, ‘That’s the lamest thing I've ever heard.’

‘There ya go.’

He holds me up so I look at him, ‘You want me to be honest with you, Jan?’ he says in a serious tone.

‘Yeah.’

‘You've got the cutest nose of anyone I've ever seen.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Totally. But let me tell you something seriously, Janice.’

‘I know my ears are cute too.’

‘They are, but I prefer Sophie’s.’

‘Of course you do.’

‘Janice.’ John looks hard at me. There’s no trace of amusement on his face, ‘He doesn't deserve you.’ Oh, I wish it’s that easy. He doesn't deserve me. I wish I could I believe it.

‘Jan, does it look like I’m lying? When have I ever lied to you?’

John’s right about that, though. He never lies to me.

‘What makes you think that, John? Why doesn't he deserve me?’

 ‘He didn't appreciate your love for him.’

I think about this. I remember the accusations in Will’s eyes as he saw me with John. I see confusion in Sophie’s eyes too. Sophie is ... different. She doesn't blame John for being like Luke sometimes. She understands how attached an actor can get to his character. And besides, she herself was an actress. She understands the feelings. She even acted in our show as Holly, a minor villain. When John (as Luke) killed Holly, he had actual tears in his eyes. Technically, Luke wasn't even supposed to get along with Holly but John and Sophie's amazing chemistry convinced the script-writers otherwise. There was no doubt that from the start John and Sophie clicked, but even she can't understand our relationship. No one can. Not even us.

'John?'

'Yeah?'

'Who are we?'

'Two people who love each other.'

***

I'm alone in a wooded area. The sun shines brightly through the leaves. A calming breeze blows. I feel like my negative thoughts are oozing out of my pores, leaving me peaceful.

'Janice.'

That's all it takes. One word. And the resentment and anger are back.

'You.' I turn around. She's sitting on one of the shorter trees. Her long black hair flies in the wind. She looks at me keenly.

'You blame me, don't you?' She asks. Her voice is soft but precise.

'Yes. You know I do. Can't you leave me alone this once?' I ask, my voice rising with every syllable.

Maya hops down from the tree. She's supposed to look exactly like me, but she doesn't. Even in my mind, her hair is longer, her eyes are more cat-like and a more olive shade of green. Her body is more tanned and leaner. They are such subtle differences, but make us look more like cousins than twins.

'Oh God, look at me.' I moan, 'I'm blaming a fictional character for my breakup. How messed up am I?'

Maya raises one perfect eyebrow, 'I'm not fictional.'

'Yes, you are. You are fictional. You have a fictional story with fictional friends and family and you live in a fictional place and work for a fictional company. You. Are. Fictional.'

Maya looks at me with a small smile on her face as if she knows better, 'I don't have my own body, but I have my own story and friends and family. I have my own character. That makes me real, Janice. We define people who are original and down to earth as real. So I am real. Character isn't tangible or visible. We sense it, so we know it's real. Besides, if you really think I was fictional, why are you talking to me right now?'

I refuse to meet her gaze. I need to blame someone right now.

'He thought I was turning into you. He thought the show was all I cared about. He was right.' My voice is hard.

'Will was jealous, Jan.'

'Because I am so close to John?'

'He was jealous of you.'

I turn around immediately. 'What?'

Maya smirks, 'You loved your job. He didn't. For him, work ended with his coming home, but for you, your work was everywhere, it was in the way you saw the world.'

'But I took it too seriously.'

'Maybe you did. But that jealousy never went away. Anyone could see you cared for him, he refused to see it. That jealousy turned to resentment and then anger towards John and your change in character.'

'But I have become more aggressive.'

'I've rubbed off on you, Janice, the same way one person rubs off on another. Will refused to see the part of you that was still sweet and caring. The thing about a person is that they are made of a series of core values. People influence them, they add layers to this core, but they don't really change it.'

'You're confusing.'

'I'm right.'

I shake my head, 'I shouldn't be so close to John.'

Maya shrugs, 'No, you shouldn't. But he's the only one who's still good for you.'

I try to take in this vague reply.

Maya steps closer to me, becoming ... transparent. She comes even closer.

'Come on, ' she says, now nearly invisible.

She takes one more step and she's inside me, 'Let's kill some bad guys.'

A Walk in the Park.

The other day I went to the park and saw my old friend Bertie. I hadn't seen him for ages. I'd gone to Central Park with Fred because I really wanted to go for a walk, and naturally I pulled him along. We were strolling casually down a secluded cobblestone path when I heard my name.
'Hey, Charlie!'
I looked over and saw to my great surprise, Bertie, standing not too far away from us, with Margherita (of course, he came along with her!). I couldn't control my excitement, and Fred was quite happy too. We decided to go to a nearby cafe to catch up on things.
While Fred and Margherita walked together, I chatted with Bertie. He was a war chap, with a hefty, well-built frame I could only dream of. But his leg had been injured amidst the fighting and he now walked with a permanent limp.
'How ya doing, old fellow?' I asked.
'Yeah, all right,' Bertie said rather half-heartedly.
'How's that lady you were seeing, from Upper East Side?'
Bertie laughed, 'That's old news buddy. Has it really been that long since I met you?'
'I suppose so, yes.'
'Well, that never really went ahead, Charlie. Right now, it's just me and Margherita. My health hasn't been treating me too good, though.'
'Oh, pooh. It'll pull through, you'll manage, you always do.'
Bertie looked at me, and some of the light in his eyes faded, 'I'm serious pal, the doc figures I've got a few months left.'
I stopped in my path, just looking at my old friend. I'd known him forever. Even the thought of him gone shook me. It wasn't possible.
'Come on, bud.'
I continued walking.

We reached the cafe soon enough, but I hadn't said a single word. It just wasn't fair. Bertie had survived too much. While Fred chose a table, Bertie came and sat next to me, 'Hey, it'll be all right, it always is. I'm old, pal, and I've had good times, good friends like you, and a good life in service.' 
He said no more, just comforting me with his presence.

*                                                                     *                                                                      *

Meanwhile, Fred and Margherita sipped on their coffees.
'I'm sad to hear about Bertie's health.'
'Yes, me too.'
'It's just amazing how close Bertie and Charlie are, isn't it, Marge?'
'It's pretty darn amazing all right, we've got ourselves some amazing dogs, Fred.'

OMG.

Because everything's within your reach.
               EVERYTHING'S within your grasp.
You can aim high,
        And  you can get there.
Nothing is impossible,
         Nothing is just dreams, castles built in the air,
NOTHING is wishful thinking.
                   You are at your greatest potential, now.
But...why doesn't it feel like that?
           Why is every part of you aching to be anyone other than yourself? (And why are you so dramatic?)
THEM DRATTED HORMONES, THEM.
 They enter,
     little chemicals,
RUINING YOUR LIFE.

Because, now everything is a big deal.
            Everything hurts.
The highs are too high, and the lows are even lower.
And there are boys and girls and everyone, everyone hurts you.

EVERYONE.
Especially you.

Oh, being a teenager.

The Tale of the Monkey and the Multipurpose Biscuits

One of the main lessons I have learnt,

Are that there are many uses of a biscuit that’s burnt.

In case this statement has left you foggy,

Think about it... they can never go soggy.

And I tell you, these burnt to crisp treats –

Provide a real workout for your teeth.

So hard that the teeth they almost break,

‘Tis the result of a cookie that’s over-baked.

And before you I’m about to present a story,

That shows the Burnt Biscuit in its glory.....

Once upon a time, a monkey was able,

To slip into our home and reach the dining table.

And on this table, stood a box,

Full of burnt biscuits like sweet flour rocks.

On the other side of the table, sat my father,

By this sudden visitor, he was startled rather,

But all his courage he did gather,

And got ready to face this furry, tailed rival,

Who decided that essential for his survival,

Were the biscuits that my mother had cooked –

So, the monkey turned into a crook.

The biscuits had a sudden appeal,

And so the biscuit box, the monkey tried to steal.

Enter my father, drawing up to his full height,

Chased down the monkey, who in his fright,

Dropped his dear biscuits, such fear he felt,

And in a case of quick thinking my father decided to pelt,

The monkey with the biscuits he had so desired,

Daddy opened the box and he aimed and he fired.

The monkey ran off, became a brown blur,

As the last of the biscuits bounced off his fur.