Of Court Verdicts and Personal Guilt

(Day 92 of 112)

The Allahabad HC has acquitted Moninder Singh Pandher in the Nithari murder case while upholding Surinder Kohli’s death sentence. Needless to say, there is massive hue and cry about this verdict and nobody seems to be convinced that Pandher is innocent. However as it often goes in this country, this too shall be forgotten and since the media has the attention span of a toddler, something else will grab their (dubious) attention.

Meanwhile, families of the victims will continue seeking answers and maybe one day, justice. The one whose death sentence has been upheld will try looking for mercy, and the acquitted will try and remain free – in more ways than one.

For even though he may have escaped (so far) incarceration and capital punishment, where is he to run from the truth? And while I can’t pass judgement on Pandher and his alleged innocence, I can have an opinion.

And I believe that no matter what any court says, human guilt is punishment enough. Yes I know that sociopaths and psychopaths are not overly burdened with a conscience and the accompanying guilt. But I also believe that no matter where you hide, you can’t hide from yourself. Where are you to run from the memories, the voices, the faces, the dreams? You may convince yourself of an alternative truth and even repress memories. But it’s not as easy as Freud made it sound. Reality traps you and never really allows you to be free.

So whether Pandher took a life himself or stood by and watched, he knows what really happened. And he has to live with this knowledge, no matter what a court of law decides.

The Box

They told her it would never work. They told her she was chasing phantom dreams. Or are dreams by definition phantom? They said she was working herself up to failure. They all said it, everyone around her.  Standing there, mocking, jeering, waiting for her to fail. Everywhere she looked she saw it. Faces full of disdain. Sometimes there was pity. The kind you feel on seeing a wild beast sitting depressingly still in one corner of a dank and dark zoo cage. Trapped.

She was trapped too. They had trapped her. Everywhere she looked there were walls. Chains. There was no way of escaping. This was her punishment. They were making sure she understood the consequences of her actions. She had to. That was what they were here for. To make sure.

They had tried talking first. Then they stopped. It made her feel better - when they stopped, not the talking. She had tried talking back. But that was when they said it would never work. So then she stopped. It made them feel better too.

She was a dreamer. As a child she would talk of growing up. She would talk of seeing the world. She would plan all the changes she would bring about. She tried talking to them. They told her it would never work even then. So she spoke to her walls. All lined up with dolls and stuffed animals. That was all she ever did. Talk.

Then the talking stopped. Now there was silence. She only looked. They told her to stop it. It seemed unnatural. It scared them. So she stopped. That made them feel better. This quiet, non-looker. She was learning. Understanding. Growing up.

She had once planned to bring about change. They thought otherwise. She had once planned on seeing the world. They had trapped her.

Now all she had was her mind. They thought she was losing it. But she knew differently. She knew how safe she was there. Where she brought about all the changes she wanted. Where she could talk to her heart’s content. To anyone. Where, she went wherever she wanted to. No one asked her to stop. No one said it would never work. She was happy with her mind. She did not know it was a trap.

She had tried to live in a circle. They had forced her back into their box. 

And Then You Wonder...

Every year between the months of March and June board exams are conducted and results are declared. Every year between the months of March and June Mumbai is assailed with a spate of suicides within the age range of 15-17 yrs. Every year between March and June psychologists in Mumbai have a field day spouting their expert opinions on stress, pressure, competition, parenting, and everything under the sun that can get them a couple of inches in Bombay Times or better yet, 5 minutes of fame on the telly.

Every year people wonder why these suicides happen. Teachers in the staffroom talk about how parents pressurise the children to perform beyond their capacities. Parents in the corridors talk about how schools want children to improve their result stats. Everyone talks of the system being faulty. Like that ever helped anyone…least of all the students.

The papers in the last few days have been full of admission woes. A huge chunk of the admission seekers had their total percentages hiked by a full 4 percent (and 4 percent is hu-uge when seats are got based on a couple of decimal points) allegedly in order to keep up with the higher average percentage offered by other examination boards. The move was such a quick execution that one wonders at the speed at which the whole thing was done and if it wasn’t already expected by those who matter in such things.

Then there are top colleges in the city that are offering open admission to students who went to the right school. I don’t think it is a coincidence that both educational institutes are run by the same trust and that one of them is a new body looking to enrol more students.
(The repercussions of this one will directly affect preschool admissions as parents will scramble to get their toddler into the right school and thus the cycle begins as soon as the child is able to tell you that he wants to go potty.)

And then there is the usual advantage gotten of belonging to the right ‘community’ – that which runs its own educational institute, or of knowing the right people, or of having the right parents (with the right bank balance preferably).

The only thing today that is not an advantage is a high score.

When a student with a total percentage of 94% fails to secure a seat in college of his choice it’s only natural that he will question it all – the work he put in over several months, the sacrifices he made, the naïve trust he had in hard work being the key to success. It is only natural that he will question his own confidence, esteem and worth. It isn’t unnatural that he be driven to doing something drastic.

And then you wonder…

King to Commoner

Nepal is now a Republic after more than 2 centuries of monarchy. I honestly don’t understand the politics of it or the economic consequences of this change. What I’m more curious about is how the king is going to make the transition into being just another citizen of Nepal. Of course it isn’t going to help his cause that he isn’t one of the most popular people there right now!

In all the discussion and speculation about what the political scenario is going to be, who the president is going to be, which party will provide the prime minister etc, one forgets to wonder what will happen to the royal family, suddenly stripped of all their, oh well, powers (especially when a lot of those powers are ones that you’ve bestowed upon yourself!). It has to be difficult thinking of yourself as a common citizen when you’ve grown up ruling a country.

I’m sure the king sensed the political unrest in his country. But who expects to be thrown out in a day…I mean he probably expected to be shot or blown up or poisoned or something to that effect. And given his situation right now, it has to be pretty depressing (he probably should be on suicide watch!)

I mean just imagine being monarch of a country one day, and the next day standing in line waiting to buy bread and eggs at the corner around the shop?
One day travelling in a bullet proof car with outriders and security personnel, and the next day trying to flag a cab (and failing).
One day living in a huge palace and the next day, well, looking for a place to live in!

One day King. The next day Commoner.

A Tear and a Hug

A classmate and I were talking the day before the funeral, and both of us had still not come to terms with the fact that we wouldnt be able to talk to Fr. B again. There was so much we wanted to tell him, and i know for a fact that there was loads he wanted to tell us!!

In the beginning of the course we thought he was being a pain because he wasnt in the best of health. It took us only a few weeks to realise that health had nothing to do with it!!! :D
There were times when we felt he took some sort of sadistic pleasure in sucking the joy and dignity out of us in class. But now we know (actually now we accept) that he knew what he was doing. I for one am a much stronger person because of what i went through in his classes.

This course has taught me almost everything i know about counselling today. It has taught me who i am and what i want. It has taught me how i try not to be who i am and deny what i want. It has taught me the most important lesson of all - being honest to myself.

Fr. Berkie helped me deal with my own personal hells over all these months . In all his ramblings in class, there was always a personal lesson for those who wanted it, and knew what to listen to! :)

I once had a long talk with him about things troubling me. Today im glad i did that (even though i was miserable and worried about how he would react). Im glad i got a chance to see a different side of him. A side that listened to me. One that did not judge me. A side that helped me think about and deal with my thoughts. A side that showed humour. Laughed with me. Showed interest in what i had to say about how i felt. A side that hugged me.

Of all his classes, there are two that I think about the most, and everytime i think about them i tear up.

One time is before christmas. I'd brought some brownies and chocolates, and along with a card, the entire class wished him a very merry christmas. He sat down in his chair and smiled. And talked. And was sorry that he wasnt having a celebration and a party like every year because of his health. He was sorry that we werent getting a chance to party!

Then there is one of the last classes he took, during which he told us we were all good students and that he was knew he was always sounding rude and not smiling at us, but we should not feel too bad about it.
I know that this was the closest Fr. Berkie would ever come to say that he cared for us.

Thank you Father Berkie for caring.

Do It Now

In one of the last classes he took, Fr. Berkie told us (not for the first time) that over the years students have not liked how he has treated them, how he has graded them, assessed them. He told us how these students would not even talk to him or acknowledge him because they thought he was unfair. He said that it is all that negative energy over the years that has probably caused all these health problems for him. He sounded disillusioned and defeated at times like these. He would aften tell us that he should shut the course because no one appreciated the effort he put in.

I remember thinking then that i would come back after the course to meet him.
I remember thinking then that i want to thank him for everything he has taught me.

I remember thinking that when i would come to collect my diploma from him i would tell the next batch not to get too bullied by Father.

I remember thinking that even though he was in excrutiating pain he was coming to class for us and that he should be appreciated for that.

Today im thinking that i should have done these things when i thought them.

I missed out on so many opportunities of telling Father that he was not unappreciated.

Of telling him that even though we might appear fed up, we were glad he was there and telling us off.

Of thanking him.

Over the last week, apart from realising what a big part Fr. Berkie was of my life in the present, i've realised that anything i want to do, i should do it now. To use a cliche which rings true in this contexr, time and tide wait for none.

In Memoriam

I read Tuesdays with Morrie a few months back. Apart from being one of the best written books i've read, it touched a chord in me somewhere.

I too was seeing a teacher battling a serious illness, and living on sheer will power and determination.

Reading a book it all seems unreal in a way. Its difficult to imagine someone dying to be so full of life and so insistent on being independent.

But seeing my teacher doing it made it all so real.

At the time i didn't get how he could still continue taking classes and insisting on conducting all aspects of the course when he was so obviously in pain. He would be on pain meds, sometimes to the extent that it affected his memory. He would lose track of what he was talking about. He would repeat the same things over and over again.
But through it all he never once gave up. He never took the easy way out.

Reading Tuesdays with Morrie i realised that sometimes lessons learnt in a classroom arent as important as the ones you learn outside of them.

Spending 9 months with my teacher i realise that sometimes lessons learnt in a classroom arent as important as the one who teaches them.

Just by being who he was, my teacher taught me more important things that theories and therapies. He taught me how to take charge of who i am and what i do. He taught me to be responsible for what i think, say and do. He taught me how easy it is to let an illness become an excuse for mediocre performance and how difficult it is to perform no matter what the condition. He taught me that i really am in the sensori-motor stage.

My teacher was incorrigible, difficult, stubborn, opiniated.

But then, he was the only one i knew who couldnt care what anyone thought of him. He was the only person i knew who truly made choices he wanted to and lived with their consequences.

He lived life like he wanted to.

My teacher passed away yesterday.

This is in memory of him.

Good night Father.

Man is Not an Island

Having studied psychology, any student (including myself) will tell you with abslute conviction that any major trauma is bound to have influences on an individual's behaviour either directly or indirectly, and that therapy is a good option to keep in mind to help that person.
I believed it myself till a couple of years back.
Then the earthquake at Surat happened. I met an aunt who lost everything, her home and her belongings a couple of months after the calamity. But she seemed to be very calm about the incident, and was also discussing it in detail with all those around her. She didn't seem to be in any need of therapy. I was starting to study psychology. So i didnt think too much about it. Some years later the answer came to me.
Now, with events happening in my own life, and being witness to trauma and its after effects, im convinced that my answer is the reason why Indians have not caught on very well to the whole psychology and therapy notion, whilst the West seems to thrive on it.
The answer lies in 5 words. Man is not an island. Its as simple as that.
Post dad's accident, the thoughts in my head threatened to engulf and take over. I could see the same pain on the faces of my mother and sister.
And then the people came. Wave after wave of relatives and friends who stood around and talked. They asked questions, talked about what happened, got us to relive what happened. Not once, not twice, but a couple of hundred times. Anywhere else this could be construed as invasion of privacy. A disregard of the family's desire to be left alone. And at times even i felt the same. I just wanted everyone to leave us alone. But now im glad we weren't.
Im glad we were asked to talk. It was cathartic more than anything else. It was literally like extracting venom till there's nothing left inside. We spoke about it so much that all the emotions attached to it were deadened. What a professional therapist would ask us to do in his office, we did in the waiting room of the ICU.
So what i'm trying to say after all of this is that i'm glad i live in a country which believes with all its heart that Man is Not an Island.

Waiting and Hoping

There is nothing like gaining new perspective on life. There is no better place to do so than the waiting area of the Intensive Care Unit of any hospital. Life has never looked so fragile, unpredictable and totally out of our own control than in the last one month.

I spent the last month in one such waiting area whilst my dad lay enveloped by tubes, needles and machines battling one such unpredictability of life. When he went for his morning walk one Sunday morning, little did anyone know how all our lives were going to change.
But then, little did anyone else in the waiting area of the ICU know how their lives were going to change over one day, one week, or one month.

Families waiting for several weeks continued waiting, continued hoping that tomorrow would give them something to call home and be happy about. Parents experiencing parenthood for the first time were waiting to see their child out of a glass box and hold their child in their arms without having to be careful of all the tubes and bandages. Children living away from home were battling their personal demons about not being there when their parents needed them the most. Family elders were sitting there trying to imagine outliving their children.

Everyone was questioning life and its uncertainity. And in all this uncertainity and doubt, the one thing that shone through was hope. The hope that everyone lived with. The hope that everyone gave the other. The hope that made the waiting a little bit easier.