The Shit Hit The Fan

I am upset. I am disturbed. However, unlike my usual self, I have no clue as to what has caused it. There doesn't seem to be a real reason behind it. It seems, it's the aftermath of many real reasons that have occured in the past. I have this feeling that this isn't unknown to me. I have been through this before. A summer Sunday afternoon. No, summer has nothing to do it. A Sunday afternoon. With nothing much to do. It hasn't been happening for quite sometme, because my Sundays haven't been uneventful. I have either been out in the loud noisy city, sitting in a mall or a metro station, observing people; or in Durgapur, sleeping off the afternoons with ease. Or maybe, on the way from back from Durgapur. It's even easier to fall asleep in a bus. Anyway, an empty afternoon today. Period. I used to go to watch movies by myself on sunday evenings last year. Now, I don't have money. Not having money is definitely not a reason for my distress. I live in my own house. I don't need money for my daily activities. But, often, as now, the realisation of not having money makes me feel handicapped. It's like not being able to afford to buy myself happiness, if I want to. I know, money can't buy happiness, that's what all say. But, as a character in Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho had said, money can buy out unhappiness! If I had money, I would be near Rabindra Sadan today. With a ticket in my pocket. A ticket to the 6:30pm show of Angshumaner Chhobi at Nandan. Anyway, I'll have to wait for money till 4th September; in fact, I have to wait for 4th Septmeber, for both financial and psychological reasons. I'll be taken to a psychotherapist for the first time. But, she (or he) would be responsible for diagnosing my disorder, not my recurrent depressions. Even more so, because I have resolved to keep my relationships out of the scene. I'll tell her (or him) that I have had two relationships, and I'll give her the "technical" details, if she wants to know. She won't if she knows me well enough. I have done my homework, and I almost know what she's gonna ask me, and therefore, have rehearsed each reply. I hope she is good, and she asks me questions to which I haven't prepared answers.

I had resolved not to talk about my love life anymore. But it still doesn't go away. I mean, okay, I have accepted everything. I have accepted the pain and sorrow and tears and blah blah that I've gotta tackle, but I don't mind that. As my Bengali tutor had once said , if there were no sorrow in life, people would never appreciate happiness. If there was no ugliness, people wouldn't appreciate beauty. If there was no crimes, people wouldn't appreciate justice. It all made sense. It was how things were supposed to be. Good and bad. A few happy memories, a few sad memories. That's how it's supposed to be. So, who the hell am I to complain?

I am not complaining. Nevertheless, the dull pain, the tightening of the throat muscles doesn't stop. It happens less at times, once in two weeks; but, sometimes, it happens every moment, every day. It seems that there could be only one thing I need in my life, my whole life is centred around that need. The need for that person. Anyway, I am not going through that now. I am not depressed. It's just the fact, the hopelessness that has resurfaced in memory. Even my mother's prejudices, my grandmother's fits, my brother's weaknesses, my father's indifferences, are on the surface of that liquid-filled vessel called memory. I am drinking whisky, the amount left-over from yesterday's Signature, which Dad's friends had brought. I'm hoping that it will help these "worries" to sediment inside the vessel, instead of floating on the surface.

It's even worse because I read Ruth Rendell's novel Live Flesh. My first read of this best-selling author. In fact, I'm reading a thriller kinda paperback book after many years. The book was about a man, who was uncomfortably similar to me. I would preserve the finer points for a private discussion. But for those who have read the book, I'm COMPLETELY similar. I never wanted to be the anti-hero of my story. But, it seems, I turn out to be so. I had been boastful about having immense self-control over myself. But, now I realise that I have as much control as Victor had. I am impulsive. I remember Disha and Tiyash kidding about me throwing the things on the Principal's desk, when I was supposed to meet Her Highness once. I remembered a lot of other incidents, and I realised how I loved being violent when I'm angry. I have thrown a bottle at my Dida's forehead. I have strangled my beloved brother too, once. I remember how determined I was to kill him that day. I don't remember though, what had stopped me. I take pleasure in thinking, that it was an immense amount of determination to control my anger. And for people who have been with me at HSMS, the incident of throwing the duster away from the desk, as a mark of protest to the Maths teacher (I didnt' want to do maths, so I thought, she had no right to force me to do sums). I am pathetic. I need psychatric help for more than one disordes. And, like Victor, I love being called a good person. I want to be good, and if someone, mistakenly says that I am a good person, I feel that feeling called "happiness" technically. Also, I feel my "live flesh" shivering when I'm tensed or angry, or under any form of stress.

The title of this post is a significant line from the book.

I'm still not drunk. The whisky is over.

:(