I am reading research articles about the economic decision making of the mentally ill people. The song, ‘Yeh hasin wadiya, ye khula aasma, aa gaye hum kahan, aye mere saajna,’ is playing. There are hardly any articles from the perspective of theoretical economics. Most of the research that has been done in the field is about the healthcare expenditures on the mentally ill. For example, there are articles which calculate the mental healthcare costs to the society and how these costs could be reduced. Besides economic articles, most of the other articles about mental health are from the field of psychiatry. There are few articles on the understanding of paranoia and delusions but they haven’t found too much acceptance in mainstream economics. Economists have hardly thought about the decision-making process of the mentally ill. There is only one article which talks about psychotic patients being in a game theoretic framework. I wonder why this line of thought has not found credence in the academic debate. In a way, this makes me sad. I take out a paper and a pen and start thinking of new theoretical approaches to the economic principles specifically suited for the mentally ill.

Reading is still not normal for me. I have started reading very fast, anxiously moving about the lines. It still takes a toll on me. I feel as if the laptop screen is a magnet which has fixed my head in a static position. My eyes still wander about aimlessly around the document. I occasionally force myself to concentrate hard on the words. It is not as bad as during my PhD days. I can now read a sentence without going alphabet by alphabet. I am wise now and check my speed now and then. It is getting better.

I take a little break. I feel tired. The medicine I am taking keeps me numb the whole day and makes me sleepy. I start watching Netflix. The classes are beginning this Monday. It occurs to me that I should revise my presentations. I will do it later, I think.

I watch an episode of a series and look at the time. It is 2, time for lunch. I enter the cafeteria where I see Ipsita. I take my food and sit with her. I am not sure whether to bring the subject of Sabina. We discuss about the weather and about the classes starting from Monday. The cafeteria is full as the students have arrived on the campus. It is noisy, friends chatting and laughing. She changes the subject.

‘I don’t think Sabina should drink anymore. She gets very agitated when she drinks. Keeps remembering her past and crying about it.’

‘Did that again?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am worried about her,’ she continued. ‘She slept at my apartment yesterday and today morning, while I was leaving, she went to her apartment to sleep. I am not sure if she is coming to the University today. How will she take her classes if this keeps continuing?’

‘Will talk to her.’

‘Please do. I am also thinking of contacting her parents if things keep on like this.’

I did not think it was a good idea. But I did not protest.

I go back to my office after lunch with the intention of working. The voices come back.

‘Working will not help you get out of the mess you have created. You are a man of sadness, a man who is destined to suffer. Nothing good will come out of your studies. You are doomed to fail.’

 I get frustrated after listening to this voice and close the word file I had opened. I cannot work like this. My thoughts go to Sabina. I call her.

 ‘Hello. Busy?’

‘Not at all. Tell me how are you?’

‘Good. You?’

‘Ah wasting my time. I did not come to office today. I have been at home reading fiction. Hey have you read The Fight by Norman Mailer?’

‘No.’

‘You should read it man. It’s about the legendary boxing match between Muhammad Ali and George Foreman. What a journalistic piece of beauty? You know Mailer was there in the audience and he has nailed the story. I will give it to you once I finish it. I should be done by today.’

I want to be like her. I want to immerse myself wholly to something without being disturbed. But I know these voices won’t let me.

‘Will you be free today in the evening?’ she asks.

‘You need company?’

She laughs.

‘Around 8?’

‘Perfect. See you then.’

Talking to her made me relax. Yet the anger and frustration inside me could not be quelled. I open Netflix and start watching the series.

In the evening, my mother calls. She has come back to live with my father for a while. I see her call and reluctantly pick it up.

‘How are you beta?’

‘Fine. You?’

‘You are not giving trouble to anyone?’

‘No. Why ask this?’

‘So many people give trouble to me all day. Your father is the head of all of them. It is very difficult to live with all this pain.’

‘Yeah. Heard this.’

‘I have been having groin pains for some time now.’

‘Ask Papa to show you to a doctor na.’

‘I have asked him. He said he will take me but has not done it till now.’

‘Ask him today. He will do it.’

‘He does not want my good. That is the kind of person he is. You can take me to a doctor when you come visit us. When are you coming?’

‘I am busy with work Maa. I will come during the break.’

‘Good. Do not give pain to anyone, it is not good.’

In the evening, I go to meet Sabina. She is as usual rolling a joint. Today I wish we could renew our conversation about schizophrenia. I had forgotten to look at the work of Thomas Szasz which she had recommended the last time. I curse myself for not looking at it. What if she asks me about it and knows the truth? She would think that I am not serious about it at all and her concern about me will dwindle. I am angry at myself. ‘Listen brother, you won’t be able to manage. Meeting Sabina is a waste of time. In any case, you will not make an effort. So why waste her time? You are a man of sadness. Stop going to her. Stay alone. That is the best you can do.’ I didn’t listen to the voice. She spoke.

‘We were talking about schizophrenia last time?’

‘Thomas Szasz.’

‘That’s right. You should read him.’

I feel relieved that she did not judge me.

‘Did you take an appointment with your psychiatrist?’

‘No.’

‘You should.’

‘Fine. This weekend.’ I say reluctantly.

‘Good. Tell him how you are feeling and ask him if he could reduce your dosage. You seem to be doing fine, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me about your voices, Kabir. I never hear you speaking meaninglessly. Many people with schizophrenia speak a lot of meaningless words. How come you keep so quiet?’

‘A quiet person, I am. Since childhood.’

‘But you do hear voices, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do they come from inside you or outside?’

‘Nowadays, from the inside of me.’

‘That’s better than hearing them from the outside, I guess?’

‘Yes.’

‘I forget, please remind me. How much time has passed since you started hearing them?’

‘Almost three years now.’

‘And do you have visual hallucinations?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh God. Poor thing. What pains you are going through!’

I wish to cry at her bosom. This is the first time somebody had asked me about my voices. I want her to let me cry.

‘Difficult to live with them, especially when alone.’ I say.

‘I can understand that. Or maybe not because I have not experienced it. You know what my father used to do with his patients,’ she puffed hard at the joint so that it made a sucking sound. ‘He used to lay down the patient on his sofa and suggest that the patient speak whatever comes to his or her mind. It was sometimes interesting to hear what they spoke, you know.’

I found this very irritating.

‘Treatment?’

‘This is a method used in psychoanalysis. The idea is to reach your inner consciousness by letting you speak your story, uninhibited. The reasons for sickness lie in the desires and pains in the unconscious mind. By talking, one can bring those reasons to the conscious mind. What Freud said was that once the person is able to articulate the reasons for this madness, which lie in his past, buried in his inner conscious, it will cure the person.’

‘Interesting.’

‘Psychoanalysis is not a dominant treatment method in psychiatry nowadays. Talk therapy, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy help patients now. Would you be willing to talk to me about your inner past?’

I am afraid of doing this. One reason I could go along in society was because I kept my voices to myself. There is no way I can live in a normal world if I spoke what my voices said.

‘I will read.’

‘Why will you read about it? I am your psychoanalyst. I am the one who has read and seen it done. Don’t worry. Lie down on the couch.’

I lie down as she had said. She pulls a chair and sits on the other side. I cannot see her.

‘Now close your eyes and tell me what you feel. Speak whatever comes to your mind.’

‘Feel sad. Like killing myself.’ I turn back and look at her.

‘Go on. It’s all right. Don’t look at me. Look at the wall if you wish to keep your eyes open.’

‘Disease born, eater of shit. You give pain to everyone. Giving trouble to this lady. You don’t need to live. Die, you have to die.’ I open my eyes after hearing this voice, rise up, and look at her. She is unfazed.

‘Cannot do this, sorry.’

‘No issues. I must tell you that I do not mind listening to you as long as you are speaking your mind. It’s important for you to understand that there are reasons for your voices. And the reasons lie in your past. Let me talk to my father and ask him in detail about it. But you should seriously consider doing this. What harm will it do? I am not going to judge you in anyways.’

I am looking at the ground. My mind is on fire, the emotions are intense.

‘Tomorrow, want to go now.’

‘That’s fine dude. I will see you tomorrow then.’

‘Yes,’ I rise up, go to my apartment, lay on my bed, and sleep in an hour without having my dinner.