Professor Chandra Follows His Bliss

by Rajeev Balasubramanyam

  Chandra gave a mental snort. Of course those thoughts were true. He knew undergraduates who spoke like this; telling themselves they failed because their parents didn’t love them or they were struggling with their identity, when in reality they were bone idle or half-witted or both. In his opinion, all this talk of self-esteem that Sunny was so fond of only caused mediocrities to convince themselves they were geniuses, the ones who asked for their exam papers to be remarked and ended up with even lower grades before filing formal complaints citing bullying or discrimination or eurocentrism.

  “So, let’s go around the room,” continued Katz, “and introduce ourselves and tell each other our first string, and then add a second string, like, ‘I’m selfish and therefore nobody will ever love me.’ Everybody got that? We can start with me.

  “My name is Rudi Katz and I’m a spiritual teacher and a therapist and for many years I have held the belief about myself that I’m not a responsible parent. It’s a belief I had for years and years, and in some ways it’s true, but my second string is, ‘That’s why my daughter’s not happy and why I don’t deserve to be happy.’ And that’s the rub. That’s the one that’s got to go.”

  Rudi Katz looked around the yurt, making eye contact with each of them in turn before grinning at a large woman in her forties. The woman, clearly taken with Katz, grinned back.

  “My name is Sally. Hi, everyone. I’m from Miami, Florida, and I’m a massage therapist and a mother, though not necessarily in that order. I’m here because I’ve been big since I was a teenager and recently I’ve gotten a whole lot bigger, and I just can’t shake this voice in my head that tells me, ‘I’m repulsive,’ ‘I’m a whale,’ ‘I’m a monster.’ And I am fat. I know it, but that doesn’t mean I have to think of myself as repulsive, does it?”

  The room murmured its disapproval; even Chandra muttered, “Of course not,” though the truth was that he wasn’t entirely sympathetic. With the money she had spent on coming here this woman from Florida could simply have joined a decent gym. In Chandra’s opinion, problems did have solutions.

  “And as for my second string,” continued Sally, “well, I guess it’s like you said; I’m repulsive and therefore I don’t have a boyfriend, and I’ll never have one ’cause who’d want to be with this?” She indicated her body with a flourish of both hands. “And that’s all. Thank you, and it’s good to be here with you all.”

  “Thank you, Sally,” said Rudi.

  Sally was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Chandra had always been astonished at the ability of women, particularly Americans, to cry so easily and with so little shame. The words “emotional striptease” came to mind. Rudi Katz said nothing, only looked at the thin woman in her sixties sitting beside Sally on a bean bag, her legs folded to her chin, her gray mohair cardigan pulled down to her knees.

  “Hi,” said the woman. “I’m Madeleine, and I’m from Sacramento, California. I’m a retired teacher and I’m here because I have cancer and I can’t shake the voice in my head that tells me every day, ‘You’re sick, you’re dying, you’re sick.’ I mean, I am sick and I am dying. We all are, I guess, though I’m doing it faster than any of you, but does that really mean I have to tell myself that every day? I mean, aren’t I other things besides sick? Aren’t I still a person? Aren’t I a mother and an artist and a friend and a wife and all sorts of other things? I suppose I know I am, but I keep telling myself I’m sick every day so it seems like the only thing that matters is that I have cancer. And I hate it because I’m ruining however long I have by feeling like shit all the time. That’s it. That’s all I have to say.”

  Chandra nodded. Cancer was different, he supposed, though he still didn’t understand why this woman needed to come here to say this. Perhaps she was one of those people who needed…what was it called? Validation. Chandra remembered how lonely he had felt in hospital. But he’d wanted his children then, not a roomful of strangers. Americans were different, perhaps.

  “Thank you, Madeleine,” said Rudi, as Sally leaned her head against Madeleine’s shoulder. “And who’s next? Yes, sir.”

  “Well,” said a bald, middle-aged man, sitting cross-legged and leaning on his fist. “Well, I feel a little funny following that, but maybe that’s synchronicity at work, ’cause the truth is I feel like an asshole. Sorry, my name’s Dan. I’m not working right now, though I used to be in movies in different capacities, and yeah, I tell myself every day, ‘You’re an asshole.’ And why am I an asshole? ’Cause I’m not dying. I mean, I’m not sick. I’m perfectly healthy and I’ve lost eight friends to AIDS in the last twenty years, though I’m the one who should have got it, and that includes my lovely sweet straight friend Alice who slept with maybe four people in her whole life and was a good Catholic till the day she died—God knows how she got it—and then there’s me, who had sex with most of New York before moving on to California, and not a scratch! Not a damn thing wrong with me and I just can’t forgive myself, no matter how many times I say, ‘Nam-myōhō-renge-kyō,’ or tell myself I’m not to blame or it’s up to the universe. I just can’t stop hating myself, and I guess that’s my second string. And what really stinks is I’ve got a great life otherwise. I’ve got money; I’ve got a beautiful apartment; I’ve got a great partner; my family’s loving; I live in the hills. I’ve got everything in my life except joy, but hey—you can’t have it all.”

  “Well, we can talk about that,” said Katz, nodding. “But thank you, Dan, and I think we all know you’re not an asshole, but, as we’re learning, that isn’t the point. Yes, ma’am.”

  With a start, Chandra realized the girl Katz had pointed to was Indian and, judging from her skin tone, possibly South Indian like him. “Hi, my name’s Pam,” she began, “and I’m a little embarrassed that I don’t have anything half as important to say as any of you guys, but I guess my critical voice tells me I should have more money. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t got money. I’m the daughter of a pretty well-to-do dad, and I’m in law school, and I’m a part-time hair model, but all the time I just think, ‘You could be living in Bel Air, and you could be driving a Cayenne or something—I don’t know much about cars—or you could be dating Brad Pitt, but instead you’re just little old you,’ and you probably all think I’m a spoiled bitch.” She laughed. “And I guess that’s my second string.”

  “You don’t have enough money and therefore you’re a spoiled bitch?” said Katz.

  “Well, like, yeah,” said Pam.

  “Now that’s one I haven’t heard before,” said Katz, and the whole room laughed.

  “At least I got something right,” said Pam, waving her hands in the air. “That’s me. Miss Originality, California.”

  Everyone laughed again.

  “Well, thank you for sharing that with us, Pam,” said Katz. “And let’s see if we can’t think up some ways to get you a few more bucks before the weekend is out.”

  And on it went around the room, each person telling their tale. In spite of himself, Professor Chandra found himself becoming more and more involved. Apart from the Indian girl, he had to admit that these people did have real problems, more serious than his own in most cases, and they told their stories with such candor that, on occasion, he found himself deeply moved. There were people in the room who were crying, however, which he found absurd, and it did seem to him that nearly every one of them thrived on the attention, the drama of it all.

  The woman beside him was an exception. She was sitting with her back very straight, her hands by her sides, and had barely moved for the last hour save for when Chandra swiveled to look at her and she jerked her head in the other direction. When it came to her turn Chandra wasn’t surprised to learn that she was the only other non-American in the room.

  “Hello, everyone,” the woman began. “My name is Elke and I’m from Holland, but I’ve been living in Arizona for twenty years. Actually, I’ve been living in the care of
the state of Arizona for the last nine because, unlike most of you, I actually did do something wrong. A decade ago I killed my own baby daughter. She ingested a fatal dose of morphine through my breast milk. I was convicted of child abuse, involuntary manslaughter, and unlawful conduct toward a child.

  “I lost my nursing license for obtaining morphine illegally and ultimately, I believe, I got what I deserved. It’s a long story, but needless to say it’s hard for me to get work now. I’m sleeping on the floor of the conference room tonight and I can barely afford that, but I just felt it was either this or I kill myself. I don’t even want to tell you what my critical voices say, because it’d be like hearing the devil speak or something. I just…I’m sorry for what I did, though maybe not sorry enough, and I wish I could see a future, but I don’t. That’s all.”

  “Thank you, Elke,” said Katz, “and I think this is a good time to state that whatever is said in this room stays in this room, and that’s a code of honor we’ve all got to keep to, for obvious reasons. But thank you, Elke, for sharing, and I hope we can work on this over the weekend so we can put at least a little hope into the despair you’ve articulated so eloquently. And now to you, sir, please.”

  Professor Chandra was staring at the back of the chair in front of him. He could hardly believe he was sitting beside a convicted murderer, and of a baby. Surely she hadn’t meant to kill her child, but she had spoken with such coldness about herself, such absence. Yes, he thought, he could imagine her killing herself. After speaking she had shuffled her body an inch or two away from him, as if convinced he were judging her. Chandra looked at Katz, who returned his glance. Of course, thought Chandra; it was up to him not to make this worse by lengthening the silence that had permeated every corner of the room. He was nervous, he realized, so out of his depth that if he didn’t speak soon he’d drown, but still, nothing was coming out of his mouth. Chandra looked at Katz once more who was smiling, nodding at him. He cleared his throat.

  “My name is Chandra,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I’m from England, though right now I’m on a visiting professorship in Los Angeles. I’m an academic, an economist, and I’m, well, I suppose a lot of people would say I’m at the top of my profession. I’m an Emeritus Professor at Cambridge. I earn more money than I need. I’m staying in a premium room.” Everyone laughed, and Chandra smiled in response, feeling more at ease now. “But the truth is that I consider myself a failure. That’s my first string. That’s what my critical voice says. It says, ‘Chandra, you’re a bloody failure,’ and no matter what I do, no matter if I do win the damn Nobel Prize next year, I think I’ll still feel like that.

  “And now to the second string,” he continued, raising his head to make eye contact with Madeleine and Dan and Rudi. “It’s simple. I’m sixty-nine years old and the voice in my head says there’s nothing to live for. I’ve screwed it up, my life—as an economist, as a father, and as a husband. I might as well just give up the ghost. My life is worthless. I’ve never said this out loud. I’ve never told anyone this. Because the truth is, I am not a sincere person. I look around and see so many wonderful people, so much honesty, and it seems to come so naturally to you all, but all I can think is that I have the biggest ego in this room, and I’m the least honest of anyone here.”

  “But you’re being honest now,” said Rudi.

  “Yes,” replied Chandra. “Yes, I am.”

  Chandra heard nothing of what the next speaker said. He felt exhilarated, weightless, as if he could float into the air if he exhaled hard enough. So this was why Americans loved confessing so much…

  After a few minutes he was able to regain some composure, listening while the remainder of the group introduced themselves. He even found himself beginning to enjoy himself, feeling like a child of four or five, sitting on the floor and listening to stories.

  When the exercise was over Rudi Katz thanked them all for being so brave and said, “And before we go, one last exercise, and then we can meet again in the morning, prepared and in the right frame of mind. I want you to turn to the person next to you, though not somebody you came with, and shut your eyes, think about what they said about themselves, and try to find its reverse, its opposite. If you need them to remind you of their strings then do so, but don’t spend too much time talking.

  “So: I said I was an irresponsible father who didn’t deserve to be happy. One way to reverse this would be to say, ‘You are a loving, responsible parent who deserves a happy life.’ That’s one way. But you can say it another way if you prefer. The important thing is not to rush it. Take as long as you need. We’ve got time. Just close your eyes and picture the person. Try to feel them, their essence, and then let the words come out.

  “Any questions? All right. When you’re finished I want you to look toward the front so I can see. We won’t stop until everyone is finished.”

  Professor Chandra looked to his right but his neighbor, Chester, from Texas, was already talking to the short mousy woman beside him. Chandra had no choice. He took two deep breaths and turned to his left, saying, “Elke, isn’t it? I’m Chandra.”

  “I know,” said Elke.

  “Do you need me to remind you of my strings?”

  “No. I think I have it. How about you?”

  “No,” said Chandra. “It’s all right.”

  “Good,” said Elke. “That’s good.”

  “Well,” said Chandra. “Shall we begin?”

  But the question was redundant as Elke had already closed her eyes, her hands folded in her lap. Chandra closed his too. Had it been anyone else, he realized, his cynicism might have returned.

  He thought of what this woman had done, that she had taken morphine while breast-feeding, injected it. Probably she’d been addicted; it would have been hard for her to stop, but why hadn’t she tried to get help? Why hadn’t she gone for rehabilitation or to her family? Had she been a drug addict while she was pregnant? She must have known she could harm the baby. But she had gone on taking the drug and her daughter had died, a baby girl, like Jasmine, like Radha.

  How the world must have hated her! It would have been in the papers, surely, and her family, her friends, people in the street, at work, everyone would have known. She used to be a nurse—didn’t she say that? How would she have felt at that moment when she realized her baby was dead? Had she been high at the time? Had she even cared?

  Chandra’s fists were balled. He unfurled them, placing his palms on his knees. He wondered if Rudi Katz was watching him, but he did not open his eyes.

  “You are a successful, attractive man,” said Elke beside him. “Your life is a wonderful gift to be celebrated and enjoyed.”

  Her voice was so cold. Did she even mean what she’d said? And “attractive,” where had that come from? He had said nothing about his looks. Was she mocking him?

  “Once more please,” he said.

  He counted to seven before Elke spoke.

  “You are a very successful and good man,” she said. “You have your life ahead of you at this moment. Celebrate and cherish it.”

  Yes. To her this was probably true, she who had destroyed her own life. To her he would seem successful. He had not gone to jail. He had not killed anyone, least of all a tiny, blameless baby. But who was she to tell him he was a good man? She didn’t even know him, and what did this woman know about goodness? And why the hell had he been given this one? Was it some sort of a trap? Had everyone else known who she was and avoided her, or had she sat next to him because she wanted to land a rich man, and hence that ludicrous comment about his being attractive even though he was practically twice her age? He should never have been so candid. He did not know these people. Who else had murdered someone in here? He wanted to shout it: “Who else?”

  But this was not the exercise. Chandra inhaled and exhaled, tried to concentrate on his breathing but found his attention shifting to the “
teacher” at the front who had played with their emotions like a child with a bag of marbles, sitting there in his stupid cotton playsuit thinking he knew something about people because he had taken drugs and spent a couple of years in India, probably in Rishikesh which was where most of them went, like Steve.

  But back to Elke, whose breathing he could hear from beside him.

  She would have hated herself, that was for certain, would have wished herself dead, longed for someone to come up behind her in prison with a rope or a knife. The other prisoners would have known. They would have bullied her for it, would have called her “baby killer” or taunted her by making the sound of babies crying or calling out “Mommy” in the middle of the night. They would have gone for her in the showers or the canteen, banged her head against the walls. And she would have been cold the entire time, cold like she was tonight, because she did not feel she deserved to suffer or cry, did not deserve feelings, did not deserve life, not after what she’d done.

  She would have mourned for her baby, her daughter, her little girl. She would have asked God—because everyone believed in God at times like these—to take her life, to give her baby’s back. She would have gone over everything a million times in her head, all the different things she should or could have done but didn’t, the treatments she could have received, the help she could have asked for. She would have come to see herself as the embodiment of evil, the walking dead, someone too impure for this world, someone who did not even deserve the peace that would come from taking her own life, just slime, waiting to be washed down the drain of existence one day.

  And yet she was here, sitting beside him, breathing.

  “You are a mother and you can love,” he said. “There is still hope.”