Chapter 4

2 years ago

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HereAsMyself

@HereAsMyself

Author's Note: This chapter contains descriptions of a panic attack and wounds sustained during it. If it makes you uncomfortable or can act as a potential trigger, please don't read further.


I'm sure many of us were-- or are-- susceptible to panic attacks, or know someone who is. I suffered from these attacks as a child myself, though they have diminished over the years. There's a lack of understanding around the issue, partly due to the stigma associated with mental illness and with seeking help for it. I just want to say it's nothing to be ashamed of, it isn't a sign of weakness/ laziness/ going mad (or anything else we might have been told over the years), and there's nothing wrong with seeking professional mental help when necessary-- just like there's nothing wrong with going to a doctor when we're physically unwell.


Also, there's no 'right' or 'wrong' way to have a panic attack. These attacks vary in degree and in intensity. Different individuals' bodies react differently to triggers, and the triggers themselves vary from person to person. The pain, the fear and the helplessness never really go away, though people develop their own coping mechanisms (mine, for example, is to keep repeating 'I'm okay, I'm safe, I'm here, these are just feelings and will go away, it's a trigger and can't hurt me' over and over until it gets through to my brain). But these coping mechanisms can be unhealthy and injurious, too, and may end up contributing further to any underlying mental or physical problems. If possible, please seek professional help. It can be difficult if you're living in India, given mental health care is expensive and the resources are overburdened (and this without the added trouble of trying to convince often well-meaning but ignorant family members), but many schools and colleges  do offer free counselling services. Please keep looking, if possible, for a professional who works well with you and can help you.


Last but no the least, if anyone reading this needs to talk, I'm here.


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‘Maybe one is now reading this who meets all my grand assumptions and egotisms with derision—
As if I never deride myself!
Myself forever reproaching myself, for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?
Or maybe one who is puzzled at me—
As if I were not puzzled at myself!
Me, so puzzling, wandering and confused, lost to myself, ill-assorted, contradictory.’

                                              -Walt Whitman, The Poet’s Doubt and Despair

 

 

Abhijeet plans to look at Dr. Salunkhe’s envelope immediately after reaching home but, by the time he actually does, it’s forgotten. He’s suddenly ended up with tons of paperwork ACP Sir sent from Delhi, and it’s almost eight by the time he’s done with it. He stands up from his position on the sofa, intending to stretch his arms and legs, when the envelope—peeking out from inside the jacket he wore that day—catches his eye. He takes it out, wondering what it could be.

 

It’s a sorry card.

 

His first, instinctive reaction is one of overwhelming delight. He’s been wrongly accused before, stabbed, shot at, kidnapped, tortured—often as part of a plan by the team—but no one’s ever thanked him for his troubles or apologized to him for what he’s had to endure.

Well, this is a first, he thinks. That too from Salunkhe Sir.

 

Joy coursing through his veins, he picks up his phone to send a message to Dr. Salunkhe, to tell him it’s over, that all’s forgiven and forgotten. He’s just about to begin typing when he sees a message from Shreya. ‘I’m really sorry for what I did that day, Sir’, it reads, ‘you know how worried I was for Daya Sir. Please try to make Tarika understand. She isn’t speaking to me. I also appreciate your keeping all this from Daya Sir’.

 

And—just like that—his happiness is gone, replaced by towering, angry grief.

 

There’s a part of his that’s telling him he’s behaving irrationally—it’s just a simple message, she’s saying sorry too, she was rightfully worried, it’s done, it’s over, be the bigger person—but it’s drowned out by the series o fimages that flash before his eyes. He sees himself enter the bureau like a thief, pleading with everyone to believe that he’d really lost his memory, that he was a victim too, that he hadn’t hurt Daya; he hears Dr. Salunkhe’s accusing voice; he hears—if such a thing were possible—the silence of his colleagues, many of whom he’s mentored, trained, guided and stood up for over the years (except Sachin, who’d unexpectedly trusted him in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary). It’s like he’s being forced to watch a horror film against his will, his eyelids pulled and glued apart so that he can’t look away.

 

Abhijeet’s vision starts to blur at the edges and his body begins to shake. He must do something—anything—or he’s feels like he’s going to implode. He tries to sit down, to get a hold of himself, but his hands come in contact with the wooden coffee table before him. He pushes against it before he can stop himself—if he can stop himself at all—and he hears rather than sees the thing tumble and fall onto it’s side. The noise upsets him further: he feels like he must run, must get away and, in his haste to get up at once from where he’s sitting at the edge of the sofa, his slipper catches at the edge of the table and he falls. He feels like he’s drowning and like a fish out of water at the same time. He tries to get up and reaches out blindly for support. His hands touch the wall, then something above it, and as he holds on to it and stands up, it crashes to the floor. It’s a framed painting that shatters into a thousand shards of glass. The sound reminds Abhijeet of daggers, which soon morph into screams and fingers pointed at him and reporters’ microphones thrust in his face. He grits his teeth and puts him hands over his years in a vain attempt to stop the noise—he knows it’s useless, it’s all in his head—but he tries nevertheless.

 

It has the opposite effect. The screaming only seems to get louder until he feels his head’s about to burst. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes. It’s of no avail. He slowly sinks to the ground, hands still on his ears, unaware of and uncaring about what he’s doing. He curls up into a fetal position  on the floor, not feeling the shards of glass dig into his arm and his shoulder. He doesn’t hear the doorbell ringing continuously, the banging on his door, or the frantic calls of ‘Abhijeet, are you all right?’




 

KD’s had people tell him before he’s more of a detective than a lawyer. He wonders what they would say if they knew if an expert lockpick and pickpocket as well.

 

He’d discovered the wallet while cleaning his table that morning. It had a few identity cards in them—Abhijeet’s photos in different disguises accompanied by (obviously fake) details on the side. It’s evidently a decoy wallet that Abhijeet keeps with him to use during cases. He must have left it in KD’s office the day he came to play chess.

 

KD isn’t as surprised by Abhijeet’s leaving the wallet behind as he is by the fact that Abhijeet hasn’t come to collect it. He hasn’t even called KD asking if it’s in his office. It isn’t like Abhijeet to be so careless or so forgetful. Not usually, KD corrects himself, shaking his head. He did seem rather drained and vulnerable that day and—if word on the street is to be believed—he’s been through a lot recently.

 

It’s no big deal, however. KD’s work at the court is over earlier than usual that day. He spends some time working in his office and leaves a little quickly, intending to visit the CID Bureau and give Abhijeet his wallet. He doesn’t find Abhijeet there, though. Freddy, who’s in charge of the place while the others have gone to inspect a robbery, tells him Abhijeet isn’t doing the evening shift and that he’d most probably be at home.

 

No problem, thinks KD. I’ll also check up on him while I’m at it. He smiles to himself—Abhijeet reminds him of those strong, silent, brooding young men of fiction that his girlfriends used to be so fond of.

 

He reaches Abhijeet’s house and rings the doorbell. No one answers. He rings it again, and he’s a little puzzled because Abhijeet doesn’t appear to have gone out: his car’s in the garage and he can see light in the living room windows. He’s about to call Abhijeet when he hears a crash from inside the house, followed by a groan. He grows concerned, then worried when he begins knocking on the door and no one responds.

 

Then he hears another crash, followed by the sound of breaking glass.

 

He doesn’t hesitate a moment longer. The lock on Abhijeet’s door is surprisingly easy to pick—he’s a CID Inspector, surely he can do better than flimsy little locks like these—and he’s inside the house in seconds. He looks around the room—the coffee table’s lying on it’s side, but the room itself at first glance appears to be empty. He’s just beginning to wonder what o nearth happened, when he spots Abhijeet.

 

He blinks to make sure he’s really seeing what he’s seeing, that it isn’ ta hallucination or a bad dream.

 

Abhijeet’s lying on the ground, curled up on his side. He’s lying on broken glass and there are glass shards digging into his shoulder and arm. It must hurt, but he doesn’t seem to be aware of it: he’s practically gasping, eyes tightly closed and hands over his ears, trembling.

 

Panic attack.

 

KD’s frozen to the spot, but only for a moment. He’s kneeling beside Abhijeet in the blink of an eye, careful not to step on any glass himself. He knows enough about panic attacks to realize he shouldn’t be touching the prone man immediately—at least not until he’s sure touching won’t trigger another attack. Instead he begins speaking softly to him, voice barely above a whisper but loud enough that it penetrates the fog of Abhijeet’s confused, disoriented mind. He doesn’t really know what he’s saying—something along the lines of ‘you’re okay, I’m here, this is your house, there’s no one here but us’—but he hopes it gets through to Abhijeet  and assures him that he’s safe.

 

After what seems like an eternity, Abhijeet’s trembling decreases. KD keeps on talking to him but moves back a little, far enough that Abhijeet has alittle more space but close enough to reassure him that he isn’t alone. It finally subsides, and Abhijeet slowly opens his eyes. They’re red and groggy—the latter partly because they’re adjusting to the living room lights.

 

‘KD?’ he asks, his voice hoarse. He instinctively tries to get up, but KD reaches out and holds him gently by the arms before he cuts them further on the glass.

 

‘Steady, Abhijeet’, he says. ‘Get up slowly. There’s broken glass all  around you’.

 

He puts a hand beneath Abhijeet’s elbow and another round his shoulders  as he helps Abhijeet stand up, taking care not to get too close or to hold too tightly. He slowly guides Abhijeet to his bedroom, helping him sit at the edgeof the bed and giving him a glass of water. Abhijeet finishes it in small,abrupt sips, his hands still occasionally shaking. KD takes the glass from him once he’s done.

 

‘What do you need, Abhijeet?’ he asks gently. ‘Would you like me to get Daya?’

 

Abhijeet stares at him blankly for a few seconds. Then his words seem to get through and he vigorously shakes his head. ‘No, no Daya’, he says. ‘Please. Can’t…don’t want anybody to see’.

 

KD doesn’t press the issue further. He’s a very private person himself and understands Abhijeet’s desire not to let anyone see him when he’s so flustered and vulnerable. He quietly helps Abhijeet lie down, pressing a folded sheet beneath his injured shoulder to support it and to prevent the blood that’s oozing out from getting on the bed. Abhijeet’s staring at the ceiling, face blank. KD begins talking again—not quite addressing Abhijeet, it’s more like he’s thinking aloud—and makes sure to keep his voice soft and soothing, like a gentle monotone. He sees Abhijeet’s eyes start to droop, then fully close. He’s asleep in a few minutes.

 

Unsurprising, KD thinks. Few things are as taxing on the body and the mind as panic attacks.

  

Abhijeet goes to sleep, but he leaves KD with a dilemma on his hands.

 

KD understands perfectly that he doesn’t want anybody seeing him like this, but that simply won’t do: they have to get a doctor to take a look at the wounds on Abhijeet’s arm and shoulder. He can’t betray Abhijeet’s confidence and get Dr. Salunkhe or even Dr. Tarika, and he’s not very keen toget a general physician and to have to explain why Abhijeet was the way he was right now or what he, KD, was doing in his house in the first place.

 

He thinks for some time and in the end settles for Dr. Rastogi. He’s the forensic doctor who works with the police, and he and KD have become friendly—if not quite friends—over the years. He’s good at his work, he’s discreet and KD knows he isn’t going to ask too many questions.

 

Dr. Rastogi duly comes and looks Abhijeet over. He checks the wounds on  his arm and shoulder, dresses them and announces stiches wouldn’t be necessary. He also checks for any injuries Abhijeet might have sustained during his fall, but he doesn’t find any. KD’s relieved and extremely grateful to the gooddoctor.

 

‘He’ll have to have someone with him here tonight, you know’, he tells KD as they walk to the door. ‘That was a bad attack. Things could’ve escalated for the worse if you hadn’t arrived when you did’.

 

‘He might have duty tomorrow, I don’t know’, KD says. ‘Do you think he ought to go, given his injuries?’

 

‘I wouldn’t recommend it,’ says Dr. Rastogi, ‘but not only because of the injuries’. He turns around on the doorstep and looks at KD. ‘I’d take a couple of days off, if I were him. Perhaps when he’s a little better, mentally, physically--’

 

He leaves the sentence unfinished. KD doesn’t complete it either. They’re both thinking the same thing. He’s Senior Inspector Abhijeet. He would never agree to simply sit and rest at home.

 

Abhijeet’s sleeps through all the activity. He’s clearly tired out—worn out would be a better phrase—and KD slowly walks back into his bedroom. Abhijeet couldn’t be left alone, according to Dr. Rastogi, and KD wonders who he should call for the all-night vigil. I don’t mind staying, he thinks, but would Abhijeet even want me here?

 

He leans against the doorframe, watching Abhijeet’s sleeping face. Even asleep he looks stressed and deeply unhappy. KD thinks back to the glass on the living room floor, and his eyes wander to the bandage on Abhijeet’s arm. He makes his decision: he walks over to the couch in Abhijeet’s room, takes off his blazer and drapes it over the back. There are a couple of books on Abhijeet’s nightstand; he picks up one of them, takes off his shoes and settles down on the couch for the night.

Sleep well, Abhijeet, he thinks. I’ll be here when you wake up in the morning, whether you like it or not.

 

To be continued…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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