Pathology

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A psychologist (Dr P) visits a School for a routine mass check-up.

And this teenager (T) is called in.

And this is what happens:

P says he will draw a figure on the blackboard and T should say what it means to him.

P (draws a straight line): Yes?

T: Sex

P (draws a circle): Yes?

T: Sex

P (draws an ellipse, parabola, hyperbola...): Yes? Yes? Yes?...

T : Sex, Sex, Sex...

P: Can't you see nothing other than Sex?

T: Can't you draw nothing other than Sex?

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I don't know about the liberated West or even the present day Post-Modern India, but in my School and College and University and IIT KGP, any teenager who is honest would support T wholeheartedly.

It was as normal as bunking Classes and postponing Sessionals till the last date...nothing pathological about it.

And the only permanent cure was Marriage, after 3 days of which, T would answer: straight line, circle, ellipse, parabola, hyperbola...and pass the test.

But old men and women invent certain routines somehow or other and become pathologically servile to them.

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My wife (before she reached that exalted status) was brought up by her granpa who was an Executive Engineer. He was inordinately fond of her (she was and is a dear!). He footed her expensive Medical Education till her MD, after which he was looking for suitable bridegrooms for her.

And when he found my CV (in his neighbor's dustbin), he was impressed and wrote to my Father if I was interested. And my Father, reading my badly lacerated mind, said yes.

So, I was invited to their house at Tirupati for the Bride-Seeing-Ceremony a la Delhi-6.

I went accompanied by my married Sister and B-i-L (for moral support).

The Meeting was scheduled for 4 PM.

Everything went on fine. The EE granpa (retired by then) did the introductions and sat in the Driver's Seat on the sofa. The demure Bride didn't open her mouth (except for munching pakoris). Their folks looked at me severely and I, as usual, did all the small-talk (to beat nervousness).

By 5 PM, when the Party gathered steam and was really going strong and my wife ultimately did say 'yes' if she liked coffee, and others were all having their cross talks about the latest sari designs, cinemas and Rava Dosa recipes, the EE abruptly got up, went inside, brought his walking stick and left by the front door without saying as much as a Bye.

The Party eventually broke up and we returned home.

After our marriage 8 months later, I asked my wife why her granpa vanished in the middle of the Party abandoning everybody discourteously.

She was quite apologetic and said that his retired friends would all be waiting for him outside their Gate at 5 PM for their evening walk and EE never misses it come rain or brimstone.

That is what I call Pathological Evening-Walking.

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My friend R had a similar experience.

When he was visiting Hyderabad from KGP, he was asked by his wife to go and meet up her retired Uncle at his place.

And since he was newly married, he had to obey the High Command.

So, he went in search of her Uncle's place, finally found it, entered, and saw the old man seated in his verandah rolling beads silently.

R did his prostration, stood up, and introduced himself as the privileged husband of his niece from IIT KGP, hoping the Old Man would be so impressed that he would fling his rosary, get up and embrace him.

But nothing happened.

The Old Man closed his eyes and continued his meditation.

R was wondering what to do. Minutes ticked by at an abnormally slow pace and R was waiting and waiting.

After an hour the Old Man got up, pocketed his beads, emptied the water in his Holy Grail into the Tulsi pot, and took R inside his house.

On his return to KGP, R asked his wife what was wrong with her Uncle.

"Oh, you must have gone there at the (wrong) hour of his meditation" (as if the fault was entirely her hubby's), "he is very disciplined and never talks to anyone for the whole hour" (rather proudly).

This is what I call Pathological Bead-Rolling.

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I talked about two Old Men.

And every Old Fool has his Pathology.

I am the sole exception (except for Pathological Midnight Blogging)


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