“Do you think we need a therapist?” Atharva asked.
Dr. Baig gave him a kind, noncommittal smile. But her next words were firm, even hard — “Kaul sahab, do you know what is one of the worst things you can tell somebody suffering in their mind?”
Atharva sat up beside her.
“You need a therapist.” Dr. Baig paused, letting the weight of those words sink in. “It has become a mockery in our society lately. Honestly, and this is my humble opinion — not every suffering of the mind requires you to open up your insides and try to untangle the cords. There are some concepts of psychotherapy that I agree with, some that I don’t. And with my patients, I have seen that instead of trying to open yourself up to figure out your ‘self,’ it works better when you dedicate yourself to a cause greater than you. Our parents and grandparents weren’t ignorant when they fought hardships with work, work and more hard work.”
“But isn’t throwing yourself into work ignoring the problem?”
“Alright, let’s talk about the problem itself. Things that you feel, things that you think — the anxiety, the panic, the depression symptoms — are they real?”
“For that person, they are.”
“Yes, but are they real in the real world?”
Atharva looked at her. Iram shrugged — “You can say it’s not real. We both are feeling things that we know are unreal.”
“My eloquent wife puts it better than I do.”
“Exactly. It’s the mind, creating a shadow larger than life out of something that may be a tiny mole. It’s your mind playing tricks on you. Now it may be the result of hormonal imbalances or traumas of life, sometimes triggers from your past. But dealing with it is not a set pathway. It is different for different people. For Iram, because she is not trusting of therapists, the method to heal is different. I am reiterating here what I told Iram last time — I am a gynaecologist and I see patients with antenatal and postpartum depression in a very different context. Iram wanted to work with me on this, and that is why I am sharing my thoughts.”
“Your advise and exercises have helped her…” Atharva paused. “And us, to start coming out of this. It’s working for us.”
“Then the next step is to start really working. You are a busy man. Iram, what about you? What’s your day like?”
“Feeding Yathaarth, doing some kitchen stuff, and cooking sometimes. But I am planning to do more of it going forward. I am really enjoying it.”
“Ok, that’s good to hear. Are you doing one physical activity every day?”
“Walks in our garden. My speed has also gone up. I do it at nights before sleeping. I go and walk on the terrace for better sleep.”
“Good. Now start cooking as a necessity and not a luxury. Give your cook an off and make your family’s meals.”
“He will set fire to the house,” Atharva muttered, making Iram burst out laughing. She eyed him sideways, with his straight face and sparkle in those eyes. Even on days like these, appointments like these, he did not fail to make her laugh. And look 10 feet tall himself.
“I am assuming your cook owns you and not the other way around?” Dr. Baig sat back, amused.
“Something like that.”
“Then take one shift, Iram. I am asking you to become a need for your family. For your son. You said you feed him. Who does the rest? Bathing him, changing him, playing with him?”
Iram’s throat dried. It was one thing to let Begumjaan help her with everything but quite another to admit it out loud that she was so incompetent with her own son that somebody else, somebody so aged, was doing it for her.
“We share the load,” Atharva answered, sensing her discomfort.
“Begumjaan does the heavy lifting by day,” Iram confessed, not about to lie. “Atharva does it by night.”
“Hmm,” Dr. Baig hummed. “What are you scared of?”
“That I will drop him.”
The answer was so intuitive.
“And make him cry.”
That answer was even more intuitive. It slipped and unclogged one of her biggest fears.
“And something will happen to him.”
