The Therapist
“What do you do, Pritam?” She asked, the young counsellor who attended me today.
“I write… and make sketches,” I was stammering…
She was so pretty. I mean so so pretty…
Actually, no. I have seen more beautiful girls than her. She was less than beautiful but more than pretty, if you know what I mean. But it was her overall personality and the intelligence that shone in her calm eyes that hooked me up - the way she looked through her thick glasses, her measured words - I mean that’s how psychiatrists are supposed to be, but there was something else in her.
She stared at me for a few seconds. Or maybe I just imagined it.
“What do you sketch?”
“Mostly portraits… And feet…” And I couldn’t help but look at her feet. They’re beautiful…
“And what do you write about?”
“I am a content writer for an E-learning platform. But I also write poetry, prose, and political articles,” I was still stammering. I wanted to tell her that right now I wanted to write about her or make a sketch of her.
She sensed my nervousness.
“Are you ok talking to me?” She asked. “Or you want to talk to someone else?”
“I am absolutely fine,” I said. I just wished it were a normal conversation, not a conversation between a patient and a doctor. That wouldn’t be exciting for her, of course.
As for me, a part of me felt happy that at least I was getting to talk to her, the other part was pissed off with myself for I would probably never get a chance to have a deep, meaningful conversation with her…
Anyway, apparently I have improved remarkably since my last counselling. And coming that from her lifted up my mood. And I was thinking what could I possibly do, apart from being the patient, so that I could meet her again.
I came home and told my girl about my latest love story that ended before it started.
She said, “I wish to see her too…”