The symptoms had appeared after the incident with her father.
A long standing employee, in charge of her father’s stores, had left on bad terms. Not that he was entitled to feel bad. He had been skimming off the top for years and the latest reproach owing to his son’s need for university tuition, although something one might be able to sympathize with, was pretty big. Too big to be missed. Big enough to force her father to investigate further and uncover the years of deceit. Sometimes people feel entitled to their transgressions even when they are obviously not. So, when her father had fired him, he was not happy.
He took his dissatisfaction to the tax department. He knew enough to be able to paint a picture of tax evasion that landed her father with the type of investigation that never ends well. Scorpions sting he used to say. That’s just what they do. It doesn’t matter that they may not have a good reason to do so. Her father was remembered as saying: ‘Once you’re in the fire you can’t get out without burns.’
That sought of comment makes him sound firm and strong in the face of adversity, as he was, but this incident left him weakened. The gruelling hours of answering queries and providing proofs, the financial losses, and above all the emotional toll of going through the entire ordeal, left him frail. Aged years in a few weeks.
When he had a heart attack on that fateful night, it came as a shock, but it was almost expectable in retrospect.
She was 14 years of age at the time. Old enough to understand what was going on, but not quite enough to be of help in any practically beneficial manner. That, as you can probably understand, was a harrowing position to be in.
As I spoke with my niece that evening, she told me how she had never really noted her symptoms to be different from any one else’s experience at first. She sat uneasily in the wing back chair that her father used to sit in as she wrapped her hands tightly around her mug of coffee. As I watched her from the chair that I had pulled up to sit beside her, I could see her expression tighten, and a slight redness come over her face as she explained.
“I was always a sensitive child. The typical school day, with the politics of teenage girlfriends, was quite a plateful for me as it was. And the thing with Harin”, that was the employee’s name, “was wholly unbelievable to me. I just couldn’t understand how someone who had been with dad for that long could turn on him so suddenly. I remember going over to Dad’s fabric shop. Harinda would get us snacks and indulge me with talks about the types of fabrics they sold and where those came from, or offer me a few colour pencils and pages to doodle and scribble on. Those fond memories contrasted so strongly with the image of him now, that I felt a tightness in my chest when I thought about it. That was how it started.”
She went on to describe almost allergy-like or panic attack symptoms, including redness and itching of her palms and feet, swelling in some or multiple areas of her body, and at its worst; breathing difficulty. Whenever she heard someone backbiting or even gossiping, she would feel beads of sweat building up on her brow, and she would become increasingly anxious as the conversation went on.
It was partly tied to this memory of Harin, which she would always recall at these times, but had also become a part of her own natural reaction. Harin’s betrayal had left such a deep scar that she was sensitized to such things beyond what most people are.
We discussed how many of her friends had become distant as they didn’t appreciate her ‘lectures’ on avoiding these woes. Some, who had known her since childhood, were more understanding though. And she cherished those relationships.
As the conversation went on, I felt a great deal of sympathy towards her. A kind hearted, well mannered and graceful young girl, with an unusual problem that makes a fair share of social interactions difficult for her. I felt sorry for her as I thought about how much better it would be if she too, could have engaged in the typical teen’s late night banter.Though it may not be ideally palatable and could sometimes lead to unfavorable consequences, that was part of the fun of young gatherings, I thought to myself. Chatting about the latest fix ups and breakups. The neighbours’ failing enterprise or a lesser liked acquaintance’s mishaps. That sort of thing has always been the filler in most gatherings after all.
But then she said this;
“At first, I wished it didn’t happen. I remember praying and crying that I could be more ‘normal’ and ‘cool’. But over time I’ve come to appreciate it as more of a super power.” Her face relaxed as she came into her present self, and she sat back in her chair. “I wish more people could be sensitive to this sought of thing. Wouldn’t it be a better world if that was so ?”
Wouldn’t it be a better world if that was so !
I suppose it probably would.
—– – – –
We talk and discuss about the different types of pollution to our physical world very often. It is taught in schools, discussed by intellectuals, and even debated in parliaments.
But are we failing to understand the effect of the subtle, but equally or more gravely dangerous, pollution of our psychological and metaphysical spaces.
As we are conditioned by the general atmosphere in our social networks, are we becoming more and more accepting of moral transgressions that should not be considered normal. And what is the effect of a degrading sense and sensitivity of this nature ?
On a more hopeful note;
What kind of a world would it be, if we could all sense this type of pollution, the same way we feel choked in polluted air ? Can we expand our concept of ‘Clean Air’ to this extent ?