Young Writers Society

The lost melody!

The last droplets of the first shower of the season were still clinging to my glass window rims. In a few minutes Orhilina was to come, for the last time I thought and I just had an hour with her in my hand as my last weapon but if I fail to strike what next?

Could I go about happily with a life-long tag of first case failure? I know its not something out of the world to have been defeated and I would have graciously accepted if I was defeated by a person but an insensate addiction to silence was all set to damn my spirit and as an untouched winner of races as a student it was tough to take it at just the onset of my career as a psychoanalyst.

It was last January; Orhilina entered my cabin with her parents. I don’t remember her face’s initial expression when I first saw her because I was too absorbed in catching the glimpse of her father – Mr. Sen, a famous writer of fiction. I was a great fan of his so naturally I had loved his coming to my cabin. Then I looked at her mother, well a perfect couple they seemed indeed for she was the forerunner of an NGO in Bengal which fought for children’s rights. The last person I saw was Orhilina.

She was not more than thirteen years of age, with a common sweet face she stood in front of me with all the weariness in her posture and vacant ness in her eyes. Her dusky complexion and umber coloured dress seemed to compliment her mood. I told her to sit, and just like a pet she followed my instruction to sit…well right on the floor-where she was standing! Like her parents I felt embarrassed. I got up and getting close to her asked her to get up and sit on the chair and she did.

Her parents said –“actually she was not like this before.. but ever since we have come here, she seems to-“

I interrupted-‘have you come to this chamber before? Who was the analyst?

Her father explained-‘no.. no..not the chamber, we meant ever since we’ve come to Kolkata she gradually started growing strange as you see her now, quite crazy-“

I said-“don’t call her insane!”

Her father said-“don’t worry she is not understanding anything. Just now you saw her sitting on the floor like a fool, she has been doing many more weird things. At night the other day she got up and stole to reach the main door, we were sleeping but in the morning when her maid spotted her sleeping there, we questioned and Orhilina said that she went to the sea last night! But where is sea here in Kolkata?”

Her mother added-“she’s so insensitive and unpresentable.”

I was curious to know more before getting to work-“where were you before coming here?” I asked her parents but ‘Digha’ came the answer from the girl. I looked at her. She was keenly observing the sceneries hung on the wall. They were beautiful paintings in oil paint. Seeing her interested I asked if she could paint too now that she had spoken out but she instead kept staring at me unnaturally.

Since then I had seen her that way too many times. The worst part about her was that she never really spoke! How could I better her or analyse her for that matter if she never uttered a word! I had tried out many tested formulas-asking her to be left alone with me, visiting her place, taking her on drive and to amusement parks but nothing really worked.

She remained mysterious but the real picture of her parents came before my eyes. If they wanted her to recover was to rub of the mark of a mentally retarded child from their family record in front of the silly society they lived in. Mrs.Sen, who championed the cause of children, did not try to delve deep into her daughter’s state and cite the reason for it. In fact not only in case of her daughter even while the small husband-wife interaction bits I have seen made me believe that both were uncompromising and not at all considerate.

The rough relationships of the family had always been my major card for analysing but what was the reason that she was perfect during their stay in Digha, made me wonder.

The other conclusion I had come to was that she loved the sea.

Finally the doorbell rang. Seeing her not improving her parents were to take her abroad for treatment and this was her last visit to me. I would release her from my treatment. But I wanted to give a last try waiting for some miracle, so I had asked her parents to send her alone to my house because she had never been there before.

She entered. She was looking pretty, I said so but as usual she did not respond.

Stepping forward a step her eyes fell on something and she started moving forward fast not caring that my house was a new place. Indeed I had kept my house thoroughly prepared-with all stimulating objects including books, music system, musical instruments available to me, paintings, dolls, flower pots..everything I could think of that was simple enough to have remained her unnoticed companion for years and that could turn her on. I had rented them especially for her. I could not bring the sea therefore got some big posters of it.

What she picked up kept me surprised for a while- it was a flute! She held it like a stick, which showed she could not play it but her movements of hand over it made clear that she was somehow interested in it. Now I had to know if flute was the right prop or was it her mere whims. And soon I discovered the latter when at the next moment she kept it down showing disinterest. I tried my next formula-‘how is Sheila?’ I asked. Sheila used to be her maid in Digha, whom she loved a lot. But she seemed to be apathetic. I was almost feeling like crying. All my hard work had gone futile. This girl’s impossible I thought. She didn’t even glance at the poster of the sea beach!

Time passed off and her father came to meet me and take her back. We completed the final formalities. Her father sat down on the stool to wear his shoe. I was looking at her in despair and she looked back but for a change she did not have the vacant look. With a slight frown astonishing her father and me she asked ‘can you play it?’

-’What?’, I asked. Not expecting a reply, at least from her!

But it came-‘please play, I want to hear’, she said running and picking up the flute from the case where it was kept. She was literally pleading. But I could not play it myself and yet I felt this could be a new beginning. Promptly I pleaded her ‘busy’ father to stay for a few minutes. I called up a friend who could play it. He came quickly. Initially it seemed it was nothing more than pleasure for Orhilina but gradually she sank into the mood. In its melody I saw her losing herself. The sounds of horn of vehicles from the busy streets outside were an intrusion for her. She herself went and closed the window. When my friend stopped playing she became desperate to hear it again. This continued, boring her father who grew aggressive to leave when Orhilina for the first time like a true human being expressed her desire to hear more. Her father did not care and was about to pull her up that she burst like a growling animal –‘every night you would be the same daddy, fighting with mom, asking Sheila to take me away’. We were dumbfounded at her high-pitched voice tone!

Her father tried to get away dismissing her.

‘That’s what you do. When I told you I wanted to go to him, you told its my fancy’

Her father was literally dragging her but now I took the reins. There was hope finally.

‘Who is ‘he’?’ I enquired. Her father reluctantly said-‘she was in the habit of going for long walks by the beach at night everyday.’

.’..Every night as mum-dad shouted. They created a lot of noise but he would play music-the flute I know, Sheila also said.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know!’

I asked her father to explain.

‘She says that every night during her walk she would hear someone playing a flute.’

-’But who would do so regularly on a beach?’, I asked.

‘ That’s it. Its absurd and her eccentric’.

‘It isn’t’, she muttered, protesting!

‘There was a village, Sheila’s village. Sheila knew him. I wanted to meet him, but daddy behaved the same..the very same..’ and she broke down repeating the last few words again and again and again.

She did not have to say more or explain but a big truth. The power of music. It was as good as blood for her existence, its spree outlet for her soul and its presence a shelter in her reckless family life that got busier and rougher with time. But the little she had was lost when she migrated; she lost her music. She had thought she had lost it forever but we gave it back to her.

Through close therapy structures where in she listened and played music, the music tuned her back to life.

And she made my first case a big historical success.