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THE
IQ TEST
“Are you sure Rhea?” asks my mother.
“Of Course I’m. Survival of the fittest, mother. I’m
not going against Darwin. Also I don’t want unnecessary scars on my body.”
It’s known fact that we are all born to die. And
frankly I don’t understand why it has to be made into such a big deal. If it
were not for my mother I would have said that to bunch of people outside my
house, some of them with young kids, shouting slogans, waving placards,
literally wanting me to cut one of my beating hearts out, “Save a life.
Donate!” they shout.
For someone who is one in billions, 7.125 billion to
be exact, I expect to be treated better. Scientists are still befuddled
regarding my condition that gave me two hearts in my mother’s womb. But years
of research and sticking needles into me have led them nowhere and they have
labelled me as freak mutation. It’s so rare- literally one in all human kind
that they didn’t even name the anomaly (as they call it, I will call it awesomeness).
I wanted to name the condition myself, something on the lines of Rhea’s
Heartsawesome but doctor’s aren’t thrilled with the suggestion. Instead they
want to cut one of them out and save a life. Huh?
An IQ of 180, increased concentration, exceptional
athleticism and a phenomenal metabolism rate are just the few boring benefits
of increased blood circulation. Why would I ever give that up?
But I don’t understand why it is difficult for my
mother to decipher my wishes. As the last resort, so that I could change my
resolve, my mother signed the consent form for my counselling. Seven days more
and I would have the power to autograph these medical consents myself as I
would be turning into a legal adult under the Indian constitution but for now I
had no options except to meet any random Tom, Dick and Harry for next few days.
The good part is I have to delt with him alone, without my mother being beside
me. With the refined spiteful skills I posses it won’t take me much long to
drive him crazy, after all I have a reputation that precedes my physical
presence.
On the first day of my counselling I waited for him
in his chambers of secret. He was late and it was enough ground for me to bring
him under the thumb. But then something unexpected happened. Contrary to the
monotonous portrait of my pot bellied, thick glasses wearing and almost balding
doctors, he breezed in as the great Christian Grey freshly out of the ‘Fifty
shades of Grey’. My dual pumping mechanism that provided surplus stock to my
body was shying away and with his each approaching step I was turning pale.
For first time in my lifetime, I felt the
disadvantage of having two beating hearts in my chest, the deafening
trepidation they made at sighting that Greek God, was echoing in those four
walls. For first time in my lifetime, the doppelganger embarrassed me.
He smiled with those pink lotus lips and softly
poured out words from it, “Oh! Not your fault, I get that often... I mean I am a
Psychoanalyst; people do get self conscious around me. Have some water, you
will feel fine.”
Mama mia! Such an ostentatious display of cockiness
that too in front of the sarcasm queen, I wonder how could he survive those lines
in my reign. If it wasn’t for those enthralling, enchanting and enticing brown
eyes that shut away all my kick-ass, smart wits, snidely centres of my grey
cells, jamming my impromptu impulses of cerebral cortex, I would have shown him
my true colors. But the irony is I liked my displayed dumbness.
Before he could pour out more nectar from those
poised lips (Damn! I was turning into Shakespeare!), his cellular started
ringing. A series of taciturn ‘yes’ and ‘no’ and he was on his feet again, all
geared up to retrace the path which he entered. Disconnecting his phone and
connecting those intense eyes with mine he said, “You are sweating. The
thermostat is misbalanced. Let’s take an overnight time; you get your
equilibrated I will get the air conditioning of the room over checked.” He
sneered on my face and just walked away. I knew for sure it was the emergency
call on his mobile that made that apple pie ass of his to move away from my
‘mother paid’ sessions not my visible discomfort. I did nothing, said nothing,
the lioness in me was dying a goat’s death.
Before he walked out of that door, he again turned
back and this time he hugged me, taking away my lasting breaths. Before I could
interpret the embracing vector, he left me as if ripping the bandage out of my
raw wounds; the only difference was that I didn’t shrieked.
“Name is Vashist, Dr Vivaan Vashist, in case you are
interested to know.” And then he left me craving for more. The events of the
day haunted me and declined to leave my thought process. I googled him but nothing
popped on my screen. I was desperate for the next meeting and clock was lazy to
make the next move. In short he was killing me.
In morning I did the extra cycle of pranayaam to
feed my brain with enough oxygen so that it didn’t lose its footing at his radius.
But my brain and my two hearts again gave up at his sighting. This time at the
commencement of the session he hugged me, it was fraction of seconds prolong
than our last hug at our first meeting, twenty seconds to be exact.
“So are you ready for this social intercourse?” he
said smiling.
Was it only me who was reading between the lines or
he was playing the card of sexual connotations between his smiles? He manure
the conversation further by discussing my medical resume and as per the
examination of the patient part goes he just checked only my pulse, though if
he would have asked me, I could have stripped on impulse.
After the two warm of sessions, the third day he
came strictly to business, even though hugging and pulse checking was regular
phenomenon to all our meets.
“Why don’t you give up one of your hearts?” he
asked.
I have already lost both to you but instead of that
I said, “What’s wrong in keeping the two, even the cockroach have thirteen
hearts and he keeps them all?”
“Insightful but eventually you are turning into
Phineas Gage?”
Phineas Gage was the 25 years old man when he lost
the part of his brain in a freak accident in which a three foot, seven inch
tamping iron rod pierced his skull in 1848. He survived it but in span of time
he turned into the most contemptuous, scornful man that ever walked the earth.
And according to my ‘dead drop handsome’ doctor, the excess of blood being
supplied by my twin prodigies to my brain box would eventually lead to
oxidation damage to my grey cells and would eventually degenerate my pre
frontal cortex and then the world would experience another Phineas Gage in me. Moreover,
I have started showing the early signs and symptoms of being one sarcastic
bitch. He also highlighted the possibility of my early death by stroke because
of the gushing volumes drained to my head.
Our fourth meeting was a prolong discussion on how
to step into the shoes of marvel superhero.
“Yes Doc, I know, the essence of Heroism is to
sacrifice oneself so that others can live. But you know what, these either look
good in books or could be used to con the fools not me.”
“The best con man in this world is God, who gave you
two hearts in first place and provided you the opportunity to paint the bigger
picture....” and then suddenly he started speaking Sanskrit, “... yad, yad
acarati sresthas, tad tad evetaro janah, sayat pramanam kurute, lokas vas tad
anivertate.... 3.21 Bhagvad Gita, meaning whatever action a great man performs,
common men fellow. And whatever standards he set by exemplary acts, all the
world pursues.”
Sexy doc, quoting religion, God have mercy, how much
hotter can he get?
He continued, “Once you understand that thoroughly,
you get the permanent denizenship to the city of that con man, sitting right
here in Delhi.”
And as abrupt were those lines as random was the
ending of our fourth session but with the patent hug that lasted for forty
seconds. He never fails to surprise me with abruptness of his actions which
continued for two more days when he bunked our fifth and sixth meet because of
unknown reasons. I have never felt so helpless in my life that too because of
one damn man.
Book of psychology gives a fixed sequential pattern
through which one goes through distressing times called ‘DABDA’, Denial, Anger,
Bargain, Depression and Acceptance. I went through them in those two days,
finally accepting to wait as my only sane strategy.
But seeing him again took away all my pain. How
could I ever be angry at those eyes? But his stochastic approach was still in
continuation, when he duped counselling and put the consent form of surgery on
the table with the pen. That’s the worst gift ever that I could get on turning an
adult today. He said he will not meet me again except in the operation theatre
when I decide to rip away one of my heart. And then he left, that too without a
hug. What kind of the counsellor does that? I could officially complain against
him for bulldozing decisions but instead I went through my second cycle of ‘DABDA’!
One
month later...
“We would be putting you out, please start to
reverse count from ten,” said my anaesthesiologist.
“No... Please wait...” I cried.
“You need not wait more, I’m here.” And he held my
hand. How could I ever forget that touch and those eyes? Just under the whimsical
fancy to see him again I was ready to give away my heart that I kept so
obstinately with me all those years of my life. He was right I was getting
crazier day by day.
I held his hand in the tight grip but before I could
say anything he bend over and said in my ear, “Don’t tax your mind. When you
wake up, just remember that shloka 3.21 of Bhagvad Gita I told you, the city of
God, everything we talked about. Don’t listen to whatever people tell you. Just
trust your instinct and you will have your heartfelt.... W..I..S..H...” I don’t
remember anything more as I was put into sleep.
When I finally woke after 12 hours surgery he wasn’t
there, indeed his existence was wiped off the slate, as if he only existed in
my brain. My doctors don’t remember him; my mother didn’t vouch for his
presence in my life. In my treatment history my counselling sessions were held
under some middle age doctor Dr Radhika Ramana.
He was there in reality, not fragment of my
imagination; I don’t know why people are refusing his presence and occurrence.
I can never be that wrong, hallucinating seven days with him. I consequently
slipped into my hat trick of ‘DABDA’.
Three
months after the surgery......
I was standing outside the gates of house,
addressed, 3/21, Dwarka in dilemma of knocking the door. But before my action’s
implementation, the door opened and there he stood smiling with those intense
eyes. I can never remain angry with those eyes.
“It took you quiet long to reach here, was traffic
that bad?”
My renowned IQ of 180 took time to decipher his last
departing lines at the operation theatre, when he coded his address in them and
told me to believe in my convictions irrespective of the fact whatever the
world around me says.
“I lost my heart, maybe the factory in the grey
matter slowed down the bit.” I can also play ‘reading between the lines’ game
but still couldn’t prevent my eyes getting all tanked up.
So, here’s how the entire story of my losing the
heart both literally and figuratively speaking goes. He runs a con agency which
helps in big social causes. He was hired by the rich guy whose little boy
desperately needed my heart as it was the perfect HLA match (genetic lingo).
Since I was reluctant, they plotted the entire set up. It was a top secret
mission involving my treating doctors who unanimously vouch against my
Frankenstein’s anatomy, and were born
ready with their knives and scalpels, frantically wishing to slice it away. My
mother was kept at bay, entirely ignorant of their ulterior motives, because of
the emotional vulnerability vector she always displays. And since the entire
thing was professionally unethical, the illusion they created in form of shining
armour knight, was dab cleaned, once I caved.
“What made you so sure that I would fall in your
created pit?” I was stern.
He explained me the entire physiology of his plan.
As soon as my mind, body and soul went bananas spotting him, my sympathetic
nervous system got hyper-activated and gave away the location of my hearts on
his radar. Excessive pupil dilatation, malar flushes or in layman’s it just
simple blushing, sweaty palms and increased pulse rate (that’s why he insisted
on checking it over again) are so called ‘love at first sight’ signs. And he
sealed the deal with more than ‘twenty seconds hug principle’ from the Bible of
the courtship. According to this principle, more than twenty seconds hug by a
person you fancy (in my case the hug timed up to 40 seconds, probably because
of my two hearts), increases the blood oxytocine levels aka love hormones in
female body, consequently shutting away all the scrutinizing centres of brain
naming amygdale, pre frontal cortex and hippocampus gyrus (all these medical
jargons sounded as poetry from his lips), eventually building new trust
circuits, resulting in the blind faith.
The final straw was his abrupt absences that made me
so desperate and confused and breed the ground for me to take an impulsive
decision on a bargain to meet my prince charming again.
He was
handsome, eloquent, a perfect thespian and ‘know all’, he is a legend from the
league of extraordinary gentleman.
“So now, the game is over, what’s next?” I asked.
“You are an asset, that’s why I left you the missing
link to join me.” he said slipping the appointment letter to join his firm.
I looked into his eyes to assess the authenticity of
his proposal as I have burned my fingers in past. He must have read my mind,
“You have earned it, dear.”
“By the way what’s your real name?” I asked.
“For you, it’s Christian Grey.” He simply answered
from those eyes.
