Ecstasy

Chapter 9

‗Your name?'
‗I don't know.'
‗What did your parents name you?'
‗Go ask my parents.' Silence.
‗What do people call you?'
‗Boys or girls?'
‗Boys.'
‗They call me by many names.'‗Mostly what?'
‗Daredevil.' More silence.
‗And girls?'
‗They too have many names for me.'
‗What name do they usually call you?'
‗I can't tell you that...it's too personal.' Silence and then a deep breath
and...silence again.
‗Can I give you a suggestion?'
‗What?'
‗Why don't you try to find out something about me that neither you nor
I knew before? That white file on the table to your right has all my
particulars. Why are you wasting your time?'
By the light of his table lamp, the psychoanalyst observed the young
man lying on the couch. He kept moving his feet from left to right. His
face was calm and he wore an expression that seemed to say that the
session with the psychoanalyst was a waste of time. The room was cool
and dark, and as the boy spoke, he looked around the room. He was a
dilemma for the psychoanalyst; he had a photographic memory, his IQ
level was 150, he had an outstanding academic record throughout, he
had won the President's Gold Medal for golf for the third time
running...and this was his third attempt at suicide. His desperately
worried parents had brought him to the psychoanalyst.
The boy belonged to one of the few prestigious and extremely wealthy
families of the country. He was the fourth of five siblings-four brothers
and a sister; two brothers and his sister were older than him. His
parents doted on him because of his intelligence and capabilities-yet in
the last three years he had tried to kill himself three times.
The first time was when he was speeding on his bike in the wrong
direction on a one-way road and had lifted his hands off the handlebar.
The cop behind him had seen him doing this. He was lucky that when he
crashed into a car, he was thrown over another and landed on the other
side of the road. He suffered a few broken ribs, and a fractured arm and
leg. Even though the police officer had seen this happening, his parents
believed it was an accident. He had told them that he had mistakenly
entered the one-way street.
The next time-a full year later-he had tied himself up and jumped
into the canal. People on the bridge had saved him by pulling him up by
the rope he had used. This time there were several witnesses but his
parents still could not believe that he had attempted suicide. Salar
claimed that some boys had stopped his car near the bridge, tied him up and thrown him over, and the way he was tied, it did seem as if someone
else had done it. For the next few weeks, the police kept searching for
boys whose appearance matched the description given by Salar. Usman
Sikandar hired a guard to be with Salar, day and night.
But the third time he could not deceive his parents. He ground a large
quantity of sedatives and swallowed them. The effect was such that even
after a stomach wash, it took him a long time to recover. This time,
there was no mistaking what Salar had done-the cook had witnessed
him grinding the pills, adding them to a glass of milk, and gulping down
the whole.
Tyyaba and Sikandar were in a state of shock-they thought of the
previous two incidents and regretted that they had believed his stories.
The entire household was upset and the news spread to the school, in
their neighborhood and to the whole family. He could no longer deny
that he had attempted suicide, but he was not willing to explain why-
neither to his brothers and sister and nor to his parents.
Sikandar had intended to send Salar abroad after his A levels, as he had
his other two sons. He knew that getting admission was not a problem
for Salar: he would even be able to get a scholarship. But all his plans
seemed to have gone up in smoke. And, on the advice of his friend, he
sent Salar to a psychoanalyst.
‗Very well, Salar, we'll keep our discussion to the point. Why do you
want to die?'
Salar shrugged. ‗Who told you I want to die?'
‗You have made three attempts at suicide.'
‗There's a great difference between trying and dying.'
‗It's a coincidence that you have been saved all three times; otherwise,
you had left nothing to chance.'
‗Look, what you call an attempted suicide is not what I intended-I just
wanted to know the pain of dying...how it feels.' The psychoanalyst
watched his face as he very calmly clarified his purpose.
‗And why do you want to experience the pain of dying?'
‗Just like that...call it curiosity.'
He took a deep breath and looked at this brilliant young man who was
now staring at the ceiling. ‗So your curiosity was not satisfied with one
attempt?'
‗Oh, I passed out then-I was unconscious, so I could feel nothing. The
next time too, and this time too-I could not feel it.' He shook his head.
‗So you'll try again for the fourth time?'
‗Certainly. I want to know how it feels to experience the furthest limits of pain.'
‗What do you mean?'
‗Like ecstasy is the furthest limit of joy-but I don't understand what
comes after ecstasy. And so it is with pain...there must be some level of
pain beyond which one cannot go.'
‗I don't get it...'
‗Suppose you're watching a striptease-there's loud music, you're
drinking and you've also taken drugs, you're dancing, and slowly you
lose your senses-you're in ecstasy...where are you then? What are you
doing? You don't know...all you know is that you like it very much,
whatever it is. When I go abroad for my vacations, I go to such bars
with my cousins: my problem is that unlike them, I never get wild with
joy, I'm never ecstatic. I don't get turned on like they do-and it makes
me unhappy. I thought that if I cannot cross the limits of happiness then
perhaps I could go to the limits of pain, but I couldn't.' He looked very
disappointed.
‗Why do you waste your time on such things? You have such a fantastic
academic record...'
‗Please, please, do not start harping about my intelligence. I know what
I am.' Salar's tone was one of resignation. ‗I am sick of hearing my
praises.' The psychoanalyst watched him for a while.
‗Why don't you set a goal for yourself?'
‗I have.'
‗What?'
‗I have to try suicide once again.' He was completely serene.
‗Are you depressed about something?'
‗Not at all.'
‗Then why do you want to die?'
‗Shall I start all over again-to tell you that I do not want to die? That I
am trying to do something else?' He was bored sick.
It was back to square one: the psychoanalyst fell quiet for a while. ‗Are
you doing all this because of some girl?'
Salar turned in surprise to look at him. ‗Because of a girl?'
‗Yes...some girl you are very fond of and would like to marry.'
He burst out into loud, uncontrolled laughter. ‗My God! You mean I
would kill myself for some girl?' he laughed. ‗In love with a girl and kill
myself-too funny!'
The psychoanalyst had several such sessions with Salar and the result
was always the same-he had no clue.
‗My advice is that you not send him abroad; instead keep him here and keep a close eye on him. Perhaps he does this to attract attention.' This

was his suggestion to Salar's parents after several months. As a result,

instead of sending him abroad for higher studies, Usman enrolled Salar

in one of Islamabad's top institutions. He thought that if Salar was kept

close to the family, he would not attempt suicide again.

Salar did not show any reaction to this decision just as he had not shown

any reaction to his earlier decision of sending him abroad.

After the last session with the doctor, Usman Sikandar and Tyyaba sat

Salar down in their bedroom and had a long talk with him. They listed

all the luxuries they had provided for him over the past so many years;

they told him about their expectations of him and their love and

affection for him. He sat before them, expressionless, chewing gum

mechanically and watching his father's distress and his mother's tears.

Frustrated, Usman finally asked him, ‗What is it that you lack? What

more do you want? Tell me.'

Salar thought for a while and said, ‗A sports car.'

‗Very well, I'll import a sports car for you, but don't ever do such a

thing again-okay?' Usman Sikandar felt better.

Salar nodded in affirmation. Tyyaba wiped away her tears and drew a

sigh of relief. When Salar left the room, Usman turned to his wife.

Lighting a cigar, he said, ‗Tyyaba, you will have to cut down on your

activities and keep an eye on him. Try to spend some time with him

daily.' She nodded in assent.

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