The psychologist gave me a pen. “Jot down all your pain on the paper.”
I sat there for 30 minutes, pondering what to write. No. Pondering over how to write. After fifteen minutes I looked up and gave a helpless stare. I wanted to cry. I couldn’t. I wanted to scream. I wasn’t able to.
The man- who was supposed to set my mind right- asked,
“What are you fighting with? You were looking at paper as it’s the one who broke your heart. You were holding pen as it’s a sword and you want to attack the enemy. Write all you are going through on the paper!”
I thought for long. And replied, I am a writer. I have written my pain a thousand times. I have numerous journals with words singing the same melancholic song. But you know doctor, this pain is not a cage or cell. It’s a lock. It has locked the real me inside. I want to write. I can write. But shall I write the name which has broken my heart artfully? Isn’t it going to prick my fingers? How can I write on this piece of paper, ‘I miss the one I hate the most?’
This world will call me mad. And soon I would be shifted to bedlam. But you know what? He still won’t come to see me.
I laughed hysterically. Tore the paper. And danced and cried. Screamed and smiled. Some hands approached me. They dragged me. Here I am- in bedlam. Is he coming? I cry and laugh again.


2 thoughts on “Bedlam

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