What’s so Uncomfortable? What’s Missing? The Stockholm Syndrome of Our Everyday Lives

Since I left my job and since I stopped going to my publishing school classes, I’ve felt something odd, something missing.

I woke up to thinking, “Hey, what’s wrong, what am I missing?“

I spent a large part of my days thinking of the same. At night too, after a certain phone call ended, I thought about the same.

“What’s so uncomfortable? What’s missing?“

After some rumination, I arrived at two and a half probable causes.

1. Throughout our lives, there’s always something to worry about. In school, college and in office you have time, work, authority, tests etc. to worry about.

Let’s be clear. These are not the things you look forward to. These are the things you love to avoid. These are the things you worry about.

Now, there was no such thing. No timings to be followed. No authority. No meaningless work.

But it didn’t set me free, it worried me: “What’s uncomfortable? What’s missing?“

Here is my answer: What was uncomfortable was that th life-long feeling of having to worry about something had become a part of me.

Ridding that part of me, breaking that cocoon, felt uncomfortable.

But now I feel free.

I choose when to work. I choose why to work, how to, where to. I choose. There’s no one to dictate. No one to judge me. No tests.

1. A. This immense freedom too can be uncomfortable.

You miss the rope that had bound you. The jump you’ve taken feels uncomfortable. You miss the feeling of the earth beneath your feet that had held you for so long.

There’s this tremendous responsibility of creating yourself. Not through the crutches doled out like jobs, offices, classes etc. but through your own striving. Your own way for your own life.

2. The second/third reason for the discomfit was that I thought I had little to do.

Yes there is the website which I run. There are books to read. A book to write. But these don’t encroach my day in multiple-hour-bouts like classes or jobs do.

And thus because the hours don’t get filled with work, I thought: What’s missing? What’s so uncomfortable? Am I wasting my time? Am I not working hard enough?

But what were the hours filled with earlier (most of them)?

Meaningless lectures. Meaningless work. Meaningless schedules. (Schedules. Not discipline.)

The hours were filled with the work of the mule. With a load to carry, a journey, a destination. Carrot, sticks, food and a master. The work of the mule. A four legged animal.

Now I had come to terms with myself. On my two legs. But unsure and struggling. Wondering: “What’s so uncomfortable?“

Of course, minus the two legs, every step felt like a struggle. But as I got used to it, it set me free. Thank God, I stood up!

Now the hours are filled with more awareness, creativity, a relaxing, healthy nonchalance. Now the hours are filled with passionate, meaningful work.

The hours are filled with understanding, with play, care, concern and love.

It took me time to realise that this is a new place. I am missing the old world, but thank god I left the tyrant behind.

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In psychology, this is the Stockholm Syndrome: the hostages start expressing loyalty, empathy and such positive feelings to their captors/tormentors. It’s also called ‘traumatic bonding’.

 

Why do the hostages exhibit such positive feelings towards their tormentors?

Reasons:

i. Knowing that one’s captor is in a position to harm them

ii. Isolation from others and the feeling of attachment with the captors

iii. Belief that an escape is unlikely, or even impossible

iv. Thinking that that tormentors’ ‘acts of kindness’ are ‘genuine care and love’ for their welfare

 

Relationships and Friendships

Relationships and friendships are always a compromise; a compromise reached not by making concessions, but by increasing the stakes of vulnerability.

The land compromises with the tree: that it will allow the tree’s roots to tear it apart and bear its mammoth weight.

The tree compromises with the land: that all its organs, leaves and roots (and on dying, the tree itself) shall be sacrificed for the land.

The Wolf of the Marbles Street

As a child, after that age, and even today, cricket remains my favourite game, to watch, play and comment upon.

But in the hills (Sundernagar, HP), cricket was a cumbersome game. Plastic or Cosco balls get lost in gorges, thick shrubs or other such inaccessible places. A leather ball might hit a stone or low earth and injure you badly.

Monkeys or Langurs swinging merrily above you might make a big branch fall, and the batsmen would have to worry about that plus the incoming delivery.

The best bet is to make ‘Piddu’ ball. It is made polythene, paper, rags and sock, stitched together tightly by sinewy arms, with a needle as big as the vet’s needle for buffaloes.

Piddu balls produce fantastic fast bowlers (ahem) because you have to hurl it at great speeds to make it reach the batsmen; you have to bend your back to make it bounce more than the waist height; and if on a 2nd innings the ball is reduced to its remnants (paper, polythene and rags) you have gather all your energy left and still make it do something. (Slower balls help in such cases)

Still, Piddu balls are difficult to produce (it’s actually a full manufacturing process) and easy to lose.

When we lost too many balls and when the older kids with sinewy arms strong enough to work with the buffalo needle were away, we used to play marbles (kanche).

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Marbles come in a near uniform size. For a child, their interiors are exciting to watch. They can be green, yellow and blue. The newer ones shine like Jem stones. The older ones lose their sheen, become rough, but are loved by the pro players.

Nilu, or dark blue marbles, are highly rated for their accuracy, for no reason whatsoever. The white ones, are just show-offs, and I owned quite a few of them.

I was never good at playing marbles, probably the worst player there ever was, but I owned the largest number of marbles in our colony. Actually I owned a full drawer of marbles, much to the envy of my brother Anuj or anyone who’d come home and check my prized haul.

When my paternal grandmother came to know of my fascination for marbles, she took me to a shop nearby (Dhariwal, Punjab) and bought me a hundred of them for Rs. 5.

I also got, surprise surprise, five of a special breed. These special kanchas were as big as 5-6 regular marbles placed together. I was happy. No one had them back home!

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My style of playing marbles was unusual and actually unethical. I wouldn’t bend my fingers to sling a marble. I’d actually move my full hand.

If the opponent’s kancha was 10 inches away, I’d move my hand at least 6 inches towards the marble and hit it from a 4 inch distance.

“Foul”, they’d cry. “I won’t play then”, I’d say. Since I had 80% of the colony’s marbles, my not playing really meant no cash flow for the whole system. They’d let me play. I was really the Wolf of the Kancha Street. I cheated but still remained incompetent.

My drawer full of marbles was a priced catch. I used to run my fingers through the collection every morning. I’d then exclaim to my brother in an Uncle Scrooge (of Disney hour fame) like manner “There’s one/two less. Give me my kancha back”, much to his chagrin.

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How did the drawer get full when I was an incompetent, unethical player?

Well, I used to rent out my kanchas to the pro bhaiyas. I’d give them 4-5 of my kanchas and tell the ‘pro’ that he could keep them all provided I kept all that he won. Through such deals, I used to receive 4-5 kanchas every day. My drawer got full.

For a few years we didn’t play marbles. Just like that. People took to soccer, badminton and cricket.

Then my home was to be white-washed. In the process, I lost my drawer-full of marbles. I cried for a day, with my mom checking every little place my collection could be. We couldn’t find them.

I returned to playing cricket.

Kaki ma

Kakima, our land-lady, is old, touching 65 probably, and lives alone. Her husband had a heart problem and died because of that. She has a son who lives in Kolkata but not with her, attitudes of the young a city ill-affords you.

But Kakima has a jolly life. She’s old and alone, but never inactive or sullen. She teaches, sings and recites poems. Off late she’s outsourced some of her research work to yours truly.

The first project was: “Can you get me two pages on the Taj Mahal and the Victoria”. It was spoken with a polite unsure voice that was ready to be rejected, as if habituated to rejected requests.

“Of course, why not. I’ll get it done today itself.”

“Yes, Taj Mahal is the 8th wonder, Victoria is the 7th”, she explained.

I was amused and went away.

I didn’t get it done that day. I gave it to her two days later. She still smiled, seemed to swell with gratitude and gave me some mishti and chai.

I had wikipedia-ed for 10 minutes but working on the task was one that gave supreme happiness. I wish I could have worked on the project more. But it wasn’t productive or so I thought; attitudes of the young a city life ill-affords you.

Today was the second assignment.

“Bengali has been declared an international language”, she said, “I need 1-2 pages. Can you get it for me”.

“Sure.”

She added her mandatory explanation, “It’s the 2nd most spoken language.”

This time I didn’t smile. I interjected, told her that she was probably mistaken about the ‘2nd most spoken’ part. I did that to save her from the shock and the sadness that my 1-2 pages might bring later on.

This time I did the research on the same day. Here is what I found: 21st February is the International Mother Language Day. Bengali is the 7th most spoken language in the world.

She happily accepted my findings and gave me mishti and chai again.