Social Worker and the Bully Ch. 06

The following week, I took a taxi to my former office. They had been asking me to come in to finish the final paperwork and also do the exit interview, and I had been postponing it for a while using some pretext or another.

I had spent the intervening days nearly perfecting the art of being a conscientious alcoholic. I was easily getting through a bottle or bottle and half of hard liquor a day. But I had to plan carefully to avoid detection. I would schedule my drinking around my Skype calls with my husband and the farewell social visits that I still had to make.

So for example, I would wake up and have a long daily Skype call with Raju, when he was leaving work in California, getting details of his day, putting up the facade of normalcy. He had stopped asking me to flash him and since the bruises were still there, I had not offered. We would get done with that call at about 8 AM. Then the drinking would start. Not leisurely sipping and savouring the drink, mind you. Be it expensive cognac or single malt of flavoured vodka or tequila, my approach was to mix with soda and chug fast. By 11, I would be nice and drunk. During this time, I would masturbate, shamefully, to the images and memories of my night with Lallan a bunch of times. The guilt of this made me drink even more.

Around 11, the masturbation and the booze would prove too much for my system. I'd drift off into a drunken slumber. From which I would awaken at about 2. Then it was time for lunch. Usually I loved cooking, even when I was alone, and made healthy elaborate meals. But not anymore. I'd either just make Maggi noodles or then order delivery from a nearby restaurant.

By the time the food reached, I would have started drinking again. I am sure all the delivery guys also smelled the booze on my breath and saw my bloodshot eyes, and had me pegged as a rich day drinking housewife. I would eat the food, go back to my schedule of drinking and playing with myself, and then pass out around 6 pm.

This nap was shorter. On most days, I had plans to meet some friends or others for dinner. I would wake up, chug a couple of cups of coffee to sober myself up, brush my teeth and use lots of mouthwash, and then go for dinner. Some friends did sense something was off and would ask if everything was okay. I'd just say I was just recovering from a fever. During dinner, Raju would usually call, having just woken up in California. I would excuse myself to talk with him. Then finish dinner, then come home. And drink myself to sleep. And then set an alarm for the next day to wake up for another call with Raju.

This morning, I had to finally go to the office. I had told myself to postpone drinking till I returned. But I was feeling particularly low that morning because Raju and I had another little tiff. He kept insisting there was something wrong that I wasn't telling him. And as tempted as I was, I couldn't bring myself to. There were a lot of angry and passive aggressive jabs at each other. I was in a foul mood.

So I took a few shots of tequila, then did the brush-and-mouthwash thing, and took an Uber to the office, not feeling sober enough to drive.

Have you ever been in that phase of early drunkenness, where you aren't exactly slurring or swaying, and have enough control to act normal? I was in that phase as I reached office. To the discerning eye, it can seem that you might be a bit drunk. But if you are confident and careful enough, you can get through it.

I entered the office and everyone from the cleaning staff to the secretaries to other counsellors came to say hi. I had left very abruptly so this was the first chance they had to say goodbye properly. I think I managed those interactions competently. I could still see a couple of brows getting furrowed though. These were people who dealt with domestic issues and behavioural problems on a daily basis, as had I. I am sure I could tell a slightly drunk person, even if their breath smelled of mouthwash. Especially if their breath smelled of mouthwash. There is no reason for someone to have that minty fresh breath at 10 AM unless they are using it to mask some other smell. But no one said anything.

I was sitting in the personnel office filling out the exit forms. The clerk in charge of it either didn't notice or didn't care my mild inebriation. He told me what to do and returned to playing solitaire on his computer.

"There you are, Manasi! I heard you were in!"

I turned around and saw Dr. Nita, the head of the counselling team. She was Mrs. Khanna's boss, so my super boss. Unlike us counsellors who had bachelors or masters' degrees in psychology with training and experience, she was a full-fledged psychiatrist, with a medical degree, a postgraduate degree, and a doctorate from Stanford, with twenty years of experience in the field. Licensed to practice psychiatry in India, UK, and USA. She was the one who had trained me and her recommendation letter had been pivotal in getting me into Stanford.

"Nita ma'am, hi!" I smiled, but felt a little nervous. She was too much of an expert to not read me. She bent down to hug me and I felt her sniff a little too.

"Boring paperwork, huh?" she said pointing at the forms with her eyes.

"It's not that bad." I shrugged. "I'll be done with this soon and then have my exit interview with Mrs. Khanna."

"That's what I came to tell you." she said, smiling. "Mrs. Khanna got called away for a meeting, so I will be doing your exit interview."

My heart sank.

"Oh....it's okay. You must be busy. I can come by later when...."

"Nonsense!" she cut me off. "I am never too busy for our staff, especially not a star counsellor like you, headed to my alma mater Stanford. So when you're done here, just come on down to my office. I have an open schedule."

"Alright." I nodded.

Half an hour later, I knocked on the thick wooden door of her corner office nervously. In between, I had run to the restaurant next door and chugged a cold coffee to further suppress my inebriation.

"Manasi, please come in!" she opened the door and ushered me in, after a quick hug.

I had been to the office many times before, but it always intimidated me a little. Her degrees from AIIMS, Cambridge, and Stanford on the wall, next to lots of awards. A plush leather couch where she saw some patients, because she also worked as a psychiatrist. Antique furniture, paintings, a couple of busts of her intellectual idols, everything. She was one of my idols and role models.

I started walking towards the chair at her table, but she pointed me to the couch.

"Please sit here. It will be more comfortable." she said. I didn't know whether to read something into the fact that she was pointing me to the couch she usually sat patients in.

She took a seat in the armchair next to it and said,

"So...Manasi....I was going to offer you coffee, but from breath, I see you just had some."

"Yeah, was feeling a little drowsy." I smiled.

"Can I offer you something stronger, like tequila or whisky? I keep some in the office to entertain the VIP clients and donors." she said.

I just nervously laughed.

"Hahaha, no, it's fine. A bit early for it." I said.

Suddenly her face got very serious.

"Is it?"

I swallowed hard and just stared at her.

"Manasi, please don't insult my intelligence and my expertise. Nor your own."

"Nita....I don't..." although she was 50 years old, she always insisted everyone, from the peon to her subordinates, just call her Nita. No ma'am, no Dr. or Mrs whatever. Just Nita.

"You're drunk. At least you were drunk when you got here. A lot of the others noticed. And it's obvious to me." she sounded stern but also concerned.

"I...I am....well...." I switched to feeling offended. "If you must know, Nita, I did meet some friends for a mimosa brunch before I came here."

"Did you?"

"What are you implying?"

She sighed and sat back.

"Don't be that way, Manasi. You are too smart and too good of a counsellor to know what you're doing is classic denial and evasion and turning the tables on me."

I stared at her defiantly. She met my gaze. I looked away.

"I thought this was supposed to be an exit interview about my job." I tried to change the subject.

She sighed again and opened a file.

"Okay, you want to talk about your job? Let's see. This Mangal case of yours. Which has just ended in....."

I cringed....I feared the worst....murder, abuse, something like that. I had betrayed Mangal by hacking into my boss' computer to get her relocation address and given it to her abusive husband.

"...it has ended in the first ever relocation reversal and rejection in our history."

"Excuse me?"

"This woman Mangal, came back to Mumbai, and with her husband by her side, came here to talk to you and take back her complaints. We had to call in the police and do what she wanted. She is back home. With him, saying she wants to try to make things work. With a man both you and the cop on file, Inspector Patil, describe as a psychopath."

"Oh! I had no idea!" I said, showing surprise, although inside, I was relieved she was okay.

Nita was staring at me, trying to read my expressions. Then she continued.

"Her official statement says that after relocation, she realized she had made a mistake. And so she contacted the husband. And he came to meet her. And they made up. And they want to give it another go."

"That is.....disappointing."

"I'm sure it is. I can see from the notes and from what I have heard that you worked really hard on this case."

"I did."

"Then what happened? Why do you think she recanted and returned him?"

I looked at her and gave a small shrug.

"It happens....the cycle of abuse theory as Lenore..."

"Yes, yes, the cycle of abuse theory by Lenore Walker. I know all about it. Don't teach me social psychology, Manasi. I have learned more than you have forgotten." she angrily said.

I was taken aback by this outburst. I just sat there with my mouth open, my mind unable to race fast enough to come up with a palatable lie.

She looked a little embarrassed herself. She looked down at her notes for a few seconds. And then looked me at me.

"Manasi, please. Stop fighting me. Just tell me the truth. I know there is something you are hiding. You were one of our stars. I consider you a beloved protege. I wrote you a glowing recommendation for your PhD. I talked to folks at Stanford about you. You are destined for great things. This.....this makes no sense. You resign with immediate effect. Not even a notice period. You dodge our attempts to get you to come back in for so long. When you do show up, you are drunk in the morning. And this thing happens. Something is off. More importantly, something is wrong. Help me understand it. Just be honest."

"Nita....I.....I don't know..." I put my face in my hands and did my best not to cry.

She got up and joined me on the couch, putting her hands on my kurta. She rubbed the fabric a little, over my shoulder and then my back. I involuntarily took a sharp breath when her fingers rubbed a sore bruise. That made her pause.

"There is one more thing I was wondering about." she said. "It's a really hot day."

I raised my face and looked at her. She had trained me, so I knew where she was going with this.

"I have known you for many, many years. You're not a prude when it comes to dressing. And you always favour comfort, I have noticed. When it is a really hot day, I see you in sleeveless kameezes or tops, capris, skirts. Never anything skimpy, but always comfortable. Today it is 42 Celsius and you have come in wearing a full sleeve salwar kameez. And just now you....."

She trailed off and looked at me. My shoulders slumped.

I felt her hands slowly reach for my kameez and pull it up. I didn't resist. She pulled it up slowly and gasped when she was the bruises on my back and my stomach.

"I have seen enough." she said and dropped the fabric down.

She got up and paced a little. I just sat there like an errant student staring at my hands, my face red with shame. She spoke after a few seconds.

"Do you have any money in your purse?"

I was taken aback by that question. I looked up and nodded.

"Give me some. Anything. Even a one rupee coin."

I opened the purse, grabbed the first note I found and gave it to her.

"This 20 rupee note can be your first down-payment to hire me as your psycho-therapist. If you want me to serve in that capacity that is."

This was such a confusing development, that I looked at her with a genuinely baffled expression.

"Whatever we talk about in an exit interview can be reviewed by any senior management in the organization. But if you talk to me as a patient, well, I am licensed to practice psychiatry in multiple country, including USA where the patient privacy laws are way stricter than India. So I have to always adhere to them wherever I am. Whatever you tell me....."

".....is covered by doctor-patient confidentiality." I finished her thought, finally getting her point.

I nodded.

"I need a verbal confirmation, Manasi."

"Yes, Nita, I would like you to be my psycho-therapist. Please consider that 20 rupees as my first down-payment."

I exhaled and sat back. Honestly, I felt relieved. Whatever had happened, I had been unable to talk to anyone about it. That made things worse. Now I had a super-qualified and trusted psychiatrist that I could talk to. With the promise of confidentiality. As someone from the field myself, I should have done this on day one.

I was glad she pushed me into it. I opened my mouth and started to talk.

"Soon after I heard from Stanford, I went out to celebrate with some friends. Got a little drunk. I was trying to get inside my home when....."

And I told her the whole story.

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