This week, we will discuss whether psychiatric help be made free for all; To explore this controversial topic, I will present to you a story illustrating an argument that could be made for the above proposition:
A Man’s Wounded Pride
All was not as well as it seemed in the Indian dugout. Harish Singh stared at the football field in agony-crippling agony. His heart lurched with every save that man Salim made, every leap he took, every difficulty he surmounted. As he stared out at the football field he began to feel a seething hatred towards the game that had elevated his standing and made him coach of the team. That the player celebrations, with their blaring shrieks and hurrahs and celebrations, failed to drown out his mental demons only aggravated him further. His hands ran through his hair, twirled them around, scratched his scalp; the sweat gleamed in the moonlight coming in from outside. It was not the grassy air or his player room's malfunctioning air-conditioning this time that troubled him. As the congratulatory applause reverberated from the television over another Indian victory, Harish made his decision. Springing to his feet, he made the call to action.
“Coach, I will meet you at the restaurant in five minutes,” Salim murmured into the telephone speaker before donning his hat and mask on again, keen on avoiding unwanted attention. He detested these outdoor walks and random rendezvous with his school friends-They reminded him of his impoverished upbringing, his tribulations while growing up, his inability to save his mother from death. It also reminded him of his hated reliance on his coach; “Highest number of saves ever,” he mused to himself softly, still in disbelief that a childhood dream was about to come true. Harish Singh had only taken him under his wing for his talent and Salim knew it. The hated stares did not go unheeded- The man detested him as much as Salim detested him- He would now go attend the man's celebration called so urgently- Later, he would deal with the records to be broken.
Someone rushed past Salim, immediately making his hair stand on end. Having quickened his pace, he began humming a soft tune to calm his fraying nerves. Frantic, frenzied and fearful, his heart raced as another shadowy figure lunged past him from the periphery of his vision. He knew immediately that he was in trouble when the light was blocked out by the circle of bulky men closing in on him.
Bloodied, bruised and battered, Salim lay on the ground in anger and anguish- the hot stream of tears that rolled down his face hid behind their torrent, disappointment. The men had launched themselves onto him with all the sticks, stones and stooges that they had. How he managed to stay conscious after they ran the car over his now mangled arm, he did not know. What shocked him dead in his tracks, though, was the driver of the car. “Had it really been him?” his shocked mind screamed; “Had the man in the car, whose face had been lit up for just a moment by the moonlight really been Harish? He would never!” Whoever it was, Salim would never forget the look of pure hatred, malevolent rage and crippling jealousy on the man’s face; the face in mind, he slipped into the leaden state that had been beckoning out to him for long…so long.
Harish found himself in dugout room again. The past two days had seen the news anchors blaring on about Salim, now comatose at “Bengaluru Hospital”. As India lost the game, he did not know what to feel. His hands, once vigorous in motion now lay limp against his sides; his eyes lay vacant and his mind lay numb-tediously numb. He had carried out the deed himself, despite Shankar’s vehement reservations. The image of Salim staring up at him with bloodshot eyes overwhelmed the sights of melancholy onscreen now ; raising his hand, he reached out to the beer bottle. “My record is safe now,” he murmured, trying to reassure himself pouring another glassful before gulping it down. The emotion and adrenaline felt raw; painfully raw. His record had been saved, but had his jealousy annihilated him mentally?
Harish was found hanging from his apartment fan later that month; his suicide note scribbled frenziedly asked for forgiveness. Salim would never give that to him; vowing to destroy the man’s reputation forever.
After reading this short story, do you think free psychiatric help would have helped Harish Singh overcome his jealousy for Salim?
Please fill in the poll to let me know how you feel.
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