MANAN FF - TILL THE END OF TIME

NANDINI GRIEVES OVER JOHN

Nandini sobbed softly as she sat in the familiar recliner. Her mascara was running in jagged lines away from her eyes. Dr. Dhawan gave her a tissue, and she dabbed absentmindedly at her eyes as the black mascara lines gained speed in their descent toward her chin.

She had just finished recounting a life as an Irish woman, a life that had ended peacefully and with much happiness. Yet the stark contrast to her current life, with its losses and despair, was causing her pain. And so she cried, despite the happy ending. These were tears of sadness, not of joy.

The day's session had begun much less dramatically. Nandini had only recently regained the energy and self-confidence to enter into a relationship, this time a short-term encounter with an older man. Nandini was initially attracted to him because he had money and position. But there was no chemistry, at least not on her part. Her head urged her to settle, to accept that he was secure, he seemed to care for her quite a bit, and who else was there for her anyway?

Nandini's heart said no. Do not settle. You do not love him, and without love, what is there?

Her heart's argument finally won. He was pressing her to deepen the relationship, to have sex, to make commitments. Nandini decided to end it. She was relieved, sad to be lonely again, but not depressed. Overall, she was handling the end of this relationship very appropriately. And yet here she was, eyes red, nose stuffy, mascara running wildly.

When they started the regression process, Nandini lapsed into a deep trance, and Dr. Dhawan took her back in time once again. This time she emerged in Ireland, several centuries ago.

"I'm very pretty," she commented immediately upon finding herself. "I have dark hair and light blue eyes. ... I dress very plainly and wear no makeup or jewellery ... as if I'm hiding. My skin is so white, like cream."

"Hiding from what?" Dr. Dhawan inquired, following her lead.

She was silent for a few moments, looking for the answer. "From my husband . . . yes, from him. Oh, he's a lout! He drinks too much, and he becomes violent. . . . He's so selfish. ... I curse this marriage!"

"Why did you choose him?" asked Dr. Dhawan innocently.

"I did not choose him. ... I would never choose him. My parents chose him, and now they are dead. . . . They are dead, but I still have to live with him. He is all I have now," she said, a fragile sadness joining the anger in her voice.

"Do you have any children? Does anyone else live with you?" Dr. Dhawan asked.

"No." Her anger was subsiding, but the sadness was more evident now. "I cannot. I had a . . . miscarriage. There was a great deal of bleeding . . . and infection. They say I can't bear children. . . . He is angry at me for that, too. . . . He blames me ... for not bearing him sons. As if I wanted this!" She was upset again.

"He hits me," she added, in a suddenly soft voice. "He hits me as if I were a dog. I hate him for that." She stopped talking and tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

"He hits you?" Dr. Dhawan echoed.

"Yes," she answered simply.

Dr. Dhawan waited for more, but she was reluctant to elaborate.

"Where does he hit you?" he pressed.

"On my back, my arms, my face. Everywhere."

"Can you stop him?"

"At times. I used to hit back, but then he hurts me more. He drinks too much. The best thing I can do is accept the beating. Eventually he tires and stops . . . until the next time."