The Mobile Phone

By Pankaj Suneja

The Mobile Phone is a story of connecting with child within. It is about mourning the loss in and of childhood. Rohit, a tutor meets Prabhu, a child he teaches in the city, Delhi. The author uses “the paper mobile phone” as a symbol to connect with someone who is absent. Someone we seek or someone who could hold us in our helplessness. The novel makes an attempt to look at death and deal with mourning. It looks at child’s play and fantasy life. It looks at adults who are evolving in relationship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pankaj Suneja
• Release date: Aug 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9789351749172

Pankaj Suneja

Pankaj has recently completed his Master of Arts in Psychology (Psychosocial Clinical Studies) from Ambedkar University, Delhi. In 2011- 12, he suffered from a psychotic episode and had to leave his studies. With the help of medication and the support of his family and teachers, he regained the health and resumed studies. In October 2013, during one of the experiments for his thesis work he attempted to survive without medications. The idea was to understand the occurrence of a psychotic episode in as authentic a manner as possible. Medication would have interfered with this process. In the winter break of the same year he experienced a painful breakdown of his long-term relationship. At the same time, his family also moved away after having spent some time with him. In December 2013, at the height of loneliness, he began hallucinating about ‘Gulabi’. She disappeared a month later. Soon after, he suffered from a psychotic relapse. His thesis work has been about understanding the experience of psychosis or schizophrenia.

Book preview

"It is in playing and only in playing that the individual child or adult is able to be creative and

to use the whole personality, and it is only in being creative that the individual discovers the self."

—D.W. Winnicott, Playing and Reality

I cannot remember my mother,

Only sometimes in the midst of my play

A tune seems to hover over my playthings,

the tune of some song that she used to hum while rocking my cradle.

I cannot remember my mother,

But when in the early autumn morning The smell of siuli f lowers f loats in the air

The scent of the morning service in the temple comes

to me as the scent of my mother.

I cannot remember my mother,

only when from my bedroom window

I send my eyes into the blue of the distant sky

I feel that the stillness of my mother gazing on my Face has spread all over the sky.

- Rabindranath Tagore

The Mobile Phone

The Mobile Phone

Pankaj Suneja

First published in India in 2015 by Origence Publishing

Copyright © 2015 Pankaj Suneja

ISBN 978-93-5174-917-2

Pankaj Suneja asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work. All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be produced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living ordead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Typesetting and Cover design: CinnamonTeal Publishing

Cover image of woman: gagilas/f lickr.com/

Quote from ‘A book of Memory’ © Sudhir Kakar

CinnamonTeal Publishing

Plot No 16, Housing Board Colony Gogol, Margao

Goa 403601 India www.cinnamonteal.in

Acknowledgement

I am thankful to my student, to whom I had the opportunity to not only teach but also grow with, mutually, as integrated and grateful person.

To the child within

Chapter 1

I am Rohit’s roommate. I never thought that I would die so early; who does? It’s not all over for me though; I still have a story to tell. It is hard to describe my current location. One may imagine I am in the sky travelling like the sun’s rays. Why I am still around? I will try to search for my journey’s purpose in much the same way as those present on earth.

The more closely I look, the busy streets of India’s capital come into view. One of the most densely populated cities on the planet, there are more cars than there is space to park. The city stole my body in what is termed as an accident. Let me add it stole my soul too. I wish this moment, at least, were filled with calm and stillness.

Before the city traps my soul for good, I must scan the streets and find Rohit. Yeh Baangur jaisi duniya, Phasse udti Muniya... (The world full of trap that takes away one’s freedom of choice)

Rohit was deprived, stressed, or somewhere in between at the end of each day. He often sat on the plastic chair with his eyes tightly shut, on his return from tuitions in the evening. I was present when he showed up at his room, except on days he did not have tuitions.

He made arrangements for breakfast while I fixed dinner. We lunched separately. Dinner is almost ready, I used to shout. I will have tea before dinner, was his reply. I hurried to a confectionary shop nearby, to bring stuff for the next morning, while he prepared green tea for himself. He brought sweets for dinner.

Rohit shared a close bond with tea. It took care of his hunger on days when he had nothing while he felt his stress drain away on others. He did not drink tea on days he entered the kitchen directly and talked to me.

***

The room is dimly lit. The wooden door is half-closed; there are no windows. Rohit sits on a plastic chair with his eyes fixed to the wall. He does not blink for a long time. Finally, he blinks and a pearl-like tear drops to the floor. He is sad because we have lost each other.

***

Lajpat Nagar is named after the freedom fighter Lala Lajpat Rai, who fought for the country’s independence. Dayanand Colony, a small cove in one corner of Lajpat Nagar named after Dayanand Saraswati, was founded in 1957. A flat on the fourth floor of State Apartment, Dayanand Colony, in Lajpat Nagar, has middle class written all over it. Two bedrooms and a single toilet houses two adults and a child.

Aakash, a soldier in the Indian Army, was injured during a training session and suffered a long-term back injury. He survived, living as a care-receiver rather than a care-giver unlike Lala Lajpat Rai who died of his wounds. He received a monthly grant from the military that let him live as against surviving. Aakash was discharged from hospital after a year-long coma in the hospital.

Madhu owned the home. She lived in kitchen but was not confined to it. She and Aakash quarrelled often. As Aakash could not move out of the bedroom, Madhu took refuge in the kitchen.

Prabhu, their only child, studied in a school.

It was 10pm. The family sat in the bedroom. Aakash watched the news on television, while Madhu and Prabhu sat beside him staring at the flickering images.

This time Congress will surely win, roared Aakash.

Yeah, it will for the third time in a row, Madhu joined in.

Why Congress? Prabhu asked.

It is the best party. Better than anyone, Madhu told him.

Your Nani votes for Congress,

Aakash