Self-Analysis (standard:humor, 3638 words)
Author: Rattan Mann	Added: Jul 25 2003	Views/Reads: 15073/4497	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
It is about a "nut" at odds with himself.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

to know what he said or did. Fellows, how can I be sure? I was not 
there to see. 

So my great-grand-parents started a very romantic journey into the
unknown, great-grand-mother clad from head to toe in a purde, trudging 
fifty yards behind her husband. Well, it was not her fault that she 
fell down under these circumstances, and her nose was uncovered for a 
fraction of a second. My great-grand-father rushed to her and cut her 
exposed nose because he was scandalized that his wife had exposed her 
private parts in public  even though neither the part was so private 
nor was there anybody around to see. And even if the road had not been 
so deserted as it actually was that night, it was too dark to see a 
nose anyway. So the legend goes. 

Actually nothing of the sort ever happened. This time I am dead sure
even though I was not there to see. I am always sure of things I want 
to be sure. My theory is that my great-grand-parents were walking 
happily hand-in-hand in Cannaught Place, she clad in hot-pants and he 
completely in a state of nature. I am positive that my theory is 
correct, so I don't think I would ever bother to find any evidence in 
support of it. 

Grand-old-pa looked into the wide happy eyes of grand-old-ma and said, ”
If you ever look into another man's eyes, I will pull you by your nose 
and elope with you somewhere that rascal can never find you.”  And he 
imparted a deep kiss on her nose. 

But fools distort history beyond recognition.They forbid kisses because
they cannot see anybody happy. So history says a nose was cut when 
actually a nose was kissed. Fellows, I say history is a bunch of lies 
so that liars like me can exploit it to the maximum. Legends are a 
bunch of lies, I say. But this particular legend, this particular bunch 
of lies, suited my purpose very well. I am a genius at exploiting lies 
for my own ends. I began by adding some spice to the story. I went so 
far as to say that poor grand-old-ma was actually stabbed to death for 
that breach of tradition instead of escaping with just a loss of nose. 

See fellows, history still remains a bunch of lies. I still am very
suspicious of it. But the big difference is that now I am in command of 
history – now I am distorting it. But I am doing it for Geeta's sake. 

“Look at the traditions of our family.Our great-grand-mother was killed
just because her nose was exposed. And here you are ,dancing naked and 
running around with every Tom, Dick, and Harry. Have you no shame?” I 
asked Geeta. 

“Where am I dancing and with whom am I running around?” she whispered
meekly. 

I slapped her two three times. It was a sufficient answer. 

Why do I treat Geeta like this?  Why can't I leave this poor creature
alone?  Of course I am mentally-sick, but so are they all, those 
honourable men. What else can be behind it?  I don't know. Of course, I 
know it. But I won't tell. Of course,  I will tell. 

Fellows, the thing is that besides being mentally-sick , I am also
sexually frustrated. Perhaps I am mentally sick because I am sexually 
frustrated. Perhaps I am sexually frustrated because I am mentally 
sick. Perhaps both!  But the psychologists whom I visited for help say 
it is neither. They say I am a normal human being – a dynamic 
personality,   Santa Clause to children, helpful to neighbours, and 
very gentle. They say if I doubt it I just have to go to other people 
and observe what they are. We all are the same, give psychologists a 
chance, they told me in the end. So fellows, I am not mentally sick at 
all. But I still insist that I am mentally sick because I am a liar. 

Once I went to a girl and said, ”I am sexually frustrated.” She slapped
me. ” Just imagine everybody trying to dump his sexual frustrations on 
me.” she said. ”Can't carry the burden of five hundred million sexual 
frustrations upon my back!” 

“Sorry, I got carried away. At 30 I am still a virgin.” I said. “Better
luck next time with the next girl.”, she said. 

That awaited luck with the next girl has not come till today even though
years have passed since my first attempt to impress a girl. 

It was sometimes after this misadventure that the business of stoning a
rat, beating a cat , and slapping Geeta everyday started. Or was it 
stoning a cat and beating an ass?  I have forgotten. I am so 
preoccupied with my obsessions that I am not capable of seeing one step 
back or one step ahead. But this is not at all my fault. 

Guys, anthropologists say the when man, the hunter, became man, the
farmer, the wisest man could see only seven years ahead. What a score!  
In my beloved country the wisest leader cannot see seven days ahead. 
May be Geeta can see seven hundred years ahead. But who cares? She is 
only an ordinary man, not a leader. Sorry, woman. 

Let me come back to myself which is what I love the most. As soon as the
business of slapping Geeta was in full swing, my mental sickness 
reached new hights. I began to experience nightmares. One day I dreamt 
that Geeta slapped me back. You can't imagine what a scare it gave me. 

Next morning I bought a copy of the bible for Geeta and told her what
Christ had said – if somebody slaps you on the right cheek, turn your 
left to him. I also bought her the complete works of Mahatama Gandhi 
and began to explain to her the theory of non-violence. 

My theory of non-violence is very orthodox. I make it a point of honour
to proceed along very classical lines so that I do not displease our 
great politicians and wise leaders. 

I define non-violence as follows:If I slap Geeta it is non-violence. If
Geeta slaps me it is violence. As simple as that. Even miss Dimple 
would agree. I am a genius at making simplifications. Some day I intend 
to make my definition even simpler by identifying non-violence with the 
law of the jungle, namely, the victor is always non-violent and the 
vanquished is always the personification of violence. But these days I 
am too preoccupied with my mental sickness, sexual frustrations, 
nightmares, phobias, sadistic impulses etc etc to waste much time on 
such theoretical issues. May be some great leader of our centuary would 
make this simplification before I do. I don't care. May be some great 
leader has done it already. I don't care. 

One day Geeta came home rather late and very tired. I slapped her and
said, ”What were you doing with twelve guys the whole night?” “With 
what guys?” she asked through her tears. I slapped her again. ”You know 
what I am talking about.”I said. “Have you the slighest proof that I 
was with any guy either tonight or any other night?” she asked. 

Proof!  It had never occurred to me that a guy of my eminence and
stature was ever required to give a proof of anything he said or did. I 
felt the first tremors of non-violence in our peaceful home. I slapped 
her four or five times and kicked her another four or five times till 
she was fully silenced and non-violence was fully restored in the 
house. But Geeta's question began to pinch my conscience. 

Fellows, you will be surprised to know that even mentally-sick,
sexually-frustrated, and politically-disoriented people like me have a 
conscience. This is the greatest paradox of history. Even more 
surprising is the way we quench our feelings of guilt. This is 
history's greatest perversion. 

I did not know in which night-club Geeta was working. In fact, I knew
she was not working in any night-club. But I did not know in which 
school she was working. Even if I knew I could not have gone there. So 
to satisfy my guilty conscience and find solid proof of my accusations 
, I went to a nearby park in search of concrete evidence about Geeta's 
countless affairs. 

I had already made the following assumptions – I told you I am a genius
at making unwarrented assumptions. If I saw any woman in the park it 
would be a solid proof that she is Geeta waiting for her lovers. If I 
saw any man there it would be a solid proof that he is one of Geeta's 
lover waiting for her. And what if I saw a couple?  Well, fellows, what 
do you say to this what? 

When I entered the park it was completely deserted but still I clearly
saw a pair of sea-gulls flying over me. I got tremendously jealous. 

I wished they were me and the girl who slapped me. What love, what
beauty, what romance in the sky – something that you never find upon 
this wretched earth. But then I remembered my mission – the reason I 
was in the park. So I at once concluded that those birds were Geeta and 
her lover in a previous incarnation. I got even more jealous. I ran 
after them with a stone in my hand. I tried to stone them but they were 
too far away. They were flying over the pond in the park, so unable to 
reach them I stoned their image in the water. 

In the evening when Geeta came home I kicked her a dozen times because I
was armed with the moral strength of possessing irrefutable proof of 
her affairs. 

“I caught you red-handed today. At last I caught you red-handed!” I kept
on yelling like a man possessed by the devil. 

But then something undreamt and unheard of happened. Geeta slapped me.
Yes, fellows, Geeta slapped me back . As simple as that. Again miss 
Dimple would fully agree. Sometimes I feel it was so simple and easy 
that she could have done it long back. 

“I can't take it any more!  I can't tolerate your lies any more. Forgive
me but I just can't”,she yelled back in fury. Then she started crying. 
I too started crying. I was in a state of disbelief and shock. “Geeta, 
don't slap me. Please don't slap me. It hurts. What happened to all the 
lessons in non-violence that I gave you?” I said. I fell at her feet. 
“Please don't slap me again. I am a heart patient. I can die.”I said 
again. 

Fellows , like that cat which told the lion all her secrets of survival
except one – how to climb a tree – I  have not told you the greatest of 
my secrets. I am a born coward. Cowardice is the secret of my survival. 
Again, just imagine a sick, frustrated, disoriented guy like me trying 
to stand up to anybody. Would'nt have been alive to tell my wretched 
story. So cowardice is my main weapon of survival. Try to understand me 
fellows. I am a very misunderstood genius. 

To ensure my survival, I promised Geeta, in name of God and
non-violence, never to touch her again. And it was at this very moment 
I resolved to kill her – liquidate her once and for all so that she 
could never become a challenge to me. 

One day, as Geeta was walking hand in hand with one of her numerous
lovers,  I stole from behind and stabbed her with a knife. She died 
instantly. Her lover escaped. 

Well, I never said I actually stabbed her but she died instantly. That
is for sure.  How sure? I won't swear under oath but at least I thought 
she died instantly. May be she died long after this attack. May be she 
is'nt dead yet. May be she is still lying in a hospital or even at 
home. But all this is not important at all. What is important is that I 
began to spread rumours that I stabbed Geeta to preserve the honour of 
the family and she is dead. 

As usual Geeta did nothing to counter these rumours. She told me she
enjoyed being a ghost. 

I had killed Geeta for a very noble cause – to preserve our cultural
heritage. I thought I would feel very happy and proud for it. I thought 
all my anscestors would descend from heaven to congratulate me. And for 
some time I really did feel happy and proud for it was the first time 
in life I had accomplished something. But then suddenly something 
happened to me which I had never expected even in my wildest dreams. 
Guilt took possession of my soul like a devil. I became a living bundle 
of guilt. I could not sleep. If I slept nightmares  woke me up 
immediately. All the time I kept on saying to myself that I deserved to 
die because I had taken an innocent life. I do not know how why or from 
where such ideas came to me but they did nonstop. I became sucidal. I 
ran away from home without making sure if Geeta was really dead or even 
if I had stabbed her at all. 

I ran to the forest hoping that some wild animal would eat me so that I
don't have to take another life. But there were no wild animals in the 
forest. Civilized man had killed them all. So after a few days I 
returned to civilization. I had not eaten for many days because there 
were no fruit trees in the forest. Civilized man had cut them all. I 
was starving.I was in delirium. I was about to kill myself. I needed 
immediate help. But the question was where to get it. 

Guys, you would say that I should have run to a psychologist or
psychoanalyst. This was my first idea too. But then I remembered my 
last brush with the psychoanalysts. They were the guys who were 
actually responsible for my present state. Instead of curing me, they 
had made me more sick. To the shrinks over my dead body, I screamed and 
bit my finger and tore my hair in utter dismay. Anybody could see I  
really needed help immediately before it was too late. 

Then the idea came like a flash of lightening. Going to jail would solve
all my problems. I would get food,  fellow prisoners would prevent me 
from committing sucide and some cold-blooded serial-killer would may be 
brain-wash me into beleiving that killing just one girl isn't that bad 
after all. Then of course all my problems would be solved in one 
stroke. 

So I went to a policeman and told him I killed my own sister. I expected
him to arrest me immediately. 

He laughed. ”Congratulations,”  he said, ” One less mouth to feed. Don't
tell me, go and tell the politicians. They will be mighty pleased. The 
nation has saved tons of wheat and rice. Better than sterilization or 
castration. Perhaps worse. Who cares!” 

Disgusted by the policeman's reactions I went to a judge and confessed.
I begged him to arrest me immediately. 

“Why are you coming to me?Why don't you report to the police? Are you
mentally sound?” he said. “Not worse than you.” I said. “Then it is a 
legal murder. The law cannot do anything about it. Only illegal murders 
are tried here. Go home and ask God for forgiveness. Confess to a 
priest. Don't waste my time.” He said. “But I want punishment. I 
deserve punishment.” I cried. “Why are you so anti-life?” he asked 
calmly. “Because I have seen enough of this gutter called life.” I 
shouted and got more agitated. “That is why you have not seen life at 
all.” “I have seen enough of it.It is you who have'nt seen anything.”I 
banged on his table. I had lost my temper. He said nothing. “Where is 
punishment?  Where is death?”  I shouted again. “Where was life” he 
said and then ordered the peon to throw me out of his office. 

Fellows , it was after this that I got so fed up with everybody and
everything that instead of seeking help I went for self-help and 
self-analysis.I returned home and started analyzing myself . 

Now I am feeling better. Geeta is feeling better too. But it does not
mean that I have stopped beating her or that I have lost my love for 
spreading lies and rumours. These noble activities are part of my very 
existence. So if you ever hear a pretty girl screaming in pain or if 
you heat the most unbeleiveable lies and rumours, assume that I am 
behind it all. My name is Rat. 

Copyright@ Rattan Mann alias Rat the Cat Eater Åsbråtstien 15 Oslo 1251
Norway 


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