The Scarlett-O-Hara Syndrome

At the therapist Dr Abhimanyu Rao’s office, Margao, Goa, Susan feels a spotlight shine over her on a blue velvet couch, and begins her impassioned soliloquy. ‘A real incident in the not-so-distant past: 

As the handsome, goggle-eyed groom is about to say, ‘I do,’ someone waves a frantic hand from the crowd and yells, ‘Stop!’ 

All wedding proceedings come to a crashing halt. The guests seated in neat rows turn around to stare, the priest raises a quizzical eyebrow, the bridezilla (sorry, she is perfectly lovely) glares and froths, and the groom, well, I would like to imagine the groom forgets himself. He steps forward, the light of life and love seeping into his dull, robotic existence.

Susan? he gasps, his face growing pale and then lighting up.

Susan steps forward and issues a long heart-wrenching speech of loss, sorrow, and the realisation of true love, with a quote from Romeo and Juliet thrown in for good measure. There is a sheen in the groom’s eyes. He grasps Susan’s hand but just as he pulls her close, ready to plant the kiss of eternal love on her lips……

No, it’s not the bride who smacks the living daylights out of him. It’s Susan. She smacks him away and then clutches at her mouth,

Oh Lord, this is all my fault! `With that cryptic exclamation, she turns and runs out of the church into the bright sunlight, leaving a tangled, twisted mess behind.’

‘Hold on, Susan,’ Abhimanyu, the therapist, sputters. ‘You’re telling me this incident actually happened or is this story made-up, like a scene from a movie?’

‘Yes,’ Susan smiles, leaning forward on the blue velvet couch.

‘Yes, as in, it’s a real occurrence in your real life?’

‘All in good time, good doctor. But first, since you’re new to these parts, and originally from Delhi as you said in your introduction, let me give you a lowdown of your adopted land of practice.

Goa, a state on the south-western coast of India, is small, so small that everyone you know is related to someone you know. If you attend a wedding, chances are you will meet your ex, your ex before that, your crush who will eventually become your ex, and one of this delightful motley of exes may even turn out to be the groom. The event will become an existential crisis and you will possibly drown your sorrows in a not-so-innocent blue concoction. Do you see the problem? Impossible to find fresh blood.

Anyway, let me continue with my duty as a helpful and gracious local. Goa was a Portuguese colony until 1961, but it is a little known fact that our architecture which is often perceived in error as Latinate is actually the signature style of ambitious natives and isn’t found anywhere else in the world. You will notice unique features in our homes and buildings such as columns, cornices, heritage and clay tiles, compound walls, gateposts, mother of pearl windows and use of vibrant paint which is not only pleasing to the eye but imbues peace of mind. Our beaches are the definition of pristine, white sand and round, dainty rocks. We have what is labeled on the tourism brochures as a ‘happening’ nightlife, which simply means a lot of illegal and easy access to a myriad of drugs in ever-shifting and evasive out-door clubs and parties. 

Let me backtrack a bit, as you would be curious to know more about me. I am a thirty-something (no-way am I telling you how much of thirty that is)…’

‘Actually, you specified your age on the form here as thirty-seven, and other details....’ Abhimanyu waves the form.

Susan chides him with an eyeroll. ‘…….. curvaceous, golden-skinned, local belle, going by the name of Susan Braganza. This, I should warn you beforehand, in case you’re short on patience today, is somewhat of a rant. 

Having offloaded considerable and considerate context on you, I shall jump right in. I have a problem and that is my inability to find ‘the one’. Maybe, you and I can shovel right down to the solution of this mystery. I’ve fallen in love so many times that I’ve lost count. One day, when I’m (hopefully) in my warm bed ready to die, and I want to think of my life’s precious moments with that special someone, the sheer variety of situations would cause me such confusion that the Grim Reaper would probably pity me and allow me a little more time to get my affairs in order. 

I pine for my beloved, whom I have stalked meticulously for months, on social media - from fake accounts, in person – with the sleuth-like zeal for camouflage, until he buckles under my ample charm and reciprocates, at which point I lose all interest in him. I slap him with a no-can-do-mate. And this unfortunate situation is the bane of my love-life. Before you wag a finger at me, let me assure you that I’ve tried, amidst the judgment from family and friends to ‘get married already’, but I just can’t compromise on my principles.’

Dr Abhimanyu scratches a shapely eyebrow over a smooth forehead which is now knotted with worry. ‘Right, so, how do you think I can help you? I am clearly not a matchmaker.’

Susan purses her lips as she would when her four-year-old nephew breaks a new toy she has bought for him. ‘It’s not about that. My problem is… my problem is...’ She stops to think and jerks up. She circles the seating area, and then yelps startling the therapist out of his seat. He directs a surreptitious glance at the emergency alarm attached under the side table. ‘The Scarlett-O-Hara syndrome. I think I should be the therapist. Are you sure you’re qualified?’ Susan walks back to sit on the velvet couch again and joins her hands together. ‘Since I’ve diagnosed my own condition, I will need a fifty percent discount from you. Now, for the solution, which I’m sure you can glean from the studies you’ve apparently done in this field. How do I get rid of this syndrome?’

Dr Abhimanyu sighs in the way new fathers sigh when they know their personal opinions and desires have ceased to matter and are now in the grip of an inescapable cyclone. ‘There is no cure for a made-up syndrome that you’ve just literally made-up. The syndrome you refer to means something completely different to what you imagine you have. Look, I think you may have a minor personality disorder, maybe an avoidant or even a histrionic type, but I need more sessions to determine this for sure and I need you to do some exercises.’

Susan shakes her head and folds her arm across her chest. ‘No, no, no. I am not going anywhere, you cannot shoo me away without a definitive answer.’ 

Dr Abhimanyu breathes in and breathes out, making a mental note to book a yoga session after this stressful interaction which is not proving too great for his own mental health. ‘Ms Braganza, I am not a general practitioner, and this isn’t a minor case of flu. You must be patient in such matters.’

Susan slumps back, making herself comfortable in the soft back cushions of the sofa. 

‘Alright,’ Abhimanyu thinks fast on his feet. ‘I will give you some meditation exercises, it will open your heart and mind to an aura of positivity and acceptance of love in your life.’

Susan leans forward again, and her eyes widen, attentive and alert. ‘Sounds good.’

Abhimanyu has deviated from his professional practice, but his priority is getting rid of this stubborn girl. 

However, the following weeks become littered with ever-mounting stress for the good doctor who had hopes of settling in a fun coastal city after the horrors of his recent divorce. Yet, this Susan has elbowed her way into his staid, orderly life and he can’t stop himself from being beguiled and enamoured. She has given him ample hints, wishing aloud more than once for someone like him in her life. Susan is all he can think about during the day and dream about at night. The wrongness of it all is what makes it more enticing.

Susan skips up the steps to Abhimanyu’s office, humming and smiling. She has curled her long hair and taken care in applying her makeup which makes her skin glow with youth and radiance. She has worn a short red dress which enhances her most attractive assets. She is sure she has found ‘the one’. If only Doctor Rao could view her as the love of his life, her single, miserable life would be sorted. She would be wed soon like her sister in Chapel de Costa and all her envious friends would stand by and throw rose petals on her and the handsome doctor she has managed to ensnare. But, alas, she is sure he cannot be with her. It would be against his professional practice to date a patient. 

Susan finds him standing tall near his desk, like a tortured romantic hero. ‘Susan…’ he begins and stops. He strides back and forth. He gives her an intense, sad look which means he is in the throes of deep inner conflict. 

‘Yes, doctor? It’s alright if you aren’t feeling too well. We can have our session some other day. Should I get you some water?’ Susan rushes to the water dispenser. 

‘Please don’t be so formal. You can call me by my name.’ He says this on impulse before he can retract his words. 

Susan stops with the plastic cup held aloft in one hand. ‘Abhimanyu?’ His name is so darn long. Maybe there is some way to shorten it, like Abhi.

‘Can we meet somewhere outside? For coffee? I could recommend some other therapist, you could see him instead of me and we could…you know, we could….’

‘I don’t understand.’ Susan cocks her head to the side, regarding Abhimanyu with a skeptical look.

Abhimanyu sighs, but this time his sigh is that of a lover, forlorn and full of longing. ‘I really like you…’

Susan’s face softens with a winsome smile and adopts a pinkish hue, akin to a blushing bud of spring. This situation lasts for a moment, and then an insidious unease creeps in slowly but steadily. It originates in the small of her back, runs up her nape to her brain, exploding in fireworks of panic and disgust. A different type of colour blotches her face, a deeper shade of red. ‘That is so inappropriate and unprofessional of you! I shall have you reported. I knew you were a terrible therapist.’

Susan has, true to her nature, bailed. At her villa, she takes off her stockings and soaks her feet in a tub of warm water with a mixture of apple cider vinegar and lemon juice. She contemplates her toenail fungus which has spread to all her ten toenails, and is probably the real reason she is terrified of intimacy. What if her true love, in a moment of intimacy, shuns her, disgusted by her discoloured and misshapen nails? Maybe her next stop ought to be a podiatrist, and maybe, just maybe, he could actually be ‘the one’?