Sympathetic

I let in the air sometimes and I let in the light most of the time. When nobody is watching I pat my own head gently. I have always loved dogs and sometimes I adore myself like that, I pat my own head. Perhaps that’s why I am stuck here, perhaps it wasn’t wise to pat my head in a world no body pats their own head. It will rain today, I know this gloom. The smell of mangroves blotting the air in my room, so I am patting my head again. I have kept the window open, let the air in Sinok; that’s how everyone calls me-Sinok like Sindbad.

 There’s a bald patch in my head, the constant patting has made its own sculpture. I think it makes me a bit of a brain-boy: after all I remember when I was little they used to hit my head hard just to make me gulp the value of pi. The value of Pi is three. I don’t believe in decimal places. Speaking of 3, there are two windows in my room and one door. Pi never leaves me alone. Three strands of hair falls out of my scalp every time I pat myself on the head. The other day Mr. Desun arrived with my sketchbook and asked me what I had intended to draw as my last sketch. What could I have told him? It was an experiment to check the girth of lead pencils?

Mr. Desun has a bad habit of snooping around. I don’t know why they make me sketch when I have told them repeatedly it’s not my thing. These uncouth people in aprons- but I kinda like Mr. Desun, at least he lets me write. They all claim to be helping me- I don’t know what’s wrong with patting my head; if I like myself I am going to pat myself in the head.

“What are these lines Mr. Sinok? Why would you draw them like these?”

“I don’t know”

“Well at least you could sketch something? What about those leaves that you see from your window?

“They are too real.”

“What do you mean they are too real?”

“I don’t see the point of sketching something that is real. It already exists there. Why would people look at my painting since it’s already there?”

“ Well, maybe you could paint them differently?”

“But Mr. Desun, I painted them differently.”

“What do you mean?”

“These are leaves from the Planet Moira. They are packets of symmetrical lines, they appear as undulating waves since they flow in a liquid atmosphere of an unknown gas called mero”

“Now where is this planet Moira, Mr. Sinok?”

“I don’t know, it’s not real.”

“I see. I am impressed I must say. So that’s what you mean.

  Let’s look over the crossword shall we?”

“Desun, one more thing…”

“Yes?”

“I still think the value of Pi, is three.”

“We have been over that, Mr.Sinok, haven’t we?”

“But you must listen to me this time, you asked me why I thought so when the whole world was saying otherwise. I think I have found a satisfactory reason for my aberration.”

“Carry on, I am listening. I must say you haven’t patted your head a single time while we were talking.”

“That’s nice of you to mention Sir. It’s just that I know and we both know I don’t belong here. Yes, I have understood that a man is supposed to lose their loved ones by death and then he must grieve. Once the grieving is done he must get over. But as you see, I have always ignored the decimal places, because I think I always took existence as a whole. By rejecting the decimal places I have rejected the inevitability of death from the whole of life. That’s what struck me doctor.”

“That’s one of the most interesting things I have heard in recent times. How is your writing going? You know we won’t look into your notebook. So you are allowed to write absolutely anything that you want to.”

“So you think I am ready to get out of this place?”

“In time. Of course, Sinok.”

It’s been a while I have been here in this place. My room is okay. Lots of stuff to read. A pen to write. Mr. Desun is my supervisor. When I was put in this place, I hadn’t eaten well in days. I had kept patting my head grieving death- death the judge of life. I tried eating a chocolate one day and felt really sick. I had started patting my own head with my right hand and they said I made dog noises, and sometimes I would crawl about my whole apartment. I didn’t receive my calls or checked my mails and my phone had been off for a few days. It was those stupid neighbors who rat me out. Luria and Gage, the nice young fancy couple called up those apron guys and that’s how it all started- my life in the confinements of this villa. I don’t think this villa is for mad people, though in all essence I am still the professor Sinok with a high intellect- a controversial academic whose argument on the rejection of the decimal places had brought forth a new scientific revolution. I wonder what the magazines wrote about me when they heard I was put in here. I wonder how all my rivals and critics had reacted. I have stopped worrying now. I have resigned everything to my fate- very unlikely of me and it’s been okay here for a while.

I am telling you all this so that you don’t think I am mad. I am the guy whom atheists love, who refused to accept the standards the world set. I am the person who believes in the whole- in the absolute, with no vacillations. I am different, I am so different that I am the only person who grieves the death of his servant- I am a loyal soldier. Brucie my dog, my lovely big dog, left me alone here, and what do I do?

I weep and grieve like he would have done, if it had been
me. Am I mad, doctor?