Mind Tricks

This short story is written by Ankita Jawanda.

Martha stared ahead. She just stared. It astounded her - how the mind could conjure up thousands of images about everything and nothing in a couple of seconds, lure the senses to oblivion, nibble on the brain until all the concentration was fixed on the enthralling movie being played in its amphitheatre. More often than not, the movie would suddenly switch scenes without warning, and there was no option but to watch on. The scenes were like voices in her head – she could hear their animated discussion, but could not be a part of it herself. Currently, a mouse was walking towards a rattrap, hunger and desire lingering in its bulging eyes that were now staring fixedly on the tidbits of cheese. It was very close now; victory already visible in its……‘FOOLISH PEOPLE!!’ Professor Holbrooke’s cacophonous voice hit her like shards of glass and she grudgingly left the mouse to its journey towards hell. “Foolish people you are! Take it from me, you all are going to fail the test! When I was your age I…..” And with that he plunged into a monologue of his extraordinary accomplishments. He needed to vent out his frustration to someone - years of delivering the same lectures in the same classrooms, while brains like his were busily reaping the fruits of the corporate world, drowning themselves in pools of money. ‘Teaching is a noble profession”. Martha wondered if any of the people who uttered those trite words were engaged in teaching.

Switch. A different scene with a different voice. Martha was a child again. A wizened, frail-looking man, with a crooked back was looking at her with beseeching eyes, two black dots on a face criss - crossed with wrinkles. ‘Come here, my child,’ he said. She went towards him as if in a trance. He offered her his hand and she took it. ‘God, can you do me a favour?’ ‘Ask anything of me, child’, he replied. ‘Please make me famous. I want to become a Prime Minister. I want to win the Nobel Prize. I want to dance like Shakira. I want to sing like Rihanna. I want to speak like Obama. And please don’t say that you help those who help themselves!’ A muted laugh escaped his lips; ‘My child, I won’t say that. But you must remember that I have no role to play in your success or failure. You believe in me, confide your sorrows, anxieties, fears and in most of the cases, your wants in me. I hear them, for it gives you happiness to believe that I’m listening to you, and ultimately this happiness, combined with sheer determination and relentless effort paves the way to success. Your destiny is in your hands; I am as helpless as you are.’ ‘This is not fair! Am I not your child that you can’t grant my wishes? Or am I just not worthy of your love?’ She glared at him and with that, burst into sobs. ‘You don’t love me. You just don’t…….’ She was crying her heart out; someone was shaking her, reprimanding her for what she was doing. Couldn’t they understand?

‘MARTHA! GET UP!’ The voices in her head were abruptly muted. She painstakingly opened her eyes. Gigi was staring at her, her eyes full of concern. ‘Are you okay? What happened to you? Is something wrong?’ She threw the barrage of questions at her in tandem. ‘I am fine. I just fell asleep.’ ‘You scared me, Martha. The way you were quivering. How do you fall asleep anytime and anywhere?’ Martha looked at her, but not for long. The voices were beckoning; yearning to be heard. She once again fell prey to their conversation.

The old man was back, imploring her yet again, and she was drawn towards him like a moth to a flame. Remarkable; her mind was again arousing her thoughts, spinning and weaving a labyrinth of tales, pondering over the nagging doubts, explaining the inexplicable, and Martha was lost. Lost in a maze - thoughts coagulating, ideas brimming, voices mingling - she was adrift. The voices sang inside her head, the lyrics of Christina Aguilera, “When there's no one else, look inside yourself… Like your oldest friend, just trust the voice within.” Time had stopped, she was propelled into eternity, and she went back to him, the old man, again. This time he said, ‘Your thoughts, child, are your greatest weapon. Your brain is your armour. Use it well. Question anything, absorb everything, and perhaps one day, you will realise your dream.’ The voices stopped, and she burst into tears yet again.