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"There is a truth that, if not universally acknowledged, is at least universally understood, at least on a subliminal level — no one really cares." Tarak took a deep breath and a deep sip of beer and stared morosely at the pouring rain.
"Well then, in that case I suppose it's not really a surprise that you're so interested in the future. You know, the one that we're all going through right now. That's the only future you've ever known. So I guess the main problem here is that, somewhere along the way, you seem to have lost focus on the here and now, the day to day."
Charan was dressed like a guru, in a long orange kurta and khakis. He sat on the floor of the balcony in the Padmasana pose, barefoot, his eyes closed and his thumb and middle fingers pressed together, his hands resting on his knees. His chappals lay abandoned in front of the patio door.
Tarak scoffed and ran his fingers through his hair. "I wish you'd quit with all of that mystical mumbo-jumbo. You already look like a Disney prince, or an avatar of Shri Ram. I really can't take you seriously sometimes when you talk like you're reading a fortune cookie, or like you're some great, noble guru or sage imparting wisdom to devotees at an ashram."
"Ha, you cannot take me seriously 'sometimes?' Then that necessarily implies that there are times when you can take me seriously." Charan grinned. He opened his eyes and gradually got out of Padmasana and rose to sit in the chair beside Tarak.
Tarak grunted noncommittally and took another sip of beer. Charan gently took the bottle from his hands and furrowed his brow. "Kingfisher? Anna, I'm not sure it's a good idea for you to be drinking this, what with -"
"Yes, yes, what with the Prozac I'm taking now, to replace the Atarax and the Celexa. Don't worry, Cherry, I have already consulted with Dr Google. The worst thing that will result from a little alcohol with the Prozac is that I will soon become very, very drowsy. It's alright, though, I am off tomorrow and not needed on set again until the day after. I would rather just sleep through all of this bloody rain, anyway."
Charan stood up and looked out over the balcony. When he saw that there were no passersby (not that anyone in their right mind would want to go for a ramble in the rain), he threw the bottle over the rail. The sound of rain falling drowned out the sound of glass shattering after falling five storeys.
Tarak's immediate reaction was a simple shrug. "I already drank ⅔ of that bottle. It doesn't make too much of a difference. In about fifteen minutes, I'll probably be so sluggish I won't be able to go back inside. I guess I'll just take a nap out here, in the chair, and listen to the rain."
Charan abruptly felt an ice cold feeling pass over him that left him with goosebumps. He knew that something was wrong. He was still dealing with feelings of inadequacy and imposter syndrome himself, half the time feeling like a defective model, like he should go back in the shop for repairs before his warranty expired.
He worked so hard to maintain a façade, for Tarak's sake as well as his own, but Charan knew that sooner or later, that façade would crack, and that his own imperfections would start to show through. Charan wished, not for the first time, that he could simply 'snap out of it,' as his father used to rail at him to do, whatever 'it' was.
He hadn't had any problems with sleep apnea or paralysis for months, but all of a sudden he was experiencing it again. Ever since he had begun to take an antidepressant, Charan frequently had nightmares where he was unable to move his legs at all, and some when they weren't even attached to his body.
Sometimes he would walk out in the neighborhood, trying to go to the gym or the spa or the supermarket, and he would have to sit down and catch his breath. He was a thirty-eight year old man, but he felt at times like he was fifty-eight.
Sometimes he woke up so tired that he couldn't even pull himself out of bed. He usually slept for about seven hours, but lately it was for at least ten hours, or even more.
Last night, Charan had dreamed that he was literally stuck to his bed, like a squashed bug stuck on the bottom of somebody's shoe. He dreamed that Nānna was standing by the bed, frowning, his arms crossed in disapproval.
"You could get out of bed, if you really wanted to, son. That's the trick; you have to want it."
Charan sensed that his father had essentially just kind of given up on him. He dreamed that he was in trouble, paralyzed — and his own father didn't believe him.
Charan had begun going to sessions with a psychologist, someone who tried to analyze and guide him through his experiences and emotions. He found it all helpful, but what he really needed was something he couldn't quite articulate: he just needed to love and be loved. He needed to switch off his brain and switch his heart on, all the time, every waking moment.
Just when Charan was starting to want to go inside the flat and hide under the duvet, Tarak touched his elbow. Then, suddenly, alarmingly, Charan fell to the floor and began to sob dryly, his back and shoulders shaking.
Within seconds, Tarak was beside him, his arms wrapped around him. Charan's teeth chattered. He had a dark, deep-seated fear that he was just fundamentally fucked up.
The worst thing about it for Charan, as he lay half crumpled on the floor, half curled up in Tarak's arms, was that he was starting to think that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.