“Look,” he says. “We can try and work around you missing the deadline. I’m going to be honest and tell you, this type of setback might change your graduation date, but there’s always a way if you’re willing to make it work.”
Simran takes a deep breath and squeezes her eyes shut. “You’re right.”
He nods. “Okay. Then let’s ju—”
“I’m not going to do it,” she blurts. “Any of it. At all.”
There. The words she rehearsed all morning. As soon as they escape, their truth becomes palpable. She can’t be the type of person who lives from happy hour to happy hour, dreads Monday mornings, and counts down the years until retirement.
“What does that mean, Simran? Do you not see yourself as a therapist?”
Simran settles on the image she used to have of her future self: wearing a chic black dress and leaning back in a light gray armchair as she listened to a variety of people tell her their darkest secrets.
“I used to, but now I don’t. I’ve realized that the part of therapy that excited me the most was being able to listen to other people’s stories. But now I know that I also want to share things I’ve learned from others. And explore their lives and issues in a way that’s not so clinical. This”—she points around the office—“isn’t the right fit for me. It’s just not working. It hasn’t been for a while. And I should have done this a long time ago.”
Dr. Bond leans back in his chair and rubs his forehead. This is harder than she thought it would be.
Although a part of Simran wants to disappear, a larger part of her feels a sense of relief. Is this what it’s like to be honest with someone? With herself?
She tells Dr. Bond it’s not his fault. It’s all hers. It’s her unhealthy relationship with achievement. The parasitic nature of expectations. The way she’s somehow become okay with slipping tasteless, poisonous lies into her coffee.
Simran sighs. “You have every reason to be upset with me.”
He folds his hands together and looks at her. “You came here to get an education for you, not me. The last thing I’d ever want for you is to be here out of obligation. That’s not fair to anybody, especially you.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says, biting her bottom lip. She will not cry. “I don’t know what’s been wrong with me lately. Or maybe this was always an issue and I’m only facing it now. But either way, this is the right choice. I know it is.”
“Have you thought about what else you could do as a career?”
“No . . . maybe I could be . . . a journalist,” she says, her voice trailing off as she pictures her unfinished articles.
“Do you have connections in the field? Opportunities in mind?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “But I can start learning what it even means to be a journalist. And maybe in the meantime, I’ll find a job somewhere. I guess this is really the first time, ever, that I don’t have a plan.”
I don’t have a plan. I don’t have a plan. I don’t have a plan.
He uncaps a black Montblanc pen. “And you’re sure you aren’t deciding this because of other shifts in your life?”
Simran gives him a swift nod but considers his question on the inside. Is anyone ever entirely sure when they decide to let go of something big?
“Whether or not this is influenced by the other shifts, I know this is what I need to do.”
She stays in Dr. Bond’s office for over an hour, and they dissect her feelings behind why she picked psychology, why it isn’t the right choice. Thattagirl, Simran. End your time here like a real therapy patient.
“Your parents will understand one day,” he says at the end.
Yeah, right. For her entire life, she’s been taught that professional success equated to acceptance. It told their community that her parents had done well, that she was worthy of respect. Maybe all of that should be enough for her. She almost wants to call her parents and tell them how much she loves them and still wants to make them proud.
Columbia is a blur on her walk home. She looks forward, avoiding eye contact with any students rushing past her, with their notebooks and leather laptop sleeves and excitement. The man who sells roasted peanuts smiles at her. She waves back.
And just like that, it’s over.
She won’t be a therapist.
Images of a future she’ll never have flash before her: sitting in a sunlit office with a patient, learning about different cases at conferences, feeling a sense of stability about her career, having conversations about it with her family and friends. . . .
And then a thought emerges as she passes her favorite deli: Fuck, Simran, what the hell is wrong with you?
She can feel her heartbeat. Everything around her seems to disappear. She clutches her chest. Takes deep breaths. How will she break this to everyone? What will she say when people ask her what she does? Did she just make the biggest mistake . . . and without a backup plan at that?
She looks back at Columbia’s campus. She could cross the gates, march back into Dr. Bond’s office, tell him this was all a mistake.
Or she could move forward.
She stands still, not knowing what to do.
Cognitive dissonance: when you’ve got only yourself to blame.
Nandini
“We’ve always had to worry about Simran, haven’t we?” Charu sneers. “We saw warning signs and should have been better prepared for this. What is it these Americans suggest when someone starts acting like this? Therapy? A new exercise regimen? A facial?”
“We have things under control.” Nandini points to herself and Ranjit to tell Charu, You are not part of us. “Simran doesn’t need anything.”
“God, that Meghna Ben and Pratik Bhai.” Charu rolls her eyes. “Who do they think they are, behaving this way? They should know where we come from, for God’s sake. We’re Mehtas.”
Nandini rolls her eyes. The entire family knows Charu’s system of judging Indian people: last name, parents’ profession (extra points for doctor/lawyer/engineer, demerits for anything artistic), place of origin in India, skin color, house size, and, lastly, children’s professional accomplishments.
Charu rambles until she tires herself out.
“Let me know if there’s anything at all I can do,” she tells her brother in the accent she usually reserves for when she talks to American people.
After she leaves, Ranjit settles onto the recliner and pulls out his laptop from beneath a stack of medical journals.
“Do you have to tell Charu Ben everything?”