Tripping over the doormat, you stumble into the dark room. Much like going into the matinee show from the bright sunlight of summer. Papa Freud said the room should be dark. Conducive to the outpourings of bottled-up oedipal feelings. However, the Orient is different from the Occident. Ramakrishna Paramahansa proclaiming from rooftops that his wife was his mother. Gandhi speaking of his experiments with brahmacharya at public meetings.
No ushers like in the movie halls holding your hand as they direct you to the seat. Touching a client is a no-no for the analyst. Once you allow this sort of thing, where will it end? Groping around the darkroom, you are directed towards a rectangular object. Ah! The couch! Freud, in a weaker moment confessed that he got very stressed and in fact could not bear being stared at and scrutinised seven to eight hours a day and promptly plonked the patients on to the couch.
Having picked up a thing or two in adolescence from Sudden, the Outlaw from the Wild West, I move like greased lightening and in the twinkling of an eye roll out the yoga mat at the feet of the Analyst. The guru-shishya parampara from the hoary past is a firmly embedded cultural tradition. O, you arrogant soul, your think you can get an analyst-guru just by paying money? Like buying a pack of soap bars at the Great Indian Mall in Sector 18? The body may be cleansed by spending money but can the dirty unconscious be cleansed merely by dishing out dollars? No! The Analyst may not have vacant time slots for you.
You have to abandon all critical faculties and rational thought, banish the adult in favour of the infantile self, lie in the utter passivity of a helpless child with expression of blind awe, adoration, affection towards the Analyst, like that of the bhakt towards guru maharaj — or like the German masses before Hitler!