Life Is What You Make It A Story Of Love, Hope And How Determination Can Overcome Even Destiny (18 page)

I stood at the spot and stared down. The night was eerily silent. Not a leaf stirred. Usually the night watchman made his rounds around the building but I knew from my sleepless nights, that he would begin his rounds only past midnight. I would be dead and gone by then.

I climbed on the wall and sat looking down, gathering those final moments in my head.

It was then that I heard the hushed voices.

“Oh Keerti, I really love you. All I am asking you to do is just think about what I have said” said a male voice.

In my already confused head, it sounded to me exactly like Abhi's voice and it was very similar to what Abhi had said to me. Stunned I turned around.

It was Sanchit, along with a girl. I remembered having met them when I had first moved to Bombay. Both lived in my building. They had taken shelter just next to the water tank. Sanchit's back was turned towards me. Keerti was facing him.

Abhi's grandfather's words came back again to haunt me “Never belittle love,” he had said.

I was distracted and I continued staring at them transfixed.

“Ankita. Oh my God. What in the world are you doing here?” Suddenly my dad's voice cut through my thoughts and the next moment I turned around and saw my dad.

My dad's voice had alerted Sanchit and Keerti too, and I saw them moving away quietly to the other side of the building making their way behind the water tanks. I don't think they were aware that I had already spotted them.

My dad was shocked. He had woken up with an uneasy feeling that night, and when he came to my room, he had found it empty. It was almost as though he had a premonition or maybe he had heard me when I had gone out of the door. He had then found the entrance door to our flat unlocked and had gone downstairs and asked the security guard if he had seen me. When the Guard had answered in the negative, my dad had come up to the terrace to look for me.

I did not know what to say to him. But I am sure that he had understood my intentions perfectly looking at my passive face and crumpled, defeated shoulders.

I had never seen my dad cry, but that night I saw the tears of defeat and agony that he blinked back. I saw the sheer helplessness and anger at being able to do nothing for me on his face. He was such a strong man, a self made man who had risen from the starkest of circumstances to carve out a life and a career for himself. He had always given us the best of everything.

But that night, I saw him break and it was because of me.

He did not say a word to me. He did not shout at me or berate me. I wished he had. His words would have been easier to bear than his silence. He took my hands in his and quietly led me down the stairs back into out apartment on the second floor.

“Sorry Pa,” I managed to finally say, choking on my own words. It was the hardest apology I have ever made in my life. I truly meant it. But I had no more words left to convey its depth.

19

No way out

I
wait my turn on the chair outside the doctor' s office. The psychiatrist, to be precise. The so-called expert. We have travelled all the way from Bombay to Bangalore to make this trip. Getting an appointment here is like getting an appointment to meet the Pope at the Vatican City. It is one of the best mental health care centres in India.

The nurse calls out my patient number. No one cares about my name or what I used to be. I rise to enter his office.

Then he starts asking the questions. I hate someone prying into my life like this. I hate having to go through all this.

I feel trapped, cornered, exasperated and suddenly very tired. I just want it to end.

So I start to answer.

The questions were exactly like the ones Dr. Mukta had asked me before. But this was a lot more in detail. Not only was he asking the questions which were detailed and precise, he was also recording my responses. He was writing down everything I was saying.

He took his time recording all my answers. He then asked me to wait outside while he would discuss with the senior doctors, Dr. Shah and Dr. Madhusudan. He said they would want to speak to my parents.

I went outside, sent my parents in, and settled down on the cold metallic chair in the waiting hall. It was large and there were at least a hundred patients and their relatives. How it was possible that so many people had mental health problems? How could so many people need help like this? We re they also depressed like me? What issues did they have? I wondered if there were any management school drop outs like me. I doubted it.

It was after about fifteen whole minutes that my parents emerged. Their faces were grim.

“Ankita, the senior doctors here have discussed your case. They feel that it is best that you are admitted and kept under observation,” said my dad, as he put his hand on my shoulder.

It sounded to me like a death sentence. I was in complete shock. I did not want to come here in the first place. Now they were going to keep me here. It was so unacceptable to me. But they were not giving me any choice.

I could not speak even though I wanted to scream.

“We have opted for a private room for you. It is the best they have. You will get better very soon,” my dad continued.

“Please dad, take me back home. I promise I will not do anything like that again,” I pleaded with him. I felt disgusted with myself for pleading this way with my parents. But the dread and fear of being admitted at a mental hospital made me overcome my reluctance and

I pleaded again.

“Please dad, please don't leave me here,” I said again.

“Look, this is not easy for us,” he said. “But this is for the best. How long can we go on like this? You were not getting any better. We have already tried two psychiatrists. This is the best medical care in the country . you will be looked after well here,” he said with finality in his voice.

I closed my eyes and tried to calm my pounding heartbeats. I desperately looked around my surroundings.

I was now trapped not only mentally but physically as well in this place, which promised a cure.

More than ever, I wanted to die, but there was now no way out even for death.

It was only after my parents went out and left me alone with the attendant, in the private room which they had selected for me, that the now familiar sensation of fear and panic began setting in, like an old and dear friend who turns up uninvited to your home at an inconvenient time.

The room was nondescript. It was like any normal hospital room in a Government run hospital. A high bed made of iron, painted white, the bumpy rust beginning to show around the corners, dirty green industrial paint on the walls that was beginning to peel, a door that led to a bathroom with mosaic tiles that had seen better days and the unmistakable smell of disinfectant which all hospitals reek of. Years later, the smell would haunt me and would still have the power to send me into panic but I did not know that then. All I felt was a gnawing sense of abandonment which engulfed me, dragging me down. I, a full grown adult, felt like a two year old child that cries out for its mother, when she vanishes. I hated myself. I did not want to admit that I needed my parents. I wanted to be strong. I wanted to be in control. I did not want to be here, alone, all by myself in the ward of a mental hospital, relegated as a patient, a highly disturbed one at that, needing high observation and care.

But the fear was coming back. I began to experience the now familiar sinking feeling of panic in the pit of my stomach which was slowly spreading upwards. I needed them. I wanted them to stay. I wanted my mother to hug me and tell me that she was here for me. I wanted her to say that I mattered to her. I wanted her to comfort me and reassure me that things were going to be fine.

She did nothing of the sort.

“Ma, dad. Please don't go. Please,” I called out, pleading, in a tone that I myself did not recognise, a tone that sounded alien to my own ears.

I could see my mother turning away with lips pursed, covering her mouth with a handkerchief and my father steadying her, his hand around her shoulder as they walked out.

I was filled with a deep sense of rage, helplessness, frustration, anger and a sinking feeling of abandonment. How could they leave me like this? How could they agree to let me be admitted in a mental hospital? I wasn't crazy. I didn't want to be here.

At that moment I hated the world. I hated my parents. I hated life. I hated everything. I was filled with a loathing so dark, so deep and so impenetrable that it was hard to see anything else. All that was going on inside my head was that I was now admitted in a mental hospital and I was alone.

“I HATE YOU. BOTH OF YOU.COME BACK HERE—DON'T LEAVE ME LIKE THIS—YOU'RE MY PARENTS DAMMIT.” I did not realise that I was screaming at the top of my voice. I did not even notice that I was trembling with rage, clenching my fists and yelling.

“WHY THE FUCK DID YOU GIVE BIRTH TO ME? COME BACK DAMMIT—COME BACK,” I continued yelling. I knew vaguely that I was losing control, but my emotions were ruling me completely. I looked around for something to throw at the door, but could see nothing. I clenched the stark white sheets instead and yanked them off the bed. The pillow went flying out, with the force.

The doctor would later write in my case history sheet “Patient hysterical. Sedative administered.”

I could see the nurse coming running in with two more attendants.

“She is out of control,” the Nurse said to attendant next to her.

“SHUT UP,” I yelled at her. “What the fuck do you know about out of control?” I turned my rage on her, my voice hysterical which again I did not recognise.

She wasn' t listening.

It was then that I saw the syringe in her hand. Both the attendants were now on either side of me and held my arms down. The rage that had risen like industrial smoke out of a giant furnace was threatening to blind me now. I wanted to smash their heads in. How dare they decide that I was out of control? I was furious. Who were they to deny me the expression of my anger? I kicked out with one leg, but the nurse had already driven the syringe in. I felt humiliated, insulted and helpless. So deep were my emotions that I was shaking and couldn't talk anymore.

I broke down into loud sobs and settled on the bed. I don't remember much as the sedative they had injected was beginning to take effect and my eyes shut.

When I recovered consciousness, all I felt was an incredible sense of calmness. There was a dull pain in my jaw and I had a very slight headache. My throat was parched, as if I had not drunk water in a year. But the panic was gone, so was the rage. For a few minutes I could not recall where I was and what had happened to me. I was a little confused. It seemed like a dream. Had I fallen down? What was this strange green colour that I was seeing? Which room in my home had this colour? I could not recall any room having these walls.

Then it began sinking in slowly. I was in hospital. ‘Mental hospital’ a voice inside my head reminded me, taunting me and I winced, feeling a deep sense of shame. The ever popular, much adored, outgoing, smart, bright, promising young star of St. Agnes was now a patient in a mental hospital.

“Hello Ankita. I'm Sister Rosaline. How are you feeling? Do you want some water?” asked a nurse.

“Hello Sister. Yes please and sorry about the yelling earlier,” I said. I felt genuinely ashamed now at losing control like that and yelling at her. I noticed her now. She seemed to have kind eyes. She was pleasantly plump, must be in her fifties and seemed to be very experienced.

“Oh, that is perfectly okay, child,” She said smiling as she handed me a bottle of water.

As I drank thirstily, she added “Patients generally respond well to ECT”

That took the wind out of my sails. Not that there was much wind left in the first place, but I wondered if I heard right. ECT? Electroconvulsive therapy? I was dumbfounded. I staggered under the enormity of the realisation of what she had just said.

Why in the world? And how is it that nobody had told me about it? Had I been administered Electric shock? Oh God. How in the world could this happen to me?

I was silent for the rest of the day.

Dr. Madhusudan came on his rounds in the evening.

“Hello Ankita,” he said, smiling in a cheerful voice. “How are you feeling?”

“Angry and cheated, doctor. Was I given ECT? And why was I not told about it? How come no one mentioned anything?” I replied sullenly.

“Oh,” he said, taken aback at my direct response. He took a minute to think. Then he said that he wanted to have a talk with me and asked sister Rosaline, and two more junior doctors accompanying him to go out of the room and give us a few minutes. I noticed that the young doctor who had earlier questioned me and made detailed notes was with the group that went out of the room.

He waited till we were alone in the room. He pulled up the chair, placed it next to my bed and sat down. “Ankita,” he began, “You have a severe case of bipolar disorder.”

It was the first time in my life I was hearing that term.

“Let me explain how it functions. It comes in cycles. Like this,” he said, as he drew a graph on the paper, which was in the writing pad that he was carrying. It looked like a wave which went up and down, much like a physics diagram that plotted some values. “Do you understand?”