Life Is What You Make It A Story Of Love, Hope And How Determination Can Overcome Even Destiny (20 page)

I was thrown into the ‘routine’ planned for me straight away. It was about 10.30 A.M. when I had been shown into my room. I barely had time to settle down and absorb my new surroundings, when the attendant came knocking on all the doors.

“Oooooo teeeee...Oooooo teeeee. Recreation room, recreation room,” he called out in a sing song voice as he knocked on all doors, including mine.

The other occupants of the rooms had come out too. There was a very stylishly dressed slim woman, who wore a short skirt, stilettos and was strikingly good looking. Her nails were perfectly manicured and her complexion was almost translucent. She followed the attendant without so much as a glance at the others. There was a young man who was bone thin and sported a shaggy beard and a Kurta. There was a middle aged man, slightly overweight who had begun balding. There was an elderly lady who looked defeated. There were two young men in the group who were well dressed and looked perfectly normal. They were talking to each other. The bone thin young man was talking to the elderly lady. It seemed they knew each other well. All of us followed the attendant to the recreation room.

The recreation room had a wide range of activities to choose from. There was scrabble, chess and carrom. There was a table tennis table on one side. There were comfortable sofas. There was a television and a video player too. All the latest magazines were laid out neatly. On one side of the room, there were sheets of papers and crayons and art material. I was totally taken aback to see all this. Looking at it, nobody would have said that this was a place for a bunch of mental health patients all on the road to recovery. We all seemed perfectly fine and fit.

We were a motley group who had been thrown together by circumstances. The others seemed to have their preferred activities. The elderly lady took out a ball of dark brown wool and sat knitting silently. I wondered what she was making and who it was for.

The gorgeous looking woman headed towards the magazines and began reading. All the others too busied themselves in various games and activities.

I stood there uncertainly, wondering what to do. Finally I was drawn towards the table which had the art material.

I looked at the papers, the crayons and paints, laid out along with the brushes. I touched them hesitatingly, still unsure. It seemed like months since I had last used colours. At one time they had been so important in my life. Now I began to feel faint but slightly familiar urges. I remembered the joy I had felt when I had first painted the water fall. I remembered the feeling of being alive that I had, when I had painted. I remembered the happy emotions I had experienced. More than anything, I remembered that I had once been joyous, hopeful, content and happy. I wanted all of it back. I wanted this deadness to end.

And suddenly I wanted to paint once more.

21

Faith is a powerful thing

I
t felt strange to be holding paintbrush once again. I did not know what to paint. I looked outside the window and saw rows of flowers nodding their heads happily in the sunshine. Finally that was what I painted. It was a quick impression of those flowers. A splatter of red and yellow. I added green too. Then I painted the sky light blue. I worked fast and furiously. I slapped on paint like I had never seen before. I was so absorbed in my picture and that I did not realise it was lunch time. When I turned around I saw the two young men I had seen earlier, standing behind me and looking at my picture.

“It's good,” said the taller of the two.

The other one nodded appreciatively.

“Thank you,” I managed to say. I was not sure that I wanted an audience for my work. I had just begun coming out of my cocoon and did not want to speak to anyone. I hoped they would leave me alone. But they took my acknowledgement as a signal to talk.

“Hi. I am Sagar,” said the taller one.

“And I am Anuj,” said the other.

“Hi,” I managed to say, avoiding eye contact. I hoped they would get the hint and leave me alone. I pretended to add finishing touches to the picture. I could still see them from the corner of my eye. They weren't budging.

“And you are...?” said Sagar.

“Ankita,” I answered, still bent over my picture.

“It is lunch time now. We have to go to the dining hall,” said Anuj.

I went along with them to the dining hall.

I helped myself to some rice, some curry and some vegetables. It was the first time in months that I actually noticed what I was eating. Till now, food was consumed simply because I had to stay alive. But now I actually noticed that the vegetables indeed looked delicious. The curry was a fiery red, but it was not as hot as it looked. It was tangy and tasty. The rice was cooked just right. It was light and fluffy. It felt like heaven in my mouth. Or perhaps it seemed that way to me. It was like a dead person coming to life after a very long while and then tasting food. I took a morsel and then stared at the food on my plate for a few seconds before I joined Anuj and Sagar, my new friends, at their table as they motioned me to join them.

Then we conversed about movies and about books. Both Sagar and Anuj were avid readers and had watched almost all the movies that I had, much like everybody else in our age group. I discovered that I could converse easily. Nobody asked any questions about why I was there and what my past was. Perhaps that was an unsaid understanding that existed amongst everybody there. I felt happy about that. It gave me a feeling of security. I would have hated it, had they probed and I would then have withdrawn into my shell. But they were easy going and friendly and it was hard not to be drawn into their talk and laughter.

Later in my room, I wondered why they were in O.T. They seemed perfectly sane and normal to me. It did not seem like they had any mental health issues or any problems. They were just two regular guys. Suddenly it occurred to me that I would have appeared the same to anyone who looked at me.

The realisation was like an epiphany. It gave me a jolt. I
was
in fact ‘normal’! If I pretended to be ‘normal’ and behaved just like everybody else, if I masked my emotions and I smiled a lot, even if I felt disconsolate,
nobody would be able to tell.
I made up my mind right then, that if that was all it took to be termed ‘normal’, that was how it would be from now on. No matter what I felt, I would never show it. I would pretend everything was fine. I no longer felt as suicidal as I had done earlier. Maybe it was the lithium or maybe it was the O.T. routine. But I knew I was feeling definitely better than before.

The road from the coldness of the isolated prison that I had been trapped in, to this ‘safe zone’ which I was in now, had been a very rocky one. It had not been easy at all. It had nearly taken my life. But the fact was that I had made it and I was here now.

I discovered from Anuj and Sagar that during the 4.30-6.30 evening slot, one could either opt for volleyball, basketball or badminton in sports. If one did not want to play, one could do gardening. You had a choice of planting something in your own patch, which you would be allotted if you opted for gardening. But if you did not want to do it on your own, you could tend to the common plants in the garden. The garden was indeed beautiful.

While I enjoyed admiring and painting the flowers, I knew instantly that it was sports I would opt for. Sagar did not play but preferred gardening. Anuj played basketball and I decided to play with him.

Playing with Anuj that evening, every nerve in my body pulsated with life. Anuj won easily. I was panting and struggling to keep up with him. But, oh the joy! I felt so alive as sweat trickled down my forehead as I ran, playing my best. It had been very long since I had any kind of physical exercise and my muscles stretched and groaned as they were compelled back into action. I revelled in it, savoured it and glowed in the effort of the game. Later, we sat on the hard cement floor of the court, utterly worn out but thoroughly satisfied. I wiped the sweat off my face and drank cool water from a plastic bottle that Sagar brought to us, after his gardening. It felt like nectar.

“You two have 15 minutes to get out of those sweat drenched clothes and get ready,” said Sagar.

“The game was so good I had almost forgotten we have PT,” replied Anuj.

I figured out that it stood for psychotherapy when Sagar asked if I knew which doctor was assigned to me.

“I guess it must be Dr. Madhusudan,” I said. At least I hoped so.

“Usually it is only the junior doctors who come for psychotherapy. Dr. Madhusudan is very senior. Mine is Anjana Thomas. She is good,” said Anuj.

“Oh yeah! Don't we all know it!” said Sagar and I smiled.

It occurred to me that we were discussing psychotherapy and doctors like we used to discuss subjects and professors in college.

The psychotherapy sessions involved talking to whichever doctor was assigned to you. I hoped like mad that I would see Dr. Madhusudan. He had promised me that he would come and see me. I hoped he was not too busy and would remember. But my hopes were short-lived as I discovered that it was a junior doctor called Namita Deshmukh who was assigned to me.

“Hello Ankita. Do come in and sit down. I am Dr. Namita,” she said pleasantly and I noticed that the smile reached her eyes. She wore a saree and had a melodious voice. It looked like she meant her welcome but I was not completely at ease.

Then I noticed my file on her table.

“Ankita, I want to assure you that you are doing very well and we are all here to support you,” she said.

I nodded. I hated the fact that she had seen my life. I did not like that every bit of my past was written in those papers and she knew everything about it. I did not mind discussing it with Dr. Madhusudan, but I felt Dr. Namita had no right to know any of the past events that had changed my life so. It was as though she read my mind.

“Dr. M adhusudan has a special interest in your case and he will be here soon. He assigned me to you, and told me to fill in till he comes. We need not talk about anything if you don't want. We can just talk about movies or anything else that interests you.”

I was not sure how to react to her words. Finally I told her that I would wait for Dr. Madhusudan. We sat in silence and I think she was more uncomfortable than I was, because she did not know what to do.

Dr. Madhusudan arrived after about ten minutes. I was overjoyed to see him.

“Thank you Namita,” he said as he dismissed her and as she left I found myself relaxing instantly.

Dr. Madhusudan could see that too.

“Ankita, all the doctors are trained to help. Dr. Namita is very sweet and efficient. I had personally assigned her to your case. She has made an in depth study of your file,” he said.

“But doctor, that is precisely what is making me uncomfortable!” I exclaimed.

“Everything in the file is confidential, Ankita and I must assure you that only the doctors assigned to the case will have access to the personal information files,” he said.

That reassured me somewhat.

Then Dr. Madhusudan said that I was very talented and had a great gift for writing. He said I ought to nurture it. He also said my paintings were good and I should take it up further.

I was puzzled. How had Dr. Madhusudan known about my writing? There was only one way to know and I asked him.

“Ankita, the forty two page letter that you wrote to your friend was what gave us a clue about it. The letter had some brilliant lines and some superb prose. I am sorry we had to go through it all. We also studied your pictures. The ones you painted,” Dr. Madhusudan said.

I was baffled. How did the letter that I had written to Suvi reach them? How did they get my paintings? Oh my God! I had poured out my heart in that letter. It was not meant for anybody else's eyes other than Suvi's. How could she betray me like this? I was hurt, upset, annoyed yet a strange kind of relief also flooded through me, because now there was nothing more that I could hide from Dr. Madhusudan anymore. It felt liberating in a very strange manner. All my defences were laid bare. I was vulnerable and totally exposed, yet I felt completely safe.

“Ankita, your father was very worried about your behaviour while you were in Bombay. The suicide attempts disturbed him no end as it would disturb any parent. Your father is a pro-active person and he contacted your friend Suvi. He explained the whole situation to her. He had to convince her a lot about the gravity of the situation. Finally she mailed him a photocopy of the letter you wrote which is what we have in the file here. It was the letter which first pointed me in the direction of bipolar disorder. Yours is not a typical text book case, Ankita. This was why the earlier doctors who treated you were thrown off the track.”

I sat silently absorbing all that he had said. I imagined the letter being analysed and dissected. I pictured the doctors discussing the letter and then using medical terms to find patterns to a psychological disorder. I felt sick picturing it. I felt humiliated. I winced inwardly. Yet this dissection was what gave them an indication of what I was going through. This was what guided them in the right direction and they could control it and help me get out of its grip. I was confused now and the thoughts were going round in my head.

Dr. Madhusudan again sensed what I must have been thinking. Perhaps he had that rare understanding and sensitivity or perhaps he had that rapport with me. He seemed to know exactly what I was thinking and how I felt.

“Ankita, do you know something? Creativity is closely associated with bipolar disorder. This condition is unique. Many famous historical figures and artists have had this. Ye t they have led a full life and contributed so much to the society and world at large. See, you have a gift. People with bipolar disorder are very very sensitive. Much more than ordinary people. They are able to experience emotions in a very deep and intense way. It gives them a very different perspective of the world. It is not that they lose touch with reality. But the feelings of extreme intensity are manifested in creating things. They pour their emotions into either writing or art or whatever field they have chosen. Have you heard of Vincent Van Gogh, Ankita?” he asked. His voice was full of tenderness and concern.