Some Thoughts About Life, and About Madness
When I woke up, I was still travelling. All through that night I travelled, taking my injured husband – ex-husband – with me. It all seemed to me like part of a surrealist movie shot in sepia tones. ‘What was there between him and me…’ That was my first thought when an unknown person called me to say that my husband had been injured. I found him lying on the verge of a dirt track cutting through the middle of a vast, arid plane. His right leg, severed at the knee, lay a few feet away. Blood and fluid still oozed from the wound, and the jagged edge of the bone protruded like a broken twig. It was only a leg, but it could have been cut with a bit more care, I thought. A flock of macaws, with wild expressions entirely unsuitable for their colourful bodies, tore at the exposed flesh. The pooled blood had dried in the merciless rays of the sun. He was crying loudly, but the moment he saw me, he said in a calm voice, ‘If you could just fetch me my leg, I could go to work.’ Without responding, I began walking towards his boss’s shed a little distance away. I had two objectives: one, arrange a vehicle to take him to a hospital, and two, try and get some money from his employer. Not only did that unnaturally handsome and complete bore of a man deny me even a single paisa but the vehicle that arrived was a pick-up van instead of the ambulance I was expecting.
I had to take him to his village. But my mind told me that his family would not accept the responsibility of looking after him, and that this one-legged man would end up being my burden for the rest of his time. As I sat on the bare floor of the pick-up van and travelled through that desert-like place in the intense heat, I wished I loved him. It would have made this journey more meaningful.
You must have come across such people, those who age prematurely for no apparent reason, who wake up from a night’s sleep with faces lined with a lifetime of misery. Scientists say that our dreams last only for a few seconds, but for some people, there is unspeakable trauma in their dreams, the kind of trauma they would have never experienced in their waking lives, that drives them to madness.
When I woke up, I was in a deep pond of sorrow. Why did such unbearable dreams come in search of me?
When my brain finally adjusted to reality, I was Maria. Maria who had misplaced a few years of her life. Or, as Mama would say, Maria who had wasted her life; Maria who had wasted her time … Maybe I am wasting my time, but what else can I do with it? I have nothing else to do except to let it pass, let it go to waste. Who was it, I wonder, that discovered time was a thing to be used…
Earlier, my idea about life – not that I have given it much thought – was that being alive was something super. But now, when I think about life, what comes to mind is that clichéd bit of dialogue from Hollywood films: ‘LIFE SUCKS’.
Human life up until the age of twenty is nothing to be taken seriously. All it amounts to is the sum total of ignorance, immaturity, stupidity, and above all else, arrogance. It doesn’t matter if it is Isaac Newton, Shakespeare or Socrates, there is no one who does not think about some idiotic thing they did before they were twenty and say ‘aiyye’ with an embarrassed laugh. Those years, in short, are wasted. The twenties are the time for planning life and dreaming about it. In our thirties, we try to build something out of life as it unfolds. The best thing about the forties is that we come to certain realizations, and with a deep sigh we accept the most significant of them – that life is rarely as we dream of it. And along with it, we finally learn a lesson that makes living somewhat easier, that there is only this much to life. In short, the best thing about the forties is that we can apply the wisdom gained from the life lived thus far to the rest of our life, and we can spend our fifties with the help of this wisdom. The sixties bring with them various bodily ailments and their accompanying mental ailments, and by the seventies, old age sets in, heralding a time of loneliness, pain, helplessness and vulnerability, a time when even those who lived a grand life understand that their life has, in the final reckoning, amounted to nothing much. A time when we realize that we, as human beings, have lived life like a worm and will die like a worm. Even the most famous writers, scientists or politicians will find that their accomplishments are of no help. I would very much like to write a book about the old age of a political leader or a family man who has lived a completely autocratic life.
Footsteps…
Nurse Sushama arrives with a tray in her hand and a smile on her face.
‘How are you today?’
I smile. Sushama places three tablets in my palm – yellow, blue and pink.
I look at those pills and think of Little Maria’s A for Apple B for Ball C for Cat knickers. Yellow, blue and pink.
Then I think of Aravind. Aravind who painted mad pictures in deep colours. Aravind who has not been in my mad mind for the last few years.
It was by being able to see the remnants of my dreams that Aravind became an indelible mark in my life. This is how it began:
The guest in my dream that night was a camel. With a hump filled with life-giving water and an expression of disdain against the whole world, it insinuated itself into my dream. As soon as it entered, it smiled broadly at me and introduced itself as the one from the story of the Arab who had allowed his camel to share his tent. I noticed that it continued chewing even as it told me the story.
‘The water in my hump is stored in a solid state,’ it said as though it had read my mind. ‘That’s what I am chewing.’
‘It’s not ice,’ it continued after a brief pause, but neglected to tell me what it was. ‘Do you think there is anyone in this world who would willingly allow a camel inside his tent? No such thing has ever happened.’
With that, it sauntered out of my dream.
The next morning, Aravind told me: ‘You know that story about the Arab and the camel? That’s not how it happened. The tent was actually where the camel was tethered. The Arab, tired after having walked a long way, asked the camel for a little space inside to lie down. The camel obliged. But soon the Arab felt that it was too cramped to lie down properly. So, he told the camel that he would show him a small pond that never dried out, took it there and tied it to a tree, and went back and spent a comfortable night in the tent. The next day the Arab told everyone the story of the heartless camel who had usurped his tent.’
I imagine that the dog that walked out of my dream the other night would have gone straight into Aravind’s dream. It was Yudhishthiran’s dog, the companion of the eldest Pandava prince in the Mahabharatham. In my dream, the dog told me that the other four Pandava brothers had failed to sever their earthly ties and engage fully in the pursuit of heaven, and so were denied entry.
‘Sahadevan worried about Kunthi, Nakulan about the fatherly love he was denied, Arjunan about Hastinapuri, and Bheeman about Panchali,’ the dog told me. ‘Yudhishthiran and I attained heaven because, in his intense desire to get there, he had forgotten all thought of earth, and I too had left nothing behind. But…’
The dog fell silent and sat there looking at me for a while. Then he walked out of my dream.
Although I desperately wanted to know the rest of what happened to Yudhishthiran’s dog, I didn’t tell anyone about it. Because everyone says that my mind is abnormal. That is how I ended up in this hospital. Madness, like death, is not a big deal to the world at large. Death is ‘the ultimate loss’ to the person dying, but it is inconsequential to the rest of the world. This is true of madness too. There are so many stories and films about people confined in psychiatric hospitals. Madness is often an easy solution for writers to conclude a story, especially stories with a hero or heroine in the grip of an existential crisis. And in comedy films, with some added exaggeration, it provides material to make the audience laugh. This, in short, is the world’s relationship with madness. In real life, though, madness is boring. No, actually real life is boring and madness might add a bit of interest to it. But it is a pointless comparison because, ultimately, both are terribly boring. As for me, things were boring right from the start.
I was ‘it’ then, before I became ‘he’ or ‘she’, the time when I floated around light as cotton.
I was a child who never wanted to be born. And when I was born, the shock of unexpectedly finding myself confined within a human form remained in me. Maybe that was why, as an infant, I did not inspire people to exclaim, ‘Yyoda chakkara! What a sweet little thing!’
To be honest, as I slid down a tunnel from the prison that was the womb, I was expecting to float away again. But it was an even bigger prison that awaited me at the end of that tunnel.
I am amazed when I hear people wax nostalgic about ‘mother’s womb’. I think it is a masculine thing – this nostalgia. I don’t think women spend time thinking about their mothers’ wombs. Poor things, men! Tender as touch-me-nots!
Having entered the prison outside, I was uneasy. People came up to me with the normal facial expressions reserved for newborns, but their smiles and affection quickly transformed into concern when they saw the expression on my face – anger, irritability. Their touch caused me actual pain.
I was dozing off in a short interval of no pain. I was dreaming that I was floating around as before, and a super-beautiful angel flew up to me and gave me a super-beautiful smile. When I came out of that dream and opened my eyes, I saw the angel right in front of my face, smiling at me. I smiled back.
‘Edee, look, the child is smiling at me! Come, look!’ the angel said, startling me with his excitement. Then I heard another voice.
‘You’ve lost your mind! Children don’t smile as soon as they are born!’
By then, having been startled by the angel, my face had settled into its usual expression. So, when the owner of the second voice came to check, what they saw was me lying there with my scowling face.
That angel was Appachan.
Anyway, I am getting back to normal now. They say that is why I have begun to remember things. That must be true, because the other day I woke up remembering an interesting episode from my marriage.
I shocked my parents, first by getting married to a man I loved. Then, when they had begun to accept the fact, I shocked them again by getting divorced.
‘What’s the problem?’
‘This is not what I want.’
‘Didn’t you know that before?’
‘I realized this was not what I wanted only when I understood what this was.’
My husband was also shocked when I told him I wanted out of the marriage. What I really meant was that I wanted out of all marriage, married life in general.
Then followed the expected questions and the not-so-expected answers…
‘But why?’
‘I want to be happy.’
‘Aren’t you happy now?’
‘Sometimes yes, and at other times, no.’
‘You do realize that’s just how life is, don’t you?’
‘That’s how life is as we know it. Another life should be possible.’
‘So, are you saying you can’t be happy with me?’
‘Not just with you, with anyone.’
‘You’re being selfish by considering only your happiness.’
‘Not at all. I am doing this because I want to show others, everyone, that another kind of happiness is possible.’
‘Are you mad?’
It is funny when you think about it. Me, with my crazy head, was going to show the world that another life was possible … Honestly! I feel I should apologize to my ex-husband.
‘Shall I switch on the TV?’ Sushama asks.
I nod. It has only been a few days since I got the TV in my room. As far as the inmates of this hospital are concerned, TV marks a milestone in their lives. Normally, we are not allowed to watch TV because the programmes would upset our tender minds. That they have allowed a TV in my room is proof that they believe I am on the mend, that I am normal adjacent.
The scenes on TV look exactly like those from the serials Saralachechi used to watch. The same women … the same silk saris … the same crying.
‘But Sushama, this one seems just like that old serial…’
‘It’s actually the same one!’
‘You mean they have gone on crying all these years?’
Sushama hands me the remote control and leaves. After so many years, the TV is my first companion, even though it had played an equal part, along with Appachan, Mathiri valyammachi and Chandippatti, in causing damage to my brain.
The serial makes me sad. I begin to miss Saralachechi, Radhika and Nimmi, and the big house where I had found peace. And more than anyone else, I miss Aisha. Aisha who had hated men, and then decided to live with a man anyway.
I cannot bear the sadness in the serial any more, so I switch to a news channel. The first piece of news I hear after many years is this: ‘American president receives a grand welcome in India.’ My mind anticipates the image of a smiling George Bush coming down the steps of the aeroplane into the melee of cameras.
The aeroplane and the cameras are exactly as I imagine, but the person who comes down the airstair with a broad smile on his face is a black man. ‘These idiotic channels!’ That is my first thought. But I quickly realize that in the few years I had lost hold of my mind, America had elected its first African American president.
This man, Barack Obama, who I am seeing for the first time, disturbs me. I think of Karthav Eesho Mishiha, Our Lord Jesus Christ, and the revolution of black people and all marginalized people that we had planned together. I watch this man – black-skinned but with the expressions and mannerisms of a proper white-skinned person – and think: ‘He has made my revolution redundant.’
Soon, though, my post-madness mind realizes, with a deep sense of nostalgia, that Karthav and the revolution we had planned together were products of my madness. I look at Him on the wall and tell myself, with the same sense of nostalgia, that it is only a picture. I am equally angry at Obama and at Karthav, and I feel like crying.
I was aware by then that normal people don’t cry over such foolishness. So, with great difficulty, I control my tears. I am sure that if I stopped myself from crying for a whole hour, I would win this battle. But is it necessary to win battles with such difficulty? Is this what everyone calls normal, practical life?
I am desperate to talk to someone. Aravind is too far away. And Appachan … Appachan was in the earth, hunched and frozen in his grave. I remember the Maria who sat on the wet mud and hit it with her fist after Appachan was put under it.
To escape the sea of sorrow, I walk out of my room. On the veranda, Captain Vijayaraghavan and Sunanda teacher stand together as usual.
Sunanda teacher lost her mind after the death of her three children…
Water was the villain in her story. Her oldest son, who had won several trophies for swimming, had drowned in a river. Her second child – a nine-year-old daughter – died in a boating accident. News channels had milked the incident for all it was worth as several small children had lost their lives. From then on, Sunanda teacher began to fear rivers. It was hard to have a third child, but she did, eventually – a smart little boy. She refused to let him see rivers even from afar, banished them from their lives, and brought him up in a house secured within high boundary walls. But his destiny was to drown in the water tank in the yard when he was only two years old.
Captain Vijayaraghavan was a man who had to pay the price for patriotism with his sanity. All he had ever wanted to do was to be a soldier, one who protected his country and his people. Many were the childhood dreams in which he had vanquished imaginary enemies and saved his motherland, and when he grew up, he joined the army to realize those dreams. In the thirty-odd years that followed, he witnessed several large and small encounters and countless deaths including those of his close friends. Now, even the smallest sound terrifies him and makes him run for cover.
What I am trying to say is that everyone here has a reason for their madness – everyone except me. I became mad without a clear and concise reason. My madness is the result of a careless mind, and because of it, I see myself as beneath everyone else here.
Despite being surrounded by mad people, this hospital is a good place to live. It is only the sense of calmness that pervades the place that would make you wonder whether this was a psychiatric hospital. I can live here comfortably as long as my brother Mathew continues to pay the bills. He is a successful doctor in America. Still, one can’t say how long his wife will let him squander away his money.
I don’t usually step out of my room. What is the point in hanging out with these mad people? But when it is dark, it is difficult. The sounds of the night, especially the song of the cicada, irritate me. Aravind and I have a friend, Vinayakan, who is the one who pointed out that the cicada makes one of the loudest noises – occha – of all creatures. It should have been called occhu, but that name is given to the slow, soundless snail. Malayalam is a crazy language, he used to say. That, in fact, is one of the most intelligent comments I have ever heard. Vinayakan is a great chess player, but he went totally mad and now just wanders around. Chess is dangerous that way. It makes us use our brains way too intensely until the brain gets fed up and pisses off. I guess now you’ll ask me how come Viswanathan Anand is not mad. Well, have you looked at his face? There is no way he will ever be mad. Anand is very practical and controlled, like a computer system. He even knows that this part of the brain should be used seventy per cent while that part should be used thirty per cent. I am not saying this because I have watched Anand play chess. In fact, I don’t know chess. I know this because it is written on his face. But Bobby Fischer was troubled like Vinayakan. Take note when people respond to questions with ‘I don’t know’, that is an important sign of madness, the inability to be decisive.
About Vinayakan’s madness … In addition to abusing his brain, he also partakes of all the drugs in the world. He used to go to the Himalayas once every six months in search of top quality charas. Sometimes he would stay there for a long time. He doesn’t have relatives like my brother Mathew, so he is still free to wander the wide world with his mad head. He tried teaching me chess once, but I knew I couldn’t get it because I am incapable of concentrating on anything for more than a minute.
Nothing I have said about Vinayakan and his madness is exactly true. The fact is that his normal state of being is what others call madness, and when he realized this fact, he embraced it. This is true of ninety per cent of mad people. It is when they adapt to a state of being that is most suited to who they are that we start calling them mad. I don’t know about people who become violent when mad – I don’t usually understand anything to do with violence.
As for my madness…
Several opinions exist on the subject of my madness.
Mama, my birth mother, says that she can’t remember even a minute when I was not mad. ‘She was born mad,’ she told my doctor, ‘I didn’t waste much time thinking about it.’
Ammachi – she is actually Mama’s ammachi and my grandmother – says Appachan is responsible for my madness.
Then there is Mathew, trying continuously to convince me and himself that I am not mad. From the time we were children, he stood careful watch over my mad mind and mad life even though he knew it was pointless. The funny thing is that he often slips my mind!
And Aravind … he says I became mad when I was born. Poor Aravind! I wanted to marry him.