The Illicit Happiness of Other People: A Novel

by Manu Joseph

  ‘What is this state, Doctor?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So you have not met anybody who is in an extraordinary state of sanity?’

  Iyengar answers with a blank face. ‘A neuropsychiatrist would be the last person to meet such a being, isn’t that true, Ousep?’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘But neuroscience does recognize the delusion of a group of people as a form of mental instability. There is the Folly of Three, and the Folly of Four and even the Folly of Many, which is sometimes used to describe the mass hysteria in the adolescent girls of a school, or the sort of people and their master who wait for alien contact, or wait for the arrival of The One. But they all come under the basic principles of the Folly of Two. There is usually a primary agent, whose powerful delusion is passed on to the secondary agents, and they start corroborating each other’s delusions. They start seeing visions, hearing things.’

  ‘So it is never equal. Two people in the Folly of Two are never equally deluded.’

  ‘Rarely.’

  ‘So there is always a primary and a secondary?’

  ‘Yes. A primary agent and a secondary agent.’

  ‘Alpha-Beta.’

  Iyengar nods, drums the table with his fingers, fixes Ousep with an indecipherable stare.

  ‘I am reminded of an old case. Not very old, actually. It is another classic case of the Folly of Two. Can I tell you?’

  ‘Yes, you must, I am grateful.’

  ‘I know you are, Ousep. I know. There were two brothers, twins, not identical twins but fraternal twins. When I met them they were in their late teens, which is when these things happen to boys. Adolescence is a very dangerous period in the lives of philosophically oriented males. The brothers, they were cartoonists, very good cartoonists. They showed me their comics. The comics were about powerful supervillains fighting underdog superheroes. Not surprising at all, you will understand why. I don’t remember the names of the boys now but I remember what they called themselves – Alpha and Beta. That is how they signed their comics. Strange, because that was what they turned out to be. Alpha and Beta.

  ‘Alpha was schizophrenic. He believed that the early human race was in the trance of a great vision, which has now been lost. He believed, and he probably still believes, that some people, by pure chance, see the original vision, a vision without thought, a vision of the entire universe that is immeasurably beautiful. Meanwhile, the others, almost all of humanity, are trapped in what is generally considered human nature. Some days, Alpha heard voices, voices of ancient people who have seen the great hallucination, guiding him, asking him to lock himself in a room for days and meditate so that he could prepare himself to see what they saw. Alpha passed his delusion on to Beta. Beta was not entirely normal but as a doctor I would not diagnose him as schizophrenic. But, under the influence of Alpha, he started believing in the vision. Some days, he, too, started seeing visions and hearing voices. The boys stopped going to college. They started acting weird. Their father forced them to meet me.

  ‘The boys did not like me much. They thought I was with the dark forces, they thought my purpose was to brand people like them mad and lock them up. They refused to meet me but their father kept forcing them. One day, Alpha walked into this room and picked up a paperweight and threw it at me. He missed, fortunately. But then he held me by my shirt and started shaking me as if the truth would then spill out of my ears. I yelled like a fool. The peons came and saved me.’

  ‘When was this, Doctor?’

  ‘About three years ago.’

  ‘Was that the last time you saw Alpha? The day he attacked you?’

  ‘Yes, that was the last time. But a few weeks later something interesting happened. Alpha sent a message through a friend.’

  Iyengar opens the drawer of his table and takes out a folder, which contains handwritten letters, short printed notes, medical certificates and yellowing pages from Sanskrit books. He takes out a sheet of paper from the folder and hands it to Ousep. ‘Alpha sent this,’ he says.

  On the sheet is a brilliant caricature of Iyengar. At the bottom of the portrait is a short message: ‘I am sorry.’ And it is signed ‘Alpha’. But the style of the cartoon very clearly points to Unni. Unni’s caricatures are austere portraits, he did not exaggerate any part of the face, he was true to all dimensions and there was no attempt at humour. It was as if he found the human face funny enough, so he did not try hard. The quality of the paper, its density and colour, is the same as the pages of Unni’s notebooks. Also, from what Ousep has seen of Alpha, he does not appear to be the sort of person who would care to apologize. In all probability, the messenger was Unni and the message was his.

  Iyengar asks a surprising question. ‘Do you think the portrait was done by Alpha?’ Ousep decides to be silent. He realizes that the conversation is not in his control any more, it probably never was.

  ‘The friend whom Alpha had sent was a cartoonist,’ Iyengar says, extending his hand to retrieve the portrait and carefully inserting it back in the folder. ‘I forget the boy’s name but I remember his face very well. A handsome boy, there was something about his face, his stare. He was younger than Alpha. He told me he was seventeen.’

  The boy starts a conversation with the doctor about the Folly of Two. ‘That boy knew a lot about the subject. He obviously had been reading about it. He even knew about my position on mass delusions.’

  At some point, the boy tells the doctor about his hypothesis – that the objective of every human delusion is to spread to other brains. Iyengar, naturally, does not take an adolescent’s theory seriously enough to offer a scientific opinion, but he enjoys the conversation that follows.

  ‘It was a rich conversation. I enjoyed talking to him.’

  The boy asks him whether there is a possibility that enlightenment is just a schizophrenic condition. All the sages who turned into anthills beneath tropical trees in the search for truth, and all the saints and the gods, what if they were just schizophrenics? Iyengar accepts, with complex qualifiers, that he has seen patients who exhibit the enlightenment syndrome, who believe that they are one with the universe, who feel that their bodies are mere vehicles of an eternal condition. Iyengar has seen people who believe they are gods with many hands, demons with many heads, giants of astronomical sizes, even illuminated white doves that speak. He has met men whose dreams contain coded messages from heaven. The boy finds it funny that men and women whose mental conditions have specific names in neuropsychiatry today were, in another time, gods. He finds it funny, and strangely satisfying, that the pursuit of truth is in all likelihood a path left behind by ancient schizophrenics.

  ‘As we were chatting, at some point the boy probably realized that I could not continue talking to him. I had work to do. But he wanted to hold my attention. So he had to make himself valuable. He had researched me, Ousep, he knew a lot about me, he knew what I would fall for. He told me, “Doctor, I know someone with the Cotard Delusion.” I was hooked. The boy had me. The Cotard Delusion is a very rare form of schizophrenia. It is also called the Corpse Syndrome. A person with this condition would feel as if he were a living corpse, that he was rotting inside, that he was actually dead and hence eternal. It is a strange philosophical state, but also an extreme case of depression, and the only reason the corpse does not kill himself is that he thinks he is dead anyway. I had never directly interviewed a person with the Cotard Delusion. Not many doctors in the world have. And here was a boy in my room who claimed that he knew someone with the condition. Someone very close to him, he said, but did not reveal any details.’

  The boy and Iyengar meet several times over four weeks. The boy wants to understand the world of delusions, and Iyengar wants to meet the corpse. They spend hours together, Iyengar even lets the adolescent meet some of his patients. They form a relationship, a bizarre fellowship. Every time they meet, Iyengar asks the boy about the corpse and the boy says that the corpse does not want to meet the doctor yet. ‘Then o
ne day, the boy simply vanishes. He stops coming. I don’t see him again. This was three years ago.’

  Iyengar leans back in his chair, crosses his fingers. ‘Now, Ousep, I’ve told you everything you may want to know. Is there something you would like to tell me?’

  ‘The boy’s name is Unni.’

  ‘Unni, yes, that was his name. Unni Chacko.’

  The doctor leans forward, and asks in a gentle tone, but without compassion or curiosity or fear, ‘Where is Unni?’

  ‘He is dead.’

  Iyengar nods. ‘How did he die?’

  ‘He killed himself.’

  Iyengar nods again. ‘When was this, Ousep?’

  ‘Three years ago. Sixteenth May 1987.’

  ‘And you have been trying to find out why he died?’

  ‘Yes. One of the people I met was Alpha. He asked me to meet you. He said you would know who the corpse is. And the corpse would know why Unni did what he did.’

  ‘How did Alpha know about the corpse?’

  ‘Unni used to talk about the corpse. He had told several people about the corpse.’

  ‘So the corpse does exist. He was not lying.’

  ‘Yes. He knew a corpse. I was hoping you would know who that is.’

  ‘I am sorry, Ousep. I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t seem very surprised by his death, Doctor.’

  ‘In my line of work I have no room to be surprised. But if it is grief that you are actually asking about, I will deal with it when I am alone, which is most of the time.’

  Ousep’s scribbling pad and pen lie on the desk like the props of a farce. He puts them back in his trouser pockets, which makes Iyengar smile. ‘There is something else I want to ask you, Doctor,’ Ousep says. ‘Unni used to play a prank with people. He would ask a person to think of a two-digit odd number. The chances of his guessing the number right were roughly one in forty-five. He would always guess the number as thirty-three. That way, by pure chance, he would get it right sometimes. There are people who still think Unni could read minds. They don’t remember that he had asked them to think of a two-digit odd number, that he had reduced the odds; they only remember that Unni had somehow read what was in their mind. Why do you think Unni did it?’

  Iyengar shakes his head. ‘I’ve no idea, Ousep. But listen, not everything he did need have any relevance to his death. He was an adolescent. He discovered a great prank. There is probably nothing more to it.’

  They sit in silence, without any discomfort between them. The old man, too, is remembering Unni perhaps. He puts his elbows on the desk and asks, ‘Is there anybody you know who was very close to Unni who appears to fit the description I gave you of the Cotard Delusion? Anybody? Family, friends, the guard in your building, it could be anybody.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The boy told me that he was very close to the corpse. It is highly probable that the corpse would know something important about him.’

  ‘Can you take a guess, Doctor? Why would Unni kill himself?’

  ‘I cannot, Ousep. I am as clueless as you are. I gather you have interviewed everyone who matters.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Except the corpse?’

  ‘Yes. Except the corpse.’

  ‘And there is nobody you know who could be the corpse?’

  ‘Did Unni ever tell you about a boy called Somen Pillai?’

  ‘No. Who is Somen Pillai?’

  ‘He was Unni’s closest friend. But I have not been able to meet him. He does not want to meet me. Every time I go to his house, his parents send me back saying he is not at home.’

  ‘Can you describe this person to me?’

  ‘I’ve met him only once and that was three years ago. He was shy, he did not talk much. He did not always look me in the eye. That is all I can say about him.’

  ‘You know nothing more about him?’

  ‘All his classmates say he spoke very rarely. When he was in a room it was as if he did not exist, he was one of those invisible types.’

  ‘Was his hair neatly combed?’

  ‘Yes, it was combed.’

  ‘Did he have a hairstyle?’

  ‘Nothing flamboyant.’

  ‘And his clothes? They were clean and smart?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he use the word “I” to refer to himself? Was he aware of his self?’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ Ousep says.

  ‘Did he have plans? Did he have a concept of the future, his own future?’

  ‘I can’t be sure.’

  ‘Still,’ Iyengar says, leaning back and resting his head comfortably on the chair, ‘he could be the corpse. There is a corpse in this boy, I feel.’

  7

  The Folly of Two

  THOMA HAS TRIED EVERYTHING to diminish Mythili in his mind. He has searched her face for the hint of a moustache, he has imagined her naked and laughed at her shame, he has imagined her on the commode though he does not really believe she would ever do anything as cheap as that. But all his methods have failed and he now accepts that he must quietly suffer his adoration.

  ‘Do you know about the sun and the moon?’ he asks to show her his range of interests. They are in her room, she sitting with her legs folded on her bed, and he sitting on a plastic chair facing her.

  ‘What about the sun and the moon?’

  ‘The sun is a thousand times larger than the moon.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘But they are positioned in space in such a way that from Earth they appear to be the same size in the sky.’

  ‘I never thought of it that way.’

  ‘Unni told me that.’

  ‘So what if they are the same size?’

  ‘They are exactly the same size in the sky, Mythili. It is a mystery how they ended up where they are in space so that they look equal in the sky. They are where they are because that is the only way there can be life on Earth.’

  ‘But that is circular logic,’ she says.

  Thoma pretends he knows what circular logic is, he nods his head.

  ‘I have an English teacher,’ Mythili says. ‘She tells us, “Girls, isn’t it amazing that the boiling point of water is exactly one hundred degrees. What a nice round number the Lord has given us.”’

  Thoma laughs to show he understands. They fall silent, as they usually do. But he knows they have a lot to talk about these days. He does not have to bring up Unni any more, she asks him herself. She is very curious to know what his father has discovered. Thoma tells her the bits and pieces he has gathered from his father’s drunken confessions to the ceiling fan, and from what his mother has told him. Mythili’s face grows sad when she listens.

  She usually lifts her mood by recounting her memories of Unni – most of them unremarkable things, which she greatly exaggerates. Like Unni’s mind-reading abilities. ‘How could Unni know which card I had picked. Remember, Thoma? I started taking the whole pack of cards to my room, shutting the door and then picking a card. And when I stepped out, Unni would guess it correctly. Then I started going to the terrace like a fool to pick the card. But he would always guess what was in my mind. I have picked a card and torn it into many pieces, too, but he would always guess it.’

  She goes on and on as if she really believes that Unni could read minds, and she has this annoying smile on her face. Thoma cannot bear it any more. He tells her, ‘It was a trick. He didn’t read your mind. Nobody can read minds.’

  ‘But then how did he do it?’

  ‘He didn’t do it. He didn’t do anything.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I did it.’

  Mythili’s face turns serious; she has never looked at Thoma with so much concentration. He tells her, ‘Remember? I was always around when you picked the card. I was this little boy whom nobody noticed. I was invisible. That’s what Unni told me and he was right. I would be standing right behind you when you picked the card. In your room, on the stairway, on the terrace, I was always around. B
ut you never saw me. Unni taught me how to make the signs to pass the message to him behind your back. Sometimes Unni would pretend that he could not guess the card. Then we would wait for you to go to the kitchen or the bathroom and I would slip the card in one of your books.’

  She folds her arms, and looks away with a sad smile. ‘I wish you had not told me, Thoma,’ she says. ‘It was my sweetest memory of Unni.’

  Thoma had once promised Unni that he would never reveal the secret. ‘Many, many years later, Thoma, she will ask you, “How did Unni do it?” But you should not tell her. You must never tell her.’

  ‘I will not tell anyone, Unni. It is our secret.’

  ‘Our secret, Thoma. Only two people in this world know this secret. Unni Chacko and Thoma Chacko.’

  Thoma feels a powerful silence within him. It is not sorrow or shame, or anything as ordinary as that. It is merely silence, there is no other way to describe it. He sees his betrayal of his brother for what it is – an act of pettiness. Thoma asks himself why he is petty and why Unni never was. Unni did not want anything. Unni Had No Expectations from Life. So Unni had no reasons to be afraid. Thoma wants so many things from the world, from people. That is why he is afraid, and that is why he is petty.

  Later in the evening, he walks to the churchyard, leans on the bare white trunk of a eucalyptus tree and stands facing Unni’s grave, and tells him what has happened. Thoma does not move his mouth when he speaks to his brother. There is too much shame in appearing to talk to yourself, as he knows better than most people. He talks about this and that, updates Unni about their mother and the state of their father. And he describes Mythili to him. ‘She is taller than her mother now, Unni. She speaks very softly now, she does not scream, she does not fight, she does not sing, actually she does not talk a lot now. She is not a motormouth any more.’