I looked at the books arranged neatly on my desk and felt sick. Whether it was the medication or my state of mind, I do not know, but I went to the toilet and threw up violently. I had no idea of the time of the day. It was always dark in my room, anyway. I sat for what seemed like hours next to the toilet bowl, throwing up every now and then. Finally too exhausted even to stand, I curled up and slept on the bathroom floor. I must have been a sight with dishevelled hair, blood shot eyes and dried vomit caking my mouth. A bit of it on was on my clothes too. I was woken up by my mother.
“Oh God! Get up, get up,” she was shaking me, holding my shoulders. “How long have you been lying here?”
I opened my eyes with a great effort. The light stung them and I scrunched up my eyes to avoid the shaft of light that was piercing them like sharp needles. I had no idea of time. I had probably slept the whole night on the bathroom floor. I felt sicker than even before. But my stomach was empty and there was nothing more I could throw up. The bitter retching continued to wrack my body even as I tried to control it.
“Wash your face and rinse your mouth, you will feel better,” said my mother.
I did as I was told and went and lay down in my room again.
I felt completely useless. Even little things seemed impossible to do now. I felt stupid, dumb and totally inadequate. All I seemed to be able to do was to lie in my bed from morning to night. It was the only thing that I was capable of doing. It was as though the light that was inside me had gone out. It was a dark hole and I had no idea when it would end. St. Agnes and everything that had happened there seemed a distant dream. Even my getting admission into a management institute seemed like something that had happened to someone else. I did not feel like the same person anymore. I could not come to terms with it.
T o be trapped like this in one's own body is a fate worse than death. With death, at least there is an end. Here the suffering is endless. You cannot run from yourself. The torment is bestial. I constantly felt as though somebody was tearing out my heart from the ribcage, severing the arteries, yanking it out, tossing it aside and then stomping over it, squelching it under heavy feet. All I could do was watch helplessly. I felt this day in and day out. Every waking hour was a cruel reminder of what I had once been. I was in a worse state than before and my parents took me back to see Dr. Mukta. I accompanied them without a fuss. She wanted to talk to me alone, like before.
Looking at her now, I felt frightened. I felt like a rat that they use in scientific experiments. The rage I felt towards her earlier was now replaced by naked fear. My hands were trembling when I faced her. They were cold and I clutched them hard, rolling my palms into a fist. I felt like an injured animal and wanted to hide in the safety and darkness of my room. Here in her clinic, with her cold eyes studying my every move, I felt disrobed and vulnerable. I wanted to scream but I was too terrified to even let out a whimper.
“And how are we now Ankita?” she asked brightly in her falsetto professional voice.
I could not answer.
“Medicines working well?” she asked. I felt like there was mockery too in her tone.
I clenched my fists tighter. My heartbeats increased. There was cold sweat beginning to trickle down my armpits, beneath my clothes. I could not meet her eyes. I looked down and looked away.
Finally, perhaps tired of my unresponsiveness, she called my parents in.
“It may seem as though the medicines are not taking effect, but trust me, this is how it is supposed to proceed,” she said.
These were the words my parents wanted to hear.
“She is sleeping better than before and the restlessness is so much under control,” she said.
But I feel dead inside. Don't you realise you are killing me bit by bit?
My parents nodded eagerly, lapping up every word, taking comfort in her assurances.
“There is one more medicine I would like to introduce her to, this week. It will help her mind to focus as it will bring her serotonin levels back to normal” she said smoothly and wrote out a new prescription with a practised flourish.
“Is this in addition to the ones she is taking?” asked my dad.
“Yes,” she replied. The one she is taking is just a mild relaxant which was to calm her down. This is the real treatment. You will see the difference. I will see you after two more weeks.”
I was totally helpless. I did not want more medication. I wanted my poems back. I wanted my pictures back. They were the only hope I had and they had vanished. But I had no choice in the matter.
The new medicine left a strange kind of dryness in my throat that seemed to be perpetually scratching it from inside. It made me very uncomfortable. I felt an odd kind of restlessness. I felt like throwing up all the time, but it was only retching and nothing came out. When I slept I suddenly woke up in cold sweat, breathing hard. It felt like I had been pushed into a living hell.
I sat at my desk staring at my books. I looked at the Kotler book which was on top of the pile of books neatly arranged. At one time I had revelled in its contents greedily devouring it. I opened it yet again hoping to be comforted by familiar words and phrases. I felt that the earlier inability to read and absorb would now have vanished and it would all come back easily to me. I was wrong. When I opened it and tried to read, frustration, panic and rage gripped me once again. It was just the same as before. Nothing had changed. In blind anger I once again grabbed the reading light and sent it flying across the room. I threw the Kotler book too against the wall and it fell with a heavy thud. Then I smashed the ceramic cup that had pens and pencils on to the ground. The cup shattered and the pens scattered in all directions. Then in a fury I began tearing up the notes I had meticulously made. I was breathing hard and there were tears running down my face. The commotion made my parents come running.
I stopped dead in my tracks when I realised that they were watching me in shock, not knowing what to do. Girls expressing rage like this was not something that was easily accepted in Indian society. They did not know what to do or how to deal with it. I too was slightly shocked with my violent reaction.
Later when I went to the bathroom, I happened to catch sight of my full length reflection and got a jolt. Gone was the pencil thin me. I did not recognise the apparition that was giving me a startled look from the mirror. I had gained so much weight in all the time that I had stayed home, just lying in bed. In place of my eyes were frightened slits that gazed back at me. My cheeks were puffed up. I had even developed a pot belly. My hair was dishevelled and knotty. I did not remember when I had combed it last. My skin had taken on an unhealthy shade of pale yellow like someone afflicted with jaundice.
My ordeals were far from over. I had to meet Dr. Mukta again the following week with my parents. She then said to continue with the same medication but adjusted the dosage and made it a higher dose.
It was the proverbial last straw that broke the camel's back. I was already broken but this crushed me completely and totally.
The biggest irony was that everybody felt that I was indeed getting better and would soon resume my classes. But nobody had a clue as to what was really happening.
On the outside, I looked like death.
And inside, I felt like it.
I was tired of it all. I wanted it to end. There was only one way out of this misery. It was my only escape.
Quietly but determinedly I made up my mind to take my own life.
18
A plan for a final exit
It was after nine more weeks of misery, hopelessness and excruciating agony that I finally gathered enough courage and attempted to kill myself the second time.
My parents eventually figured out that Dr. Mukta's medication had not been effective and I had shown no signs of improving. They dragged me to a second psychiatrist, supposedly one of the best in the whole country. He made Dr. Mukta seem like an angel.
Appointments had to be made weeks in advance. He was one of the busiest psychiatrists in the country, I w
as told. My parents considered it fortunate that he had agreed to examine me. I felt no gratitude, no happiness. I was numb with pain and the senselessness of it. I was silent and refused to speak to either of my parents. When they asked me to accompany them, I went along quietly.
His clinic was tiny and despite being on time for the appointment, we had to wait for nearly an hour and forty minutes before he could see us. The tiny waiting room was cramped with a whole lot of people. I averted their gaze and looked down at my feet as we waited. Dr. Kohli was bald, over weight and had a French beard. He seemed to be a smoker too judging by the stench of tobacco in his little cabin, where he examined patient's day in and day out.
He did not even speak to me and merely wrote out prescription for more medication. He spoke to my parents as though I did not exist. Dr. Mukta had at least made an effort, however professional it was, to at least attempt to find out how I was feeling. Dr. Kohli seemed to think that such niceties were a waste of time especially when he had hundreds of patients clamouring for his attention, jostling for space in that tiny clinic on the third floor of an old building with narrow derelict stairs, in a crowded Bombay suburb.
Increasingly, as each day passed, I was convinced about the futility of my existence. I felt a mounting sense of despair not only about my inability to do anything remotely useful but also about the stress and strain I was putting my parents through. They still believed I would get better and refused to give up on me. They saw to it that I took the medication that Dr. Kohli had prescribed diligently. What he drugged me with, seemed to me thrice the amount that Dr. Mukta had given. I was perpetually like a zombie and had settled down into my new persona with ease. I was too tired to fight, too tired to argue and too tired to protest. It was as though I had accepted that this was my fate.
I began avoiding all human contact. I did not want to run into anybody from my residential complex. I did not want to make conversation with anybody or explain why I was not going to college anymore to anyone. I lived in constant terror of meeting people and facing people. I did not want anyone to see me in this state. I was overweight, ugly and drab. I was no longer what I used to be and could not stand myself. My sense of humour and my quick wit had vanished completely. I could not even make small conversation anymore. I was a burden not only on my parents but also on my own self. My existence was completely pointless. There was only one way out of this mess and that was to end my own life.
I had been contemplating various methods of suicide quite clinically. I had thought about it for weeks. I thought of slashing my wrists and then submerging them in a bucket of water which would ensure that I bled to death. In the movies, they usually do it in bathtubs. But our bathroom had no bath tub and the closest I could think of was a bucket of water which would do the trick. There were two reasons why I decided against this method. It would be messy the next day and also this was a slow method. I was not sure if I would have that much of sustenance as to hold my hands under the water all the time till life ebbed out. The other method I considered was pouring kerosene all over myself and getting burnt like the letters. But here too what terrified me was the chance of failure. I had seen photographs of people with third degree burns. If I failed, the suffering would be unimaginable. I would get cooked from the inside. Also there was a risk of permanent disfigurement. Then I thought of hanging from the ceiling fan which was the most common method used in movies. I could easily use my mother's saree which was what they did in the movies. But I was not sure if I would be able to make the loop correctly. Besides I was not sure if I could go through with it. It involved too many parameters all of which had to work for it to be successful. Then I also contemplated on an overdose of my medication. I knew that my medication was kept on top of the refrigerator and all I had to do was swallow them all and then lie down in my bed and go. This one appealed to me but I was not sure if the tablets would be lethal enough. I was not sure of what effect it would have. I also was not sure whether my body could take it all or whether I would throw it up. So I ruled out this option too. Finally the only one which seemed most likely to work was jumping off the terrace of the building I lived in. Death would be certain and quick. I winced only for a moment when I pictured my body hitting the hard concrete, the momentum and impact that would crush my bones and perhaps my skull and make my heart cease working. I was sure that I would feel the pain only for a few seconds. I had read that if one were to fall from a height of fifty feet it would be lethal. I would be jumping off the eighth floor –therefore I could be certain of death.
It must have been around eleven, in the night when I crept out quietly.
I went up to the terrace of my building. Usually it was not locked as the maintenance people went to the terrace often for fixing television antennas, and tending to other problems like water tanks and plumbing lines. I went out to the terrace. The cold night air hit me. I took in a deep breath.
I looked at the night sky with a million twinkling stars. I remembered my night at the fresher's party on another terrace in Bombay where I was teasing Joseph, threatening to jump off. The irony of the situation struck me now. There was no Joseph now to tease and I only wanted to die now.
I went to the edge of the wall of the terrace and looked down. The hard concrete pavement eight floors below stared at me, as if daring me to jump. The cars were parked in neat rows in pre designated parking slots. Beside them I could see the tree tops. I peered a little further, and walked along the edge of the wall, choosing a spot to jump. I did not want to land in anyone's balcony. I had to pick a spot where there were no balconies or no saving spaces of any kind underneath. The best spot was where the toilets were located. There were only plumbing lines here that ran along the height of the wall.
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 ri
sen 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.
Life Is What You Make It A Story Of Love, Hope And How Determination Can Overcome Even Destiny Page 13