The Other Side of Nowhere

I cannot say I was particularly pleased to hear about my transfer to Agra, not because I felt alien or anything working in a mental home, but just that I would miss my hometown a lot. Even the difficulties there seemed to be very friendly and had this cathartic influence on the flow of my life. But the Hippocratic oath required me to serve mankind, though very few of us grant lunatics the respect worthy of a human being. Hence one fine morning, I found myself neatly unpacking my stuff in front of the attendant of the psychiatric ward.

The place, as I feared, was not very friendly. Somehow it seemed that the place was unwilling to accept a Bengali doctor, since from the time of Lord Curzon there has been this stereotyping of Bengalis of being this cerebral, but soft and almost effeminate race. Hence controlling violent madmen and treating them was definitely not considered to be one of their strong points. And my five-foot five wiry frame did precious little to influence their prejudice.

The patients were as varied as it gets. There was this guy who was reclusive and seen around very little, but whenever he was, he used to strut around like a peacock. He bore a condescending smile on his face, managed a white cap from somewhere, wore it like our Chacha Nehru and expressed great concern for his fellow inmates. He also got hold of a few followers who would his ally in this farce of a King surveying his kingdom sorts. The sight was actually so real and hence so funny that on occasions I had this irrepressible urge to laugh at the 'politician' but restrained myself on grounds of humanity. After all, it wasn’t his fault that he was nutty.

Another crackpot who would sit at the gates, and then chase anybody who passed begging for something, which I could never make out at first. Later on closer attention, I figured that he was begging for money for the treatment of his child, when it known to all and sundry, that he was childless. I had taken up his case for treatment but couldn’t make much progress through the sheath of his complicated syndromes.

The one inmate who really touched me was a child. She would sit for hours and watch the butterflies argue over pollen grains, roll over in mirth in the air and being generally restless. She would keep very still, suddenly leap forward and catch hold of one and softly talk to it as her soft fingers would break the brittle colours of its wings. She would do this for hours, chase squirrels up the tree and imitate the huge ebony-hued crows.

But the worst of the lot, was a rogue who was convinced that he was a doctor and conducted mock sessions of diagnosis amongst patients and, can you beat it, my colleagues! He also had a train of fellow madcaps who played along like nurses and attendants. It was really difficult to keep them under control when they went violent and often we had to resort to less gentler means ourselves. Equally difficult was the task to convince them that we were the medical fraternity. In fact we never succeeded, for we were grossly outnumbered.

I must stop here.

They have come for my daily dose.