By Neera Kashyap
It took me a long time to understand that before each ‘episode’, Ma would have her mood. I was eleven on the first occasion. It was a Sunday and already noon, but Ma hadn’t bathed nor started preparing lunch. Still in her faded printed nightgown, she sat staring at the opposite wall, her small thin face drooped in confusion. Suddenly her expression turned stony, her right hand twitched as she waved it about, shooing something away. She got up hastily, asked for my earphones and plugged them in to music on her phone. Still her hand twitched. Her grey eyes narrowed in a strange mix of fear and hate, mostly fear. Her kinky uncombed hair felt alive with electricity. She muttered that her limbs hurt, her head felt on fire and that the voices wouldn’t go. By evening, she sat armed with a rolling pin and once threw it wildly across the room, bringing a copper jug crashing. Then she turned towards me, the rolling pin still poised in her hand. My fear was like electricity throbbing down my spine. But she only broke down and wept. Often, she felt that a snake had coiled around her — alive and poisonous. I would miss my father terribly. He would know what to do, for he was gentle and caring, but worked as a geologist far, far away in Saudi Arabia.
Before my father came and visits to the psychiatrist began, I spoke on the phone about Ma to Nani, my maternal grandmother. A widow, she lived in a distant town with her son’s family. Her voice crackled with concern, not so much for Ma as for me:
“Sushma has been possessed by a spirit. If only I could take her to the village. We would call a jagariya[1] to get rid of this…this evil thing. We don’t know when these spirits can come, take possession. Sometimes after 10, 20, 40 years. You be careful, Meenu. Just pray to Goddess Gaura Devi. She will protect you. She knew what it was to suffer, to be poor and hungry. Will you be alright, Meenu? Will you be brave? Talk to me often, theek[2]?”
“Evil spirit”? I gulped. My heart thudded like a big drum, its dull boom echoing through my body. My eyes filled with tears. Could Ma’s trouble be infectious? Would I also hear voices? Would I need ear plugs to shoo them off?
Ma began to sleep less and less during the nights. She would wander about and switch on lights wherever she went. Yet she was particular that she woke up on time to prepare my school tiffin. For this she used two phone alarms, each going off with different musical tones that rang without cheer. She cared less and less about how she looked as she walked me to the bus stop. Hunched in her night clothes, her hair all frizzy, her gaze faraway, her face unsmiling, she stopped joining other parents who chatted with each other. From my bus window, I would watch her slump away alone. More than discomfort, I would be embarrassed by what others thought of her, scared they would know that there was something wrong.
Baba[3]’s trips from Saudi Arabia became more frequent, though they continued brief. First there was a long tussle between him and Ma on the need for a psychiatrist. She said she was fine, except for this constant sadness, the same thoughts repeating themselves like objects stuck in a groove, in voices that seemed real. One evening she announced: “I have royal blood, the blood of the Panwar kings. We ruled for many centuries. The Nepalis came, they tried to destroy us, occupy our land. But we are rulers of Dev Bhumi – the land of the gods. We drove them out. Nobody can destroy the Panwars. Nobody.”
“Yes,” said Baba after a long silence. “Nobody could destroy the Panwars. They were righteous kings. The British helped them drive out the Nepali invaders. The Panwar Kings paid the British their military dues, but gave up their kingdom when we won our Independence from them.” After a thoughtful pause, he continued: “But we are not Panwars, nor royal, Sushma. We are landowners, simple landowners. Every year, our land holdings get smaller and smaller. As our families split up, so does our land. Without consolidated land we have no income from it. We are not royal Panwars, just small landowners.”
I could see Ma’s agitation mounting. Her hands trembled as she picked up the copper jug and stood up menacingly. Baba remained calm, not returning her gaze, just looking down at his hands clasped tight. Ma collapsed on the sofa in a heap, her breath ragged, tears streaming down her cheeks. Only when her breath calmed did Baba reach out to take her in his arms. It was then that visits began to the psychiatrists and Baba carefully monitored her medication cycle, long distance.
Baba would have been Ma’s best psychiatrist, but he was hardly around. It was when he was absent that I missed him most as a father and a friend. For he was fully absorbed in supporting Ma’s role as a housekeeper, in maintaining household expenses, in managing her episodes and most of all in motivating her to stick to her doctor’s appointments and to the medicines prescribed. By the time I was twelve, I would have heard his advice to me a thousand times: “You have to be strong. You have to be there for Ma. You must study hard and do well. Yes?”
“Yes? No…” I had flashed back once, in suffocation. “How can I be strong when I don’t know what will happen next? Whether she will fly into a rage or plaster me with kisses? I…I can’t talk to anyone except to Nani. I don’t want people to know. When she doesn’t sleep at night, I also can’t. How can I study and do well… all the time do well…do well?”
Baba had looked sad, but I was surprised that Ma had looked confused but stricken. For tears had run down my cheeks. Neither reached out physically, but some terrible gloom broke. My classmates had avoided me at school, calling me ‘sad girl’ behind my back, laughing their silly laughs with their silly normal lives. It was my old friend Rabiya who remained at my side. But then her home life was not normal either. Her father was an alcoholic. My mother had a mental illness that even Baba would not name. Rabiya and I couldn’t share much. We were frozen in our individual situations, but bound to each other by this sense that we both suffered.
Sometimes I thought about my own sadness and wondered if it was what they called depression. Some mornings Ma never woke up in time to make my school tiffin. Even though I would tell myself it was her medication, I would feel a terrible sadness as I buttered bread to take with me to school. The ‘sad girl’ remarks would ring in my ears. I would sleep more, study less, feel listless and sad, as if invisible chains were holding me down. Baba must have sensed this for, after one visit to the psychiatrist, he said: “Meenu, your fourteenth birthday is coming soon. Why don’t you plan something with your friends, take them out for lunch to some place where they also have games and things? Ma can take you. The doctor feels she is more stable now. Maybe some of your friends’ mothers would also join.”
“I don’t feel like it, Baba. I…I don’t have many friends…very few. These years….nobody has come home. Nobody, and I haven’t gone over either. Ma….it won’t work. If I could just focus on studying, that would be enough.” For the first time I saw my father slump in helplessness, twist his hands in his lap. But before he left for Saudi, he gave me a beautiful spiral bound notebook with the title, “In Peace”, and suggested gently that I keep a journal.
My first entry was an untitled poem:
Entry 1: She is just like anyone else Cooking Phaanu in the kitchen Humming, tasting, smiling She lets go of the ladle Stands listening, asks if I Hear a baby cry. I don’t answer, Just switch off the gas Search the fridge for Leftovers. She is not like anyone else I don’t know why.
*
Entry 16: I dread her rudeness for I never know what it will lead to. She broadcasts her thoughts, talks against members of the family, my father – how he has abandoned her, left her to cope alone in this cruel world. She calls me a lousy daughter – lousy at housework, lousy at caring for her, lousy at studies. Today, it all led to an episode. She stared at me, her grey eyes minced, her hair alive like snakes in the air and said, “You are not my daughter. You are someone else. Get out.” I felt my intestines twist in protest. My words came out in a flash: “You are not my mother either. Does a mother behave like this? Hot cold, hot cold. Only you count. Only your troubles count. I count for nothing. My sadness….I feel so helpless.” She reached up for a suitcase, opened my cupboard and started throwing my clothes in it. Halfway through, she stared at me, her eyes minced. Abruptly, she left the room. The half-full suitcase lay on the floor like the open mouth of a shark. I hated her. Yet, I found myself fully alert to the sounds in her room. She was talking to Nani. She would be alright.
*
It was a few nights later that she came into my room. It must have been around midnight. She had not put on any lights in the house. She walked in like a ghost and sat crouched in a chair near my bed. I don’t know if she was aware that I was awake but she must have been, for her voice flow was normal:
“I know I have not been a good mother, Meenu. But I really want to be. Nani tells me all the time to pray to goddess Gaura devi. I do. All the time, so I can be normal for myself, for you, for Baba. I don’t know what happens. It is as if I become someone else. Someone terrible – full of anger and hate. I say things, do things over which I have no control. There is no Gaura Devi then, no you, no Baba. Just this other….person. Sometimes I want to take all my medicines in one shot, so I either die or get well. But Baba is very strict, tells me to keep these thoughts out. He gets angry, begs, pleads. When I feel normal, there is still worry for you which makes me ask myself, will I ever be free of worry? Free.” After a pause, she said, “Can you forgive me, Meenu?”
I nodded in the dark. Ma must have sensed this for she stretched out her small body in the chair, clasping her hands as if in prayer. I didn’t know this goddess Gaura Devi. But I thought if I imagined her like Nani – plump and smiling, creased face and rosy cheeks with the snowy Nanda Devi peak as her backdrop – I could also pray to her. Ma left quietly and I began to visualise Gaura Devi as a kind lady, like my Nani.
Entry 36: Today on the net I read a mental condition that matched Ma’s exactly. Something called S. I can’t remember the name. It said it could be controlled but was generally incurable. Incurable? How can Ma’s state be incurable? Will I have to live with this forever? This is not possible, simply not possible. What if I could help cure it? Like Baba tries -- all the time. By being gentle and patient. By reasoning with her when she is calm. But I am not gentle nor patient. But I could do stuff that I can. Like take her for a walk. Or put on YouTube music that she likes. Like old film songs. Sit with her as she listens. Or maybe get her to mother me. Ask her to make me a chocolate mousse cake. No, no. That would agitate her if she can’t. A plain cake will be fine. Maybe I can get Rabiya to talk to her sometimes. Normal things like school things, projects. Anything. Incurable? Ma did come to me to say That sometimes she was two people Not one Maybe if I can see Ma as Ma And the other person also as Ma Then maybe, maybe I will see the two As my one Ma. She sees me weep sometimes When I don’t let my rage follow hers. That’s when she minces her eyes, Tries to see She is not two people Just one My Ma.
*
At school, it was time for career counseling when each one in our class was scheduled individual sessions with a career counselor. Rabiya and I were no longer a twosome. We sat excitedly in groups trying to figure out our subject streams. Rabiya was consulted a lot for she was excellent in Maths, almost as good as a tutor. Classmates who were clear they would take up the commerce stream but unsure of their competence in Maths, asked her if they should substitute Maths with Business Studies or Computer Sciences. Rabiya never gave sweeping advice. One of her answers struck me as pretty wise. She said to Anjul, a short fat girl with a nervous tic: “See, if you feel Maths is a challenge, then take it up. If you rise to its challenge, it will not trouble you again, whatever course you take up. But if it depresses you and feels like a burden, then don’t!”
The career counselor had been allotted a room near the gymnasium – a large and well-lit room with many windows. Her face was like that too – large and well-lit. Though I knew my choice for a stream, I was tense. Miss Sridhar smiled as she studied my report card, then turned to her laptop to look at her comments against my name.
“Meenakshi Nautiyal”, she said. “You have a definite slant towards the humanities. Is that right?” She added laughingly, “Mind you, you could certainly improve your overall grades.”
I nodded. She asked what I liked about the humanities.
“Literature and history”, I said.
“What do you like about literature?”
“Poetry, I write poetry…”
“How wonderful. And what sort of poems do you write?”
“I write about my mother. She…she..she..”
It was as if a dam had been released. I couldn’t hold the waters back. They rushed out all stormy and sad and self-pitying, begging to know why Ma had to be like this. Not once did Miss Sridhar close her window-face. Not once did she say this was not her subject. Her handkerchief was large when she passed it to me. At the end, when the storm waters became a trickle, she said: “Yes, you will do very well with literature. Keep that journal going. Write your poems. Someday when your poems are not only about your mother, you will be able to read them to her. She will feel happy. She wants very much to be your mother, to be proud of you.”
It was not till my fifteenth birthday that I was able to approach my parents on a subject that had been churning within me. I wanted to celebrate my birthday. Ma was half asleep on the living room sofa, slumped towards Baba as he watched the evening news on television. I shook her awake. She looked up confused. My words came out in a rush:
“Ma, I have these friends I wanted to take to the mall for my birthday. This is their mothers’ list of names and phone numbers. My friends say many mothers join these get-togethers, so they get to know one another. Will you call to invite them once we decide on the venue?”
Ma suddenly looked alive and awake. Her hand trembled as she took the paper from me. Baba looked up at me, relief flowing from his face into his body, like a stream rippling through.
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[1] A priest from the hilly region of Uttarakhand who uses drums and music to perform the elaborate ritual of Jagar. The ritual aims to invoke gods and a specific local deity to rid the possessed of the evil spirit by awakening divine justice that balances out some wrong committed in the ancestry.
[2] Alright?
[3] Father
[4] A soupy Garhwali dish made of a mix of lentils soaked overnight and cooked with spices
Neera Kashyap has published a book of short stories for young adults, Daring to Dream (Rupa & Co.) As a writer of poetry, short fiction, book reviews and essays, her work has appeared in several national and international literary journals and poetry anthologies.
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