Date: 15/03/2005
Today, I don’t know how to describe my feelings whether I should be happy or sad, well, I think sadness is dominating emotion as always. Today started just the same, Monday morning is always as painful as the alarming situation in our country where you don’t know how to react.
In the morning, when I was heading towards my office in a taxi, the inexperienced driver hit a motorbike. Being in the taxi, I did not support his ‘fast and furious’ turns because I was late, however, it was not the mistake of biker that both collapsed. The accident seemed critical for both but as the taxi-driver was inside the car, so he just hit the windshield (because his taxi lacked seat-belt), however, the biker fell on the ground. Suddenly, it appeared that the throng of people swarmed out of nowhere. Some passionate passersby started swearing each other as two groups were arguing now; one supporting the biker and the other was defending the taxi driver with an opinion that it was habitual for bikers to take wrong turns. At first, I thought the problem would just end on its own, but I was completely wrong. I came out of the car and asked the driver to take the biker to hospital because he was injured. Nobody heard a single word, then I had to adopt the only way which I have been using since childhood; I screamed…
When the people saw me shouting, many found it interesting; but some helped in lodging the biker in the taxi.
I was late again, and thus started to walk because the accident took place about a kilometer from my office. In the way when I reached near a mental hospital, a funeral was heading towards the cemetery. Someone had died. Though in many cultures, women are not allowed to enter graveyards therefore, it was ‘awkward’ for me to chase the funeral. In my opinion, nobody should dare to ask the moaners whose coffin they are carrying. The only possibility was to ask the fruit-vendor who was standing in utter amazement and observing the proceeding. “A loco committed suicide.” he casually replied. This was enough to prick a string in mind. I have the story. Sometimes reporters like me seem ruthless because we try to ask questions which the victims cannot answer, we find stories when something happens whether good or bad.
I rushed towards the mental hospital, or it would be appropriate to say that it was just mental asylum. When I crossed the gate, I felt an overwhelming terror, I don’t know why? On the ground, some boarders were sitting with their faces down. A fellow without shirt was hugging a tree trunk, motionless and expressionless. I said ‘Salam’ to him but no response. I tried to ask whose dead body had been taken away, but he did not reply. But a tear rolled down from his wet eyes, he had been crying. This spectacle got hold of my whole body and I could not move my limbs for few minutes. I had never thought that these fellows who live with unknown people whom the outsiders consider mentally retarded share feelings with each other. They feel the pain of loss of life. This notion cleared when I visited the interior of the asylum. A young nurse rushed to me and asked, “Whom you want to see?”
I told him about myself and the reason of my arrival, I could not use the word ‘story’ this time. He took me to the room of doctor, in the way to his office, cells were all around. When I asked why the fellows were kept in jail cells, “These patients are litigious to a violent level. Some of them are all alone in separate cells because their violence exceeds to such an extent that they can even kill.” I could not think that such hushed figures could kill someone. The doctor’s room was not spacious and today he was not present there. The conversation took place as:
“Where is the doctor?”
“He joined the funeral. I am here in charge now.”
“A shirtless man was crying out there. Who is he?”
“Of course, a patient.”
“I mean if he belongs to the person who died today?”
“No. The patient who died was not social, he used to sit under that tree. A few days back, he ran away from the hospital. We found him near the political procession ground. He never did such things but for a week he was behaving strangely. So, we separated him from other patients.”
“Can you please tell me about his name and why he was brought here?”
“His father dropped him here with a suitcase which he had till the end. He never allowed anyone to touch it. In the beginning, he was very harsh towards doctor but gradually he accepted everyone here. He was called Master here, but his original name was Wasif.”
All of sudden, I asked him about his physical appearance, which he described as, “He was lean and short-sighted. The round spectacles suited him a lot. His hair was mostly disheveled, and he was a graduate of engineering university.” On such a description my mind raced to the person I met on March 9, during my lunch break, the person who asked me for water.
“Was he ill? How he died?”
“It was suicide, he was on dose for depression. Doctor Khan was very concerned about his mental health, because he was not a patient when he was brought to this place. His father requested Dr. Khan to take care of him because both had good terms. When doctor told me for the first time that Wasif was not mentally retarded, I could not believe that his father requested a friend to take care of him in mental asylum… He was a university student and knew his bearings.”
In the asylum I learnt the true meaning of life; how an insignificant change in our ‘machine in skull’ has drastic impacts on our lives. And, how it feels when someone you care about leaves you forever…
I came home with the suitcase the boy had once because no one was coming to gather his things even his own father. It seemed that the person belonged to me and his suitcase was unimaginably heavy; heavy with memories and desires all closed inside the box. A place where nobody could see his story. I was not excited to get the story of a person who committed suicide, his belongings were in my hand, but my mind was racing somewhere else. I drew the scene in my mind when he asked for water. How uncertain human life is!
