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‘And so you just ignore it?’ ‘I’m like Sherlock Holmes. I won’t crowd my attic with that which does not concern me.’
It occurred to me then that the mad in India are not the mentally ill, they are, simply, mad. They have no other identity. Here, everyone was mad. They had lost their hair so that the institution could keep them free of lice. They had lost their clothes because their families had abandoned them, and they had lost their lives because they had lost their families. They were now free, in a bizarre sort of way. They were also alone except for the shoulder in front and the touch of the fingers of the person following behind.
why was she hugging a shy Malayali nurse and telling her that she was not to worry about being short because she had ‘more inches to choose from’?
Mad is an everyday, ordinary word. It is compact. It fits into songs. As the old Hindi film song has it, M-A-D, mad mane paagal. It can become a phrase—‘Maddaw-what?’ which began life as ‘Are you mad or what?’. It can be everything you choose it to be: a mad whirl, a mad idea, a mad March day, a mad heiress, a mad mad mad mad world, a mad passion, a mad hatter, a mad dog. But it is different when you have a mad mother. Then the word wakes up from time to time and blinks at you, eyes of fire. But only sometimes, for we used the word casually ourselves, children of a mad mother. There is no
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‘You can only watch and wait,’ Dr Michael said. ‘There’s definitely a genetic component to bipolar disorders but no one can tell you whether you’re going to get it or not.’ ‘Not a dominant/recessive thing, then?’
When you’re a child, cast the runes. When you’re an adult, ask an expert. I had. The expert had no answer. Wait. Watch.
‘If I die under the knife,’ said Em suddenly, ‘give whatever you can to whoever you can.’ ‘What does that mean?’ ‘Meaning, me bits and bobs. I don’t want to be worm fodder. My bits would like a second chance. Someone looking out through my eyes. Someone loving with my heart. Someone having a good lash out with my liver.’ ‘Okay,’ said The Big Hoom.
‘It’s all right,’ Susan said. ‘Liar,’ said Em. ‘How could it have survived? I felt it fly out of my hand and then I was out like a light. Anyway, I appreciate the thought.’
The Big Hoom came out and hugged me briefly. I could not remember this happening often. But she did not die often and things did not fall apart often. The centre did not stop holding often. Did it take death? ‘What happened?’ ‘It was a heart attack,’ he said. I almost smiled. A heart attack? Those happened to other people. My mother could not have died of a heart attack.
I went to shower. The water triggered tears and I wept. When I assumed I had finished, I washed my face again and waited. From time to time, I was startled by a sob rising in me. These did not seem to be linked to the pain I was feeling. They seemed organic, like marsh gas, like breathing.
I began to cry again but I managed not to sob. You can cry in public as long as you do not sob. Tears are transparent. If you’re walking fast, if the sun’s too strong, no one notices. Sobs intrude. They push their way into people’s consciousness. They feel duty-bound to ask what has happened. I cried silently all the way to the undertaker.
As we opened the door together, I discovered that departures make the world smaller, slighter, less significant.
‘Uncle ko bolo, free.’ Then he dashed off. This was The City, India’s biggest, a huge city, but people heard and responded to what was happening in your life. Sometimes, this much was enough.
‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ I said. ‘Did a beggar coin that phrase?’ The Big Hoom asked. ‘Probably not.’ ‘Then let’s assume that some choices are left, even to beggars.
