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The Weather forecast Department (WFD)
had predicted heavy rainfall in entire North India over that weekend and I was
wearied of the mundaneness of my atypical research life routine. So relying on
the past track record of the WFD’s predictions, I decided to silence my brains
and planned an escapade from the city.
It was a small hamlet in the hills of
Uttarakhand - Jaiharikhal, some 260 kilometers from Delhi. I had heard of a
trekking route from this place that trailed to Khyber Pass, so I packed up my
sports shoes and sleeping bag and hit the road with Shankar Tucker’s “caught in
the rain” on repeat mode on my Mp3 Player .
The place had a very few hotels and by few I mean just two. I ducked in
for the cheaper one and after having ordered some hot coffee I went in to take
a bath and freshen up for my nature trail. I stepped out of the bathroom, only
to realize the aptness of the lyrics of the track playing on my Mp3 player. It
was pouring cats and dogs outside....raining like it does in the mountains –
sudden and continuous. And then it
rained throughout the day and the other . I gazed out of the window of my
hotel room, hoping for the clouds to clear up, but the WFD seemed to have
beaten their reputation as well as my trekking plans.
By the evening of the latter day, the
pouring had slowed to a drizzle. The monotony of the predicament had enraged me
so much that I borrowed an umbrella from the caretaker of the hotel and
decided to venture out in the village locales at least. The green of the chirs
and pines gleamed as the pearly raindrops pitter-pattered from their leaves.
The taller ones wrapped in the grey of the clouds gave the impression that the
sky had drifted nearer. I kept walking, rather sauntering through the mist on
the serpentine roads. For a while, I was distracted by two little boys who were
thrusting all their strength on a rusty green hand pump, to fill up their buckets.
I asked them if they needed any help, but they were too shy or hesitant to
answer, so I preferred to keep walking rather than scaring them. After walking
for a little while, I thought to rest and trickle some glucose into my system
at the local chai shop. I sat on a
little mound outside the shop while the old man proportioned his milk and water
for the tea. Suddenly, the two little kids from the hand pump site appeared
there, yelling –“Dadu, Dadu, give us
the guitar.” I was taken aback a bit, at first, by their loud tones,
considering the decibels of our first meeting, and next, at the realization
that these kiddos in this cornered hamlet were asking for a guitar as if it
were some regular toy. By the time, I could delve anymore over this thought; Dadu was there with the steaming cup of chai. I firmly embraced my cold palms around the hot
cup while one of these little ones picked up a seemingly old guitar from their
grandpa’s shop and began strumming it to “papa
kehte hain”. Surprisingly, he nailed all the notes of this 90s’ Bollywood
track. I was amazed by this little performer and started humming the song along
with the other kid. Within no time, the ice was broken and we were chit
chatting about the school they went to and the games they played.
Finally came the most awaited question –
how, when, who and whereabouts of the guitar.Nandu, the one who was playing it,
sat beside me and spoke in a hushed voice – “This Saahib (gentleman) from Dilli
(Delhi) drops in once in a while and teaches us these songs. He even gifted this
guitar to us. At times he stays with us for a few days, and helps us with our
studies as well.”
Before Nandu could continue any further,
Shiva, the younger one eagerly jumped in to give his inputs, “but Dadu does not like him, I guess. He
never speaks to the Saahib, and
remains annoyed the entire time he is here.”
Nandu interrupted Shiva and whispered in
a tone, as if trying to figure out something – “Yet Dadu allows him into the
house and cooks all his meals. I don’t think he hates the Saahib.”
But I guess Dadu was in close proximity and he heard the mention of the Saahib. He snapped at the kids
indignantly- “Both of you scoundrels! Back to the house, right now! Finish your
home work before I get back else you know the consequences.” Both of them
immediately scooted off from there, petrified and almost in tears.
I kept silent, feeling guilty for having
asked about the guitar. I stood up, paid for my tea and headed back quietly
towards my hotel. My mind kept pondering over Saahibji, who he was and why Dadu
resented him despite the fact that he was so affectionate towards his
grandkids. It was again a battle between my mind and heart. My heart reasoned
out that it was not right to indulge in their personal affair after already
having spoiled their evening but my mind was curious, still looking for missing
links. Within the next five seconds the mind evened its score with heart and
there I was, walking back to Dadu’s shop
again. As I approached the shop, I could not see Dadu anywhere. I started repenting my mind’s decision when suddenly
I heard some muffled sobbing voices. I followed it and found Dadu sitting with the guitar and crying
his heart out over it. I started walking towards him, unsure of every step and
yet thinking hard, how would I frame my question about Saahibji. And as I reached
him, Dadu handed me the guitar and
looked at me helplessly. I stood there silent, holding the guitar. My heart and
mind both went quiet. Then Dadu
abruptly mumbled – “what wrong had I done…my son….I….I can’t even address him
as my son, “and he broke down into tears again. I ran and brought some water
from the shop. By this time, he had gathered himself. He finished the glass of
water and started – “My wife and son used to live with me here at one time. We
were one happy family. My son was very fond of music and he wanted to go to the
city to pursue his interest and we let him, thinking his dreams should not go
unfulfilled. He went to Dilli (Delhi)
and started learning music; ubharta
sitatra (budding star) – that’s what his teacher called him. We were so
proud of him.”
I could not help but notice the glow on
his face; it seemed he was reliving the moments and he went on –“Once we even
went for his show to Dilli, and
that’s when I bought this guitar for him. He never bought a new instrument
ever, but always took this same guitar for his every show. He started earning
well too and we got him married to a nice homely girl.”
Dadu’s
eyes were red and he,
now sounded grim-“But then after a few years, we stopped hearing from him. He
showed erratic behaviour, abused people and beat his wife and kids. Even our
daughter-in-law left him and came with Nandu and Shiva to live with us. Nandu
was 2 years old then and Shiva was just 3 months of age. People said he had
gone into the drug business – some LSD, weed kind of thing. Since then we cut
off all contacts with him. My wife and daughter-in-law died, mourning his
separation. But I have to live for my grandkids. I need to stay strong for
them.”
Dadu got up, and smiled at me as if saying –
“Never give up in life.”
We started moving back towards the shop when I asked
hesitantly – “Dadu, but who is this Saahibji?”
The old man looked at me, so calmly, that
it almost scared me – “He is my son, Rajesh.After eight years, he appeared from
nowhere with his guitar to see his kids. I can’t forgive him for what he has
done but I can’t stand between a father and his kids. At least they get to
imbibe something from their father, though they do not know who he is. As a
father, even I get to relive his childhood memories when he plays the same
games with the kids that I used to play with him.”
He took me to the shop, made us another
cup of tea and picked out an old jute bag from a corner. He emptied it before
me-“On one of his visits, he left his bag here. I just kept it with me as a memento.
He never asked back for it nor did I mention it.”
I sifted through the contents - a black
and white photo of Dadu and his wife,
a colour picture of Rajesh with his wife, kids and the guitar in the backdrop,
an ink pen, and a notepad with few notes of his compositions, and some bus
tickets. Meanwhile,Dadu collected the
empty cups and went away to wash them. I guess he wanted to escape his surging
emotions for his son. I started to keep the things back into the bag, when I
felt something in its inside pocket. I fished in for it and found some
medicines- and a prescription for Mr. Rajesh-(Bed No.-28/A),Gayatri Healthcare
Rehabilitation home.
“Now you should get back to your hotel,
it is dark already.”- Dadu said, returning
with the clean cups. I hastily slipped the meds and the prescription in my
pocket and handed over the bag to him.
“Yes, Dadu I think I should,” I said and touched his feet before pacing
back towards my hotel. I sprinted across the road and huffing and panting,
rushed into my room. I called up one of my friends, a doctor and asked her
about the medicines. I was almost in tears by now. I still wanted to confirm
it. I dialled at the rehab from the contact number on the prescription; a lady
received the call – “Hello, Gayatri Healthcare Rehabilitation home, how may I
help you?”
“Hello, I am a relative of Rajesh, the
patient from bed no. - 28/A. How is he doing?”- I asked in a trembling voice.
The lady said casually – “Bed no. 28/A…
the one suffering from schizophrenia. He is doing quite well, actually. He
spent eight years in the ward for disorganised schizophrenia subtype patients
and responded well to the therapy regime. Since two years he is in the ward for
residual schizophrenia subtype patients – a milder subtype of the disease. He
even gets a leave, every few months when his improvement stats are
satisfactory.”
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Note –
Schizophrenia:
Disorganized Subtype
As the name implies,
this subtype’s predominant feature is disorganization of the thought processes.
As a rule, hallucinations and delusions are less pronounced, although there may
be some evidence of these symptoms. These people may have significant
impairments in their ability to maintain the activities of daily living. Even
the more routine tasks, such as dressing, bathing or brushing teeth, can be
significantly impaired or lost.
Often, there is
impairment in the emotional processes of the individual. For example, these
people may appear emotionally unstable, or their emotions may not seem
appropriate to the context of the situation. They may fail to show ordinary
emotional responses in situations that evoke such responses in healthy people.
Mental health professionals refer to this particular symptom as blunted or flat
affect. Additionally, these people may have an inappropriately jocular or giddy
appearance, as in the case of a patient who chuckles inappropriately through a funeral
service or other solemn occasion.
Schizophrenia: Residual
Subtype
This subtype is
diagnosed when the patient no longer displays prominent symptoms. In such
cases, the schizophrenic symptoms generally have lessened in severity.
Hallucinations, delusions or idiosyncratic behaviours may still be present, but
their manifestations are significantly diminished in comparison to the acute
phase of the illness.
Source –
www.psychcentral.com
