A Dark Horse Madly

“How old are you?”

“Isn’t that already in your file?”

“I just want to hear a few things from you, that’s all.”

“I’m thirty-one.”

“Do you know why you’re here?”

 “I have schizoaffective disorder.”

“Do you know what that is?”

“It’s a combination of bipolar and schizophrenia.”

“And how long have you been back in the States?”

“Over a month.”

“You came into treatment as soon as you got back from Mumbai? Is that it?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“How long were you in India?”

“I was there for two years, living with my dad’s side of the family. My family thought my mind would improve if I lived in a different place. It only got worse.”

“You’ve been on the Abilify for a month now, yeah?”

“Yep.”

“And how do you feel?”

“I can think clearly again.”

“Are you still hearing voices?”

“They’re there but only in the background, like a hum.”

“Good, give it time. They’ll fade out. Can you tell me what they say?”

“Mostly benign stuff now.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Haven’t we gone over this?”

“Yeah, I know, Joseph, but it’s for your own safety.”

“They comment on whatever I think. Usually, it’s mundane stuff, but sometimes, it’s more severe. You probably think I’m crazy for believing this, but I think the voices are spirits. I’m pretty sure about it, actually.”

“Spirits?”

“Yeah, I know it might be difficult for you as a scientist to believe in something you can’t see, hear, or experience for yourself, but yes, spirits. ‘And just what are they?’ you might ask. As far as I can tell, they’re beings that exist in another dimension, unable to be observed or heard by most people—”

“Yes, Joseph, I know what a spirit is.”

“Okay, so these spirits try to force me into thinking bad things, into doing bad things. They’re evil, and they want me to be evil as well … I’m sure of that. If they had their way, they would destroy me.”

“Are you certain—”

“Quite certain. I can’t imagine my mind generating these kinds of alternate personalities all by itself. My mind and soul are made of one thing, not several. That’s why I think the voices must be something external to me. It’s not so surprising if you believe in God because if God exists, why can’t there be spirits? Do you believe humans have a soul, doctor? Or is this simply a notion from yesterday, something brought down from generation to generation for no good reason but to confuse us? Has science debunked all our former wisdom?”

The doctor adjusts himself in his seat. “Go on,” he tells me.

“The spirits like to cause problems, see. It could be as simple as them commenting on what I choose to wear in the morning, something like, “No, don’t wear the shirt you’ve chosen for today. Wear this ugly one instead because it actually looks good on you, and you just don’t know it.” Or, it could be something more malevolent like, “Don’t compliment this person for having helped you. After all, you’ve had a bad day. Go ahead and ignore them, or even better, say something mean to them.” The voices try to channel the negative side of who I am, to magnify that aspect of my personality. But, there’s still a part of me that knows right from wrong, that can filter these messages. That’s what’s kept me going.”

“Couldn’t these ‘spirits’ just be a figment of your imagination?”

“Maybe, but it doesn’t feel that way, and I know what I feel.”

“You’re not having any violent, hurtful thoughts, are you, Joseph?”

“No, I’m not. I’m not a violent person. If a voice tells me to do harm on someone, which is very rare, I simply ignore it. Usually, the voices will tell me to harm myself, to jump out of a window or a moving vehicle, something like that. At least, that’s what they used to tell me when I was in India. I never did it. I doubt I would do it now. The voices are soft now, receding. Before, I could hear them like I can hear you speaking to me, and they were present all the time. Now, they’re just occasional, within my head. As such, they’re more like random thoughts, less distracting. I don’t have to keep my attention on them because they’re not in my face. There’s no pounding in my eardrums anymore. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I think so,” the doctor tells me without looking up.

The doctor writes a few more things down on his notepad then lets me go. Soon after my meeting, I find out I’m allowed to leave the treatment center. I’m overjoyed. I was beginning to think the day would never come. I go to my room to pack up my belongings. My roommate, Chuck, is there, sitting in his bed reading a book. He looks up at me as I enter the room.

“Why are you so happy?” he asks me.

“I’m leaving today. I can’t wait to feel the sun on my face.”

Chuck smiles and says, “Oh, come on now, it’s not that bad to be in here. You’re doing so much better, and you know it’s because of the staff.”

“Yeah, and for that I’m grateful. I really am. I just don’t like being cooped up in here.”

I pack my few belongings, say bye to Chuck, then leave the room. I sign a few papers at the nurse’s station then head down the sterile white corridor. I’m not sure why, but I look back a couple of times. The security guard looks at me as if my behavior is nothing new, then he lets me out. I take the elevator down to the lobby and walk outside, my eyes squinting from the sunshine. My dad’s there to greet me.

“Hello, Joseph, how are you?” 

“Hi, Dad, I’m fine now,” I say unemotionally.

I can see my dad’s eyes tear up.

“I’m sorry for what I put you, Mom, and the rest of the family through. I was fighting something horrible inside. I was there but … you couldn’t see me.”

“I know, Joseph, I know.”

“It’s not easy being insane.”

“I can’t imagine. How do you feel now?”

“I feel very calm, like a great storm has subsided. When I close my eyes at night, it’s calm. Everything feels still. The world feels still. Before the medication, it’s like there was no sanctuary within me, no place I could go where it was quiet. Every thought I had was responded to, discriminated. Judgments I made were turned upside down. I was made to believe things that simply weren’t true, or right. I was always confused. The spirits took on the voices of people I knew, people I didn’t know, and I believed them. They were possessing me, laughing at me, taking my soul, and I could do nothing about it. It was the worst experience of my life. Bipolar is a hell in and of itself, but schizophrenia … it’s a different, more painful kind of torture.”

“ … ”

“I know you’re sorry. I don’t think you knew.”

My dad is shocked at the sight of me, at how thin I am.

“I didn’t have enough money to eat,” I tell him. “I spent whatever I had on beer.”

“Joseph—”

I shake my head. “It’s okay. I’m okay now. I’m alive, and since I can notice it, I feel like I have a lot of work to do. Every day is a gift. Why I’m here, I don’t know, but I want to do something good for society now that I’m able to.”

This makes my father smile.

“You can thank God for saving you,” he tells me.

“Yeah, but why? I had one foot in the grave.”

“You have all the time in the world to consider that. For now, let’s get you home. Your mother’s waiting for you.”

#

A year has passed since my stay at the hospital, and I awake in a very ritzy hotel called The Four Seasons in Santa Barbara, California. Normally, I don’t travel—I have an irrational fear that I’ll lose my baggage and all my medication on a flight—but here I am with my family at my cousin Reena’s wedding in SoCal. I’ve taken ten days off from my new job as a project manager for a media production company to be here, time that I almost didn’t get as I’ve only been employed for six months. After the wedding, I’ll be heading to Mumbai for a reception so that all our relatives in India who couldn’t make the trip can wish the bride and groom a happy life. I’m not pleased to be going back to Mumbai. So many bad things happened to me there, and it was all so crazy and unreal, like a nightmare, but I have no choice. Everyone wants me to go, and I don’t have the heart or the guts to say no. Some things in life you just have to do, and I understand that. As long as I don’t go back to hearing things or drinking alcohol, which I’ve now given up out of respect for my condition, I should be okay. I pray that I’ll be okay.

A couple days pass full of fun and festivity, a dance show, a reception. The day of the wedding soon arrives, and it’s a big success. It’s a beautiful, touching ceremony. The bride and groom love each other very much, and it’s easy to see. Their love spread throughout the gathering, and everyone had a good time. Afterward, early in the evening, many of us are seated at the bar, a place I tried to avoid. I have a club soda with lime in front of me, and I sip at it cautiously, hoping that I’ll blend in. No one seems to notice or care, so I don’t worry too much about it. Still, if someone asks me to have a beer or a cocktail, I’ll have to be very firm and say no. It would be an insult to everything I’ve been through to drink again, and I keep reminding myself this. I don’t expect people to understand. It’s an agreement I have with God, and I can’t break it.

Soon, I’m introduced by Reena to a woman named Aishwarya (Aish for short), a professional photographer. Reena told me earlier in private that Aish has had issues with her mental health. Aish is the groom’s second cousin. She’s Caucasian on her mother’s side like me. She has long dark-brown silky hair and fair skin. Her eyes are also dark brown, very eastern, revealing her Indian side. I saw her in a blue saree at the dance show, but mostly she’s been wearing modern dresses. She seems cool and I’m happy to talk to her. We talk about the wedding for a while, but I know she’s going to ask me about my mental health since Reena mentioned it earlier.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” she asks me.

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“You won’t get mad, will you?”

“Nope, I’m very calm. Ask away.”

“Do you have schizophrenia?”

Usually, I won’t tell people I have the illness, but if they ask directly, I don’t see a reason to hide it. Hiding things just causes further problems. I’d rather be open about it.

“Not exactly,” I tell her, “I have schizoaffective disorder.”

“That’s what I thought. Reena told me. I hope you don’t mind me asking you. She said we might have some things in common, that I should ask you about it. Good on you for being brave enough to say it. I understand. I have bipolar.”

“Oh,” I reply, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Aish nods then shrugs her shoulders. It’s as if we’re suddenly on the same page.

“Do you feel like you’ve had an impossible life?” she asks. “I feel like that sometimes.”

“I try not to think about it. It just hurts if I do. It’s best to stay positive. I always try to look on the bright side of things. I’m lucky to be alive, and with that in perspective, I can honestly say that every day is a great day. It’s like extra time I have here on Earth.”

Aish sighs, combing her hand through her hair. She has a very serious look on her face, as if she’s really weighing my words. “You know, that’s true,” she says.

I take a moment to glance at what Aish is wearing. She has on a pastel-colored dress made of cotton. Yellow, purple, red, and green squares are patched together. It looks nice against her light-brown skin. Either it’s her hair or her perfume that smells like jasmine flower. The fragrance is sweet and aromatic, and it reminds me of being in a garden in India. I’m wearing cologne myself, a bottle my mother gave me for my birthday. I feel pretty good.

“Are you going to Mumbai for the reception?” she asks.

“I am. Are you?”

“Yeah, I’m going. You’re half-Indian like me, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you travel to India a lot?

“I was there just a little over a year ago.”

“Oh, that sounds interesting. I bet you’d make a good tour guide.”

“We can hang out in Mumbai if you’d like. I can take you to the Taj Hotel for lunch. I know my way around Colaba pretty well.”

She smiles. “Sure, I’d like that,” she tells me.

I’ve never had much luck with Indian women (though she’s only half), but Aish could be different. I take her number and soon, we drift apart, talking with other people at the bar. I go speak to Reena. She asks me what Aish and I talked about “so seriously.”

“Mostly about the wedding,” I tell her.

“Did she mention she was bipolar?”

“Yeah, she told me.”

Reena smiles and puts her hand, which is covered in mehndi, an Indian skin decoration, on my forearm. She’s glowing with happiness.

“Do you like her?” she asks me.

“Yeah, she’s nice.”

“She’s pretty, right?”

“Yeah, she’s really pretty.”

#

We wrap things up a couple of days later, and my family and I drive into LAX to take an international flight to Mumbai. After nearly a day in the air, we arrive at the airport at night. I’ve put half my meds in my carry-on bag and the other half in my luggage, just in case one of my bags gets lost. We get our baggage, and everything’s okay. My uncle’s driver picks us up, and now we’re cruising toward a suburb in northern Mumbai called Malad, where most of my family live. There’s little lane discipline on the freeway, and I begin to remember what it’s like being here. I see a couple of black horses drawing a carriage, galloping madly down the highway. Cars and motorcycles pass around them. The people in the carriage are from the country and seem unconcerned of where they are. I imagine the carriage has traveled through time to be here, to tell me something, to herald my arrival. The horses are breathing heavily, and there’s a wild look in their eyes like they’ve never seen so many fast-moving vehicles before. The new and the old meshed together as one is a theme of this metropolis, the economic capital of India as well as the center of its movie industry. How many people live here? Who knows, certainly close to twenty million. So many live in poverty. It’s sad and hard to comprehend given Mumbai’s vast population. My family here are very well-to-do. They got into the real estate business, construction, and land here is worth a fortune. One of my uncles even held a public office. He was an MLA (member of the legislative assembly) in Mumbai back in the eighties and nineties. I remember once when we came for a visit, when I was a kid, there were police guarding the entrance of my uncle’s bungalow, where we were staying, carrying big rifles, and I recall how strange it was. I recall, during one of my later visits, how my uncle supported a candidate for parliament, and there was a big fuss about everything. I went to Goa during that time with my cousin and got ridiculously sunburnt and nearly drove a scooter into a ditch in the countryside. When we returned, we gave small bottles of feni, a liquor made there from cashew apples, to people who came to see my uncle. Everyone appreciated that, a favorite drink from Goa.

When we arrive at my uncle’s guest flat, I go out onto the balcony first thing to soak in my surroundings. We’re in a penthouse flat in a new high-rise condominium that my family built, on the twenty-third floor. The cook is making snacks for us. The sky has cleared in the time it took for us to get here, and now it’s a beautiful evening under the moonlight. I can see dark hills in the distance, surrounding the city. Mumbai is an ever-expanding metropolis like New York or Tokyo. If you’re not used to living here, you better look out. Everything moves fast. In a few days, we’ll go to a hotel in Juhu for the reception, which will be held on a large balcony next to the Arabian Sea. The atmosphere will be charming, especially with the sound of the waves crashing against the rocky Mumbai shore.

#

After a couple of days, I remember to text Aish. She replies with her address in Juhu, so we arrange a time to meet, and I take a rickshaw over to her place. A rickshaw is a three-wheeled, hooded vehicle with no doors. I remember all the times I traversed this city by rick, the voices in my head telling me to jump out of it. Thank God I never did. At times, I couldn’t take the pain, the intensity, and I nearly did jump out. I try to forget about all this as I make my way through traffic.

I get to Aish’s flat, and her family want to serve me tea and all kinds of food. I eat a couple of sweets, then Aish directs me out the door. I can see her family smiling from the living room. They must be happy Aish is doing something with somebody. I hail a taxi instead of a rick because it’s more comfortable, and we head south to the Taj Hotel. Aish looks very attractive in a purple blouse, blue jeans, and leather sandals. I’m wearing a blue jean jacket with my boat shoes, and I feel very American.

“Are you ready for the reception?” I ask her in the cab.

“Yeah, it’s going to be great. I’m so happy for Reena and Sanjay.”

“Yeah, I am too. Have you seen either of them since you’ve been here?”

“I went shopping with Reena yesterday. You should see the dress she picked out at the dress shop. It’s gorgeous.”

“Challo-challo!” the cab driver yells out the window to some tourists blocking our way. That means “Get a move on” in Hindi. There is no rush to get to where we’re going, but for some reason, the cab driver is in a hurry. Once we arrive at the Taj, we spend some time wandering through the corridors. There’s so much artwork on the walls. There are bouquets of flowers in every room, on every side and coffee table. Aish takes many photos, and she even asks the concierge to take our picture together in front of one of the fountains.

Soon, we get seated at a table in the cafe. We order dosa, a South Indian dish consisting of a thin pancake made of lentils and rice. Usually, it’s eaten with some kind of cooked vegetable recipe, like potatoes, which is what we had.

“Isn’t the food great here?” I ask Aish.

“I know! I’ve never eaten such good dosa before.”

We finish up our food and are soon ordering coffee and dessert. The subject of mental health comes up while we’re eating chocolate cake. Aish tells me about her delusional thinking, how she once thought the CIA was following her and how terrified she was about it. I can tell she is very curious about my schizoaffective disorder, so I open up to her.

“One day, after a few months of living in this city,” I tell her, “I was sitting on my bed in my uncle’s flat with the window open beside me. I suddenly began to hear the voice of Elvis Presley in the chatter of the crows in the field next to me, a great murder of them sitting in a couple of banyan trees. They always hung around in the mornings because my uncle used to feed them gathiya, you know, the fried snack made from chickpea flour. He’d put a package of them on a tray on the clothing rack outside the window. The crows would swoop and flock to the tray, gobbling up the food. The voices never left me after that. I tried to deal with it, hide it, live with it, but we all know that’s impossible. Toward the end, after being fired from my job at the call center, I began telling my family I was running a business in the flat next door to mine, a complete falsehood. I’m not the type to fabricate that sort of thing, so my family knew something wasn’t right. When I punched my cousin because I thought he was withholding my phone bill from me, my family finally realized I was insane. I had to move back to the US and stay in a hospital for over a month to get better.”

“I’m so sorry, that all sounds horrible.”

“It was … it really was. I did so many stupid things while I was there. I just wouldn’t stop drinking. It was the only thing that took the pain of the voices away. I think my family thought, at least in the back of their mind, that I would kill myself.”

I sigh and take a sip of coffee.

“I don’t think about that much anymore,” I tell her. “I try not to let the illness define me, although sometimes I worry about things when I shouldn’t. It’s not easy to be positive all the time. I’m only human.”

“Like what kind of things?”

“If people will accept me, what to make of lost time, whether or not I can lead a normal life … if the memory of my troubles will haunt me forever.”

“Well, you have a job now, and you’re making progress.”

“Yeah, I am. Thanks for telling me that.”

“Just look to the future,” Aish tells me, smiling.

I nod. “So, what are your hobbies?” I ask her.

“Photography, though it’s more than a hobby. It’s my calling. I also like to paint in watercolor, play soccer, swim, read short stories, play the piano—”

“Oh, I didn’t realize you liked music! I play the guitar.”

“Yes, I love music.”

“What kind?”

“Mostly classic rock. I’m a big rocker.”

“I’m the same. I love bands like The Cars, Thin Lizzy, and Queen.”

“Oh, I love The Cars!”

“Hey, that’s cool! You know, I recently bought a USB keyboard for my computer. I’m learning how to play chords and basic melodies on it.

“Oh, you play the piano, too?”

“I’m learning. My go-to instrument is the guitar. I own a classical and an electric. They were really helpful during the first six months I was back from India.”

“How so?”

“I got a lot of emotions out by playing music. Every time I got agitated or down, I’d write a song and record it on the guitar. I built a simple studio with my computer and an audio interface. I even made a demo tape. It’s all up on SoundCloud. It’s so much fun.”

“Oh, neat! Send me a link to your page. I’ll take a look later tonight.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You know, I’m the same way with my photographs.”

“How do you mean?”

“When I was a kid, whenever I was feeling down, I’d go and take pictures. I’d get lost in the viewfinder. I love to see the world through the lens of a camera. It’s like an escape for me. In fact, it’s what’s kept me afloat all these years. My art helped me through so many difficult times in my life. Now, I can’t do without my camera. I’ve even made a living from taking pictures.”

“That’s really cool. Would you like to go take some photos?”

“Yeah, let’s go explore Colaba. There’s so much to see here.”

Soon, we pay the bill. We leave the hotel to explore the surrounding neighborhood. There are a lot of art deco buildings in the area. We admire their contours and exterior decoration, and Aish and I take many photos, her with her camera and me with my iphone. We hold hands while walking under the Gateway of India, a large arch-monument next to the sea, symbolizing British colonial legacy. I don’t remember how it happened, if I reached for her hand or if she reached for mine, but it felt good to feel the touch of another human being.

#

The day of the reception I find myself in Orlem, a Christian colony near Malad, running some laundry errands for my father. I pass the church and recall the times I used to go pray there. I remember once I was riding in a rick in this area, on Link Road. The police had blocked off a huge stretch of road between Malwani, a slum, and the rest of West Malad. The city had organized a footrace for the children in the slums. The rickshaw driver passed through the roadblock to get to my building, which is nearby, and suddenly, we were driving beside the children. I could see them all in profile. They were thin, wearing tattered, threadbare clothing. Most didn’t have shoes on their feet. At the time, a voice had convinced me that my brother had died, so I was riding around in a rick with my dress suit on, trying to comprehend my loss. It was a crazy thing to think, but I really felt like he died. So, I’m riding in the rick, watching the kids pump their arms and legs, their chests heaving for air. The prize is probably an athlete’s life, funded by the state to compete in regional sports. All of a sudden, I hear a Queen song called “Flash” playing outside. It’s everywhere, as if it was on loudspeakers. I knew, however, that it was all in my head. The repeating bass line in the song was like a heartbeat. I felt as if God was approaching. “Flash, ah-ah!” The music was deafening and purposeful, something heavenly. “If there’s one thing I can tell you,” the spirit of Freddie Mercury suddenly tells me (I can hear his voice), “It’s that life is hard.” I nod in agreement as I watch the children. Somewhere along the lines while in India, I accepted God. I didn’t want Him in my life, but I realized I had no choice. To know what Hell could be like was enough to make me see. And, instead of asking God, “Why must it be me who suffers so?” I began to think, “Perhaps, God doesn’t owe me anything, and I deserve this.” I think it was that change in attitude that actually saved me. I wasn’t the nicest person growing up. I harbored a lot of anger. My family was pretty dysfunctional for a while, and I took a lot of punishment. I just didn’t know how to deal with the pain, so I started taking it out on other people, and my behavior was never really corrected until recently. I became so self-destructive—the drinking was on another level, the highs, the lows. It’s like I didn’t care to live. I’m not proud of how I’ve lived my life. Still, the fact remains, I have to go easy on myself. I have a mental illness, and that’s not my fault.

While at a stoplight, I give a homeless child who is carrying a baby double the price for a purple and green neon necklace that she’s selling. These are often sold at night or when dusk approaches because they blink and glow in the dark. I usually don’t buy trinkets sold at intersections, but sometimes the sight of the poverty here is so moving that I can’t help it. I hope the money I give her will come to good use. Soon traffic moves again, and I listen to the hum of the rickshaw motor as we speed along.

Later that night, I find myself at the reception talking to Aish and her father, a man named Kishor. I see my mom speaking to him by the bar, and I know they’re aware I’ve been spending time with Aish. Soon, my mother comes over to speak with me. Paper lanterns in the shape of stars and orbs glow all around as if they’ve fallen from the sky.

“Aish’s parents are planning to come to Seattle next month,” my mother tells me.

“ … ”

“Don’t act so surprised. They’re a nice family. We’ve invited them for dinner. Aish’s father tells me his daughter has taken a liking to you.”

My mother reaches over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I can tell she’s proud of me.

“Just be yourself, and you’ll be fine,” she says.

At that moment, I look to the sky and see a brief trail of light—a falling star. I can’t help but think that what’s happening right now in my life is being reflected somewhere else in the galaxy. Perhaps, men and women really are a “measure of all things,” as Leonardo da Vinci put it, a kind of weathervane for the universe. There’s order to the world—I can feel it.