Once upon a time, one of my senior managers told me a story of her personal experience. And now, seven years later, it’s worth sharing and retelling.
This is her story (in her own words):
The story began on a busy Friday afternoon. I was going through a client’s report when my cellular rang. It was Deepika, my 16-year old daughter. “Hello,” I said. There was no answer. “Hello,” I repeated, and heard a faint, muffled, “Mother, come home quick. I’ve taken….. ” I heard the phone crash to the floor. And no more.
For a brief, awful moment, I didn’t move, paralyzed by fear. I called my sister, who lived close to my home, and rushed towards hospital. By the time I reached the hospital they had taken her in. Shaking with fright, I hugged my sister and broke down in sobs.
As reality began to hit me, I remembered, when my mother stayed with us for a few months, her Doctor recommended her to use sleeping tablets. There might have been some left-overs.
But why? Deepika was a lovely daughter, our pride and joy. She got good marks at her A/Ls and was taking a well-deserved rest. Jagath and I had dreams about her future. Maybe, we pushed her to achieve. We did because we saw her potential.
My dream was broken by Jagath’s arrival.
Just then a doctor came to us. “She is still unconscious, but don’t worry, she would be all right. The two of you can stay with her.” We nodded. “Do you have a psychiatrist?” the doctor asked. Sensing our silence, he said, “I’ll send somebody over.”
Deepika lay on a narrow bed. Jagath and I sat, he at the foot and I on the side. I took Deepika’s hand. It was cold, unresponsive. Three hours, Nothing! An unspoken question thundered between us: Why? There was no answer.
When time had lost all reference, Deepika began to groan. As the groaning increased, her body began to move erratically from side to side.
“Deepika,” I whispered. “Deepika, it’s Ammi and Thathi. We’re here.” Her groaning increased; her lips tried to form words; her body thrashed. Wiping her forehead, I put my face to her cheek. Suddenly, Deepika spat out a mouthful of words that sent me reeling, stunned, back into my seat. Deepika had never sworn before.
Jagath left to get the nurse. They returned at once, the nurse carrying some bands that looked like army belts. She proceeded to strap down Deepika’s ankles and wrists, working coolly, wordlessly.
Deepika heaved under the restraints, her face drawn tight, her back arching to pull free.
The night passed. For short spells Deepika rested. For longer ones she twisted, pulled, screamed and spat her hate.
When she awoke later that morning, I untied the straps that held her. She smiled. Jagath and I spun round. We held back our tears.
“Where am I?” Deepika murmured. “In the hospital, Deepika,” Jagath answered.
Deepika rubbed her wrists. “1 dreamed ... I thought I dreamed.” She stopped, her face a frown of confusion. “I can’t believe all those things, I sort of remember ... I hated everything, everyone.” She added, “Not you two or malla! Mostly me,” she said, and closed her eyes.
A little later, Dr. Mathews, a staff psychiatrist, came in. He asked Jagath and me to leave, then stayed with Deepika for over an hour. When he came out, he took us into a small office.
“Deepika is a very upset young woman,” he said. “She doesn’t think much of herself. That’s why she took sleeping pills.” “But she’s wonderful —always has been,” I blurted out defensively.
Dr. Mathews kept calm. “She knew you thought so, and she tried to be, felt she had to be what you thought she was. That’s what she was telling us last night.”
“Why didn’t she just tell it to us before?” I asked.
“She didn’t want to disappoint you - didn’t want anyone to think she wasn’t as nice as they all wanted her to be. We all want to be loved, you know. She thought acting nice is what made people love her - even her parents. She doesn’t think she is an individual person, so dying doesn’t matter. That’s my concern now.”
He added, “Let her wait with us for a while.”
Jagath and Dr. Mathews continued talking, but I did not hear them. My mind went blank. I came back into the world - dizzy and unbelieving - to hear them discussing the details. Dr. Mathews got up and walked round the desk to us. “She loves you, you know.”
“And we love her,” Jagath said.
“I know.”
“Then, why? “ I pleaded.
Dr Mathews explained, “Love is not enough. You can’t exist as the reflection of someone’s love. You have to be your own person. She wants to be herself.”
We returned to Deepika’s room. She was lying on her back, her head to one side, her hair falling over the pillow. Outside she looked pretty and peaceful - like the Deepika we had thought we knew.
Inside - where we had never seen -seethed with resentment and self- loathing, bound up by the image of our love as painfully as her wrists had been bound during the night.
Deepika spent another two weeks in hospital and a further three months at home under treatment. After that, she decided to do a temporary job in a department store for a while. We said nothing; we were learning to understand.
After 8 months, she felt she was ready. She got herself admitted to a 4-year degree course leading to BSc degree in Information Technology. It was her choice.
I will never forget the day of her degree awarding ceremony. I recall how Deepika walked to the platform when her name was called. And, how the speaker announced her achievements - Bachelor of Science in Information Technology degree - First-class honours. On her way back to her seat, Deepika found us with her eyes and smiled.
Tears flowed from my eyes. Only Jagath and I, and Deepika, knew about the real dynamic “power” underneath her accomplishment- for something she has struggled for and won far above her graduation honours. For that struggle, she has, at last, got her reward. She has found herself.