Parindey Foundation

​​Being an only child can be a double-edged sword. Some folks I meet assume I had a blissful childhood, dropping a hint of envy as they say "Lucky you! Must have gotten all the love and attention!". Others picture endless days of solitary boredom "Your childhood might have been really boring. Having to play all by yourself". The truth, as with most things in life, is somewhere in between. Sure, there were perks I got to enjoy solo ice cream binges. Unfortunately, there were no built-in playmates when my parents needed a night out. Although this write up is about schizophrenia, for the record, my loneliness didn’t give birth to any imaginary friends keeping me company. However, that doesn't hold true for all branches of my family tree. 

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My father, when still a newborn, became a silent witness to the loss of my grandfather which he couldn’t yet understand. Unfortunately, my grandmother could. The loss took a heavy toll on her, making it hard for her to raise the newborn at the time. Their lives took separate paths for a while when her brother's family offered to raise him in the city, and she lived back in our village. After Mom and Dad tied the knot, Grandma was woven back into the fabric of dad's world but the shadows that clouded her mind lingered.

The villagers, filled with old beliefs, thought something strange clung to Grandma. They called her the “possessed widow” who could see a man no one else did. This unseen friend of hers made strange requests her clothes would disappear, one by one, like whispers fading in the air. Back then, doctor visits were a luxury. It wasn't until Dad joined the Indian Navy and got access to the free consultation and treatment in military hospitals that we finally got an answer. That's when they learned the real name of Grandma's visitor – schizophrenia.

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As a kid, I wasn't exactly brave. Grandma's quiet conversations with herself, whispers I couldn't understand, used to send shivers down my spine. I'd avoid her unknowingly, convinced she talked to ghosts. One memory flickers in my mind like a scratched film reel – men in a truck
taking Grandma away when her condition worsened. Apparently, it was an asylum. When she returned, a new fear haunted her eyes. The terror in her eyes left me constantly haunted by the question – what horrors did she experience that made her so afraid of getting shocks? Even with the military hospital's treatment, Grandma's quiet conversations with herself continued. They were a constant murmur in
the background. Her illness also affected her hygiene. Her hair got so tangled it was a nightmare for the barber to cut. As a kid, I didn't get it. Why did Dad have to bathe her when even a child like me can bathe
myself? Dad, always kind, would explain that some people need extra help. But Mom couldn't hide her worry when accidents happened – wet clothes or messes, signs of Grandma's struggles. This got resolved
when my parents jointly decided to reduce her dosage just a bit. However, her perception of time remained distorted so much so that she used to talk about letting the clothes to dry at night and about celebrating Diwali in the month of March.

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One day, curiosity gnawed at me. What did Grandma whisper to herself while peeling garlic? Sneaking up the stairs, I tried to catch a glimpse of this imaginary man she spoke to. Unaware of my presence, she sat there, quiet murmurs accompanying the peeling. Leaning closer, I realized the words were repetitive, almost a chant. "This one for Meenu (me)," she'd say, "This one for Raju (Dad), This one for bahu (Mom),
This one for me...". On and on it went, until the garlic cloves lay bare. It wasn't about the number of garlic cloves; it was about making sure everyone had enough. In that moment, a wave of warmth washed over
me. All this time, I'd missed the little ways she cared for us.  Even with her illness, Grandma's love for me shone through. When I was sick, she'd worry endlessly, checking on me with everyone in the house.

Her precious savings, a small collection of ten and one-rupee notes, were off-limits to everyone else, but for me, they were always open to buy a treat. There were inconsistencies, though. When my parents were
home, she'd secure the door with just a single latch. But if they went out and I stayed with her, suddenly every lock in the house was engaged. It was a puzzle I couldn't solve as a child. Maybe it was the fear of her illness taking over, or perhaps a different kind of protectiveness. One thing remained constant – her desire to shield me from trouble. Whenever Mom's voice boomed with a scolding, Grandma would be
there in a flash, a silent protector. This unwavering love, despite the illness's shadow, inspired me to take on a small role – helping her bathe.

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In the twenty years I knew her, Grandma was a beacon of quiet strength. Never once did I see her lash out, not a raised voice nor a harsh word. Gossip wasn't in her vocabulary. Even when she made mistakes, she shouldered the burden alone. This, unfortunately, is what led to her tragic passing on April 11th, 2024. A fall down the stairs went unnoticed which she didn’t mention about that led the fractured leg left untended. By the time we discovered the infection festering beneath the skin, it was too late. The surgery was successful, but her body, weakened by the ordeal, couldn't recover. That was the day a part of my world crumbled. My grandmother, the only person in her generation who never made me feel like a burden for being a daughter, was gone. They called her "naive" throughout her life, but in my eyes, she was the purest soul I knew. Her love was boundless. Even on her deathbed, in a vegetative state where her eyes hadn't fluttered for days, a tiny miracle occurred. As I patted her head, tears escaping my eyes, and in that moment, her gaze, for a fleeting instant, shifted from the void to meet mine. It was a silent goodbye, a final testament to the unbreakable bond we shared.

 

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