Let me tell you a story…
Many years ago, at a time when the Maruti 800 was considered THE car to have, when all of Bangalore could be reached in 20 minutes or less, and the idea of ‘breweries’ wasn’t even around, at that time, my family had a house in what is now called the billionaire’s den of Koramangala.
No one wanted to live there, so my Dad did the sensible thing. He rented out the house to a young ‘bachelor’ tenant. The house was a simple 2-bedroom one with a sprawling garden. Stand at the gate, and you could see planes taking off from the HAL Airport. Every now and then, the pungent aromas of a large canal would assail your nostrils.
The main shopping hub was a “BDA complex,” and you would have to travel elsewhere to watch a movie on the big screen.
In this wilderness moved in Mr. Verghese, an architect. He was always impeccably dressed and impeccably polite, too. My Dad loved that he paid the rent ahead of time. He was the ideal tenant—no nonsense, no fuss, or so my Dad believed.
One day, Verghese told my Dad he would erect a barbed wire fence. My Dad was puzzled. The area wasn’t known for robberies. Even thieves wouldn’t want to come there. “Your neighbor is going to attack me,” he said.
The neighbor was a teacher living with his family of 3 kids. My Dad didn’t like him particularly, but the neighbor didn’t seem like the sort to jump and attack anyone either.
We indulged him. Verghese raised the wall. Had his fence. Then, the complaints became more bizarre. “Shivanna is trying to poison me.” Verghese wasn’t the sort to get into shouting matches with anyone. The paranoia grew. He rarely came outside, locking himself up in his private hell. The checks came on time, as always.
In the 80s, we didn’t know what this was. Verghese just seemed eccentric and weird. We didn’t know if he had a family. If he had, they didn’t visit.
As his fear grew, Verghese started to avoid having food, too, believing them all to be poisoned. And this is where my memory fades. Verghese vacated the house and left for Kerala. We moved in.
I was but a 10-year-old. I heard the stories of Verghese, and looked at the immaculately maintained house. There was no sign of the disorder in his mind in the house. He had left it pristine.
Another year or so later, my brother would die in that same house.
I stood at that window, in that room, and imagined Verghese thinking of the people who were out to get him. I thought of my brother, who wanted to get out of that room and did so in his own way.
I was 10 years old then. I am still there, sometimes.
And wherever Verghese is, I hope he is out of those walls.
Be gentle with your walls, today, friend. Be gentle. And wish well those who struggle with those walls.
The Walls We Keep Close
Mental Health, Musings / Thursday, December 5th, 2024
