The year was 1961, and I, a wide-eyed thirteen-year-old, had just landed in Ranchi, India, for college. The town, nestled amidst verdant hills, was known not just for its scenic beauty but also for its imposing mental hospital, rumoured to house over a hundred souls grappling with unseen demons. Curiosity gnawed at me, and one balmy afternoon, I convinced my friends to embark on a bicycle expedition to the gates of this enigmatic place.
As we pedalled down the dusty road, the hospital's silhouette loomed larger, a stark contrast to the vibrant green of the surrounding hills. A heavy metal gate barred entry, beyond which a long, winding pathway led to a monolithic building. But it wasn't the imposing structure that held our attention; it was the people.
Figures dotted the path, some tending to the lush garden, others lost in their own worlds, their eyes painted with a thousand unspoken stories. One man, his face etched with the wisdom of forty years, caught my eye. He wore a worn cap and
Drawn by an invisible thread, we edged closer to the gate, our whispered questions hanging heavy in the air. Suddenly, a hand, large and calloused, came out from between the bars and clasped mine. I looked up to meet the gaze of a man, his eyes crinkled with a smile that defied the confines of this place. His other hand held a half full bucket of water. He looked to be watering plants and shrubs.
I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. The grip, unexpectedly gentle, belonged to a man in his fifties, his eyes crinkling with amusement.
"What are you doing inside?" he smiled and whispered his voice a gentle breeze through the leaves. "Come and see outside. It is great."
My heart hammered against my ribs. The man's grip was surprisingly strong, a silent invitation to a world beyond the iron bars. Just as fear threatened to consume me, a khaki-clad figure materialized, his stern voice cutting through the tension. The man released my hand, his smile fading into a wistful sigh.
I scrambled back to my bicycle, my friends' concerned voices washing over me like a tidal wave. The laughter that followed stung a reminder of my audacity, my naivety. The echoes of laughter from my friends were piercing the crisp air. Shame and relief warred within me, yet, even then, a seed of doubt had been sown. Yet, as I rode away, the man's words echoed in my mind, a cryptic message nestled within his smile.
Years passed, and the memory of that encounter lingered. Now, at sixty-three, I see the world differently. The man's "outside" wasn't just a physical space; it was a state of mind, a freedom from the shackles of societal expectations, a oneness with the world that eluded us in our pursuit of "one world, one society, one religion."
Perhaps, within the confines of that asylum, the man had found his own utopia, a world where the whispers of the garden were more comforting than the clamor of the outside. And maybe, just maybe, his invitation was a reminder that true freedom lies not in conformity, but in embracing the unique symphony of our own hearts.
