by Balli Kaur
‘I heard him speaking to her again last night. I could actually hear what he was saying. He was blaming her for messing up the order of his papers. Look at them – they’re all over the place. He said she had forgotten to dust during her last visit.’ Narain looked around the room. Dust motes swirled in the shafts of light that shot through the room from the gaps in the curtains. The blades of the ceiling fan were outlined in black grit. When was the last time anybody dusted this room? He had suggested hiring a parttime maid, but Father refused.
Amrit pulled up a pile of papers. ‘There you go,’ she said. ‘He mentions visits from Mother. She used to sneak in through the back door of the old Naval Base house, and after we moved into this flat, he would let her in through the main door. I remember hearing him going to the main door on some nights when I was awake. I thought he was just checking that the locks were secure – you know how he likes to be sure.’ Amrit clutched the letter to her chest. ‘I have so many questions that only he can answer, Narain. These supposed visits have been going on since we were children.’
‘Amrit, not today,’ Narain said, firmly. He held out his hand for the letters. During Amrit’s hospital stay, Father had refused to visit her. He spent entire days cooped up in his room, scribbling fervently. When the scratching of his pen stopped, the night whispering began. Soon Father’s words became distinct, the static clearing around his words and delivering a rant. ‘You wouldn’t understand how hard it’s been to raise the girl. You left us. I had to take care of her myself. Now they’re saying she’s mad. Harbeer Singh’s daughter is in a mental hospital, everybody will say. How about you? She’s your daughter too, but you just slip in and out of this flat whenever you please. It’s not your name at stake.’ The realisation had made Narain recoil from the door: Mother was in that room.
Amrit was holding the letters close to her chest now. ‘I can’t wait any longer. I want to talk to him about it today,’ she insisted.
‘I know you do,’ Narain said. ‘But remember, one thing at a time. You wanted to talk to Ms Rosario about that promotion today. That’s enough confrontation to deal with for one day.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Amrit said impatiently. ‘I haven’t forgotten about that.’
‘Have you consulted Dr Chow about speaking with Father?’ Narain asked.
‘I’ve spoken to him countless times.’
‘Have you told him you want to speak to Father today?’ Amrit’s expression soured slightly. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s my decision, Narain.’
‘It’s not a good idea. Not yet.’
‘When then?’ Amrit asked, exasperatedly. ‘You keep telling me to put it off but I can’t take it anymore. He’s not even trying to hide any of it. He practically left his door open and his papers within easy reach. Don’t you see? He wants me to know. Just the other day, Dr Chow recommended a book to me. “It will answer your questions about those genetic links,” he said. I picked it up from the library – there was a chapter that described this family so clearly it was like reading our family’s story. I came home and heard him whispering in his room and it took me everything to stop myself from charging into that room and confronting Father, waving that book in his face. I just want him to understand that we share this illness. He’s not alone, and neither am I. Shouldn’t he know this by now? Shouldn’t he hear it from me?’
‘These visits from Mother have been going on for years, Amrit. Do you think that one conversation is going to make Father realise that he’s been imagining Mother all this time?’
‘She’s not imaginary to him,’ Amrit argued. ‘He thinks she’s real.’
‘She is real,’ Narain snapped. ‘To him,’ he added, because he caught the flicker of hurt on Amrit’s face. There was no need to remind Amrit that she had never known Mother, that even though Narain’s own memories were fragmented, they were fuller than any image Amrit might try to conjure. When they were children, Amrit would pester Narain for stories about Mother – what did she look like? How tall? How long was her hair? Facing Amrit now, he saw the same hunger in her expression, but he could not let her approach Father like this. She would scare him with her forthrightness; he would retreat and never speak of Mother again. ‘I know you must be full of questions but you have to tread this gently and pick the right time,’ Narain said.
‘When are you going to say it’s the right time?’
Was there ever a good time to call your father a madman? At first, Narain had taken great pains to keep it a secret. Between this discovery and Amrit’s diagnosis, he felt as if the ground beneath his feet was made of flimsy planks. He ignored the hushed whispers from Father’s room, telling himself it was the radio or the wind. When Amrit returned home, the whispers stopped temporarily but Narain found himself listening, ready to make excuses to explain them to her. He lost sleep as the truth gradually presented itself to him in their tensely silent flat. Finally he decided to see Dr Chow himself.
Sitting in the waiting room, Narain had wanted to distinguish himself from the other people – the patients. After all, this was a family member debriefing, not a therapy session. Yet throughout their hour together, Narain began to relax, slumping in his seat as if he were in therapy himself; there, he confessed to Dr Chow that he knew where Amrit’s illness came from. Dr Chow, an eloquent psychiatrist whose early grey streaks made him look distinguished rather than worn, simply listened. When Narain was finished rambling, Dr Chow had said, ‘Mental illness is not like a virus, Narain. You could not have prevented Amrit from catching it.’
It was those words that gave Narain the courage to explain it to Amrit one night, two years after her diagnosis. She had been on the balcony hanging clothes out to dry when she heard Father scolding somebody for breaking his mug. ‘Who is he talking to?’ she asked Narain, alarmed. Father must have forgotten she was home, or otherwise, he had started becoming careless, wanting her to know. Narain had explained it to her but he warned her not to bring it up with Father. At the time, Amrit was shocked but agreeable; she spoke to Dr Chow who reminded her that the focus was on her recovery, not exploring its heredity.
Lately, as she returned to normalcy, she seemed anxious to want the same for everybody around her. Just last week, Narain had to convince her not to rush into her discussion with Ms Rosario to ask for a promotion. ‘It could go badly, so wait for an opportune time,’ he had reminded her. ‘You don’t know what she might think.’ The truth was so discouraging to Amrit that she turned her proposal into a resignation letter. Narain knew to walk her through her routine again: alarm clock, clothes, ironing.
‘Amrit, one day I’m sure he’ll be willing to talk to you about it. Let him bring it up first. If you demand the truth from him when he’s not ready, he’ll just lose his temper and say hurtful things. Remember, I’m moving out in a month—’
‘I know.’
‘Well, I just told Father about it yesterday.’
‘What? When?’
‘In the morning. He obviously wasn’t pleased about it. He asked me who I was going to live with.’
Amrit studied him. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘I told him the truth,’ Narain said. A glimmer of excitement crossed Amrit’s face. Narain smiled. He could tell she wanted to give him a hug but she was still annoyed at not having her way.
‘Fine then,’ Amrit said. She pushed passed him and gave him a friendly nudge in the ribs. He could not help the grin spreading on his face. He remained in the hallway and shifted his position, first left, then right, then a bit more left. There was a particular spot in the flat where he could see a bit of each of its areas – the bedrooms, the balcony, the living room and the kitchen. At sunset, this vantage point was easier to find. Rays of fierce light shot through the flat, illuminating the spot in rich gold. It was nearly 7.30 a.m.; time for Amrit to go. After she left, he would go to the balcony and watch her miniature figure cross the walkway and reach the bus stop. She would wait for the 73A bus to take
her to the train station and then she would make her journey to work.
Narain checked his watch. The car from his car-pool would arrive in twenty minutes and he had not showered, but there was still time for a short phone call to Andy. He went to the living room and called the operator, glancing at the number in the black address book only once as he recited the long string of numbers that would connect him to America. Andy’s firm in Singapore had sent him to Chicago for three months, to manage one of their building projects. Narain pictured Andy sitting on a plush sofa and reading a book, his eyelids heavy. He missed him. When they first started seeing each other, cautiously and quietly even though it had been nearly two years since the New Year’s nightclub raids, Narain had missed Andy even when he was sitting right next to him. He had cynically wondered if this meant Andy would not last in his life – perhaps he was preparing for Andy’s departure. But when he confessed this feeling, Andy gently smiled and explained that this was what love felt like sometimes. ‘Like risk,’ Andy said.
Three rings and then Andy picked up. ‘I knew you’d call now,’ he said.
‘How could you possibly know that?’ Narain could not keep the smile from his voice.
‘I just knew,’ Andy said mysteriously.
Narain laughed. ‘I can’t talk for long. I have to get ready for work.’
‘All right,’ Andy said. ‘You’re up early.’ He stressed the ‘r’ and dragged the word, making Narain laugh once again. Narain had noticed a few Americanisms in Andy’s expressions, and since Narain had pointed it out, Andy took it upon himself to exaggerate the accent.
‘I had some things to do,’ Narain said. He told Andy about his unintended letter to the SDU.
‘A manifesto,’ Andy said. ‘Make sure you keep it.’
‘I’ve hidden it away,’ Narain said. He thought about the letter sitting in that drawer. There were spaces all over this flat where he could tuck away such letters. ‘I think it’s the first of a series of letters I’d like to write. I just wish I could send them.’
‘One day, Narain. Things might change.’ It might have been the firmness in his tone or the words themselves that filled Narain with emotion. Andy was relentless in reminding Narain to hold onto his ideals. On their first date, Narain had told him about the raids, and about how he had given up on his social justice quest after his group had fallen apart. It had all just been a reckless experiment in rebellion, he told Andy, dismissing the flyers and the underground movement. ‘You’re telling me all of this!’ Andy had said. ‘We barely know each other. How do you know I’m not an undercover policeman? There’s still a campaign to punish homosexuals even though they’ve relaxed with the raids and canings. I could be waiting to arrest you at any moment.’ Narain had been surprised at his own response – a shrug to which Andy responded, ‘Exactly. You cannot stop believing in the truth. No need for flyers or groups to promote it. It’s always in you, Narain.’
Now he asked Narain what else he wanted to write about. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Unless you’ll be late for work?’
Narain pictured Andy sitting back, closing his eyes and tipping his head up as he did when he listened to music.
‘I’ll write to those police officers from the New Year’s raid. I’ll tell them about my key,’ he began. He could practically see the unabashed grin stretching across Andy’s face as he chattered on about the key Andy had given him within months of knowing him. Narain spent a few nights a week there, searching for spots to place his own things. It was not difficult to find those empty spaces; it was as if Andy had found the place years ago knowing that Narain would arrive, their lives neatly fitting together. Before leaving for America, Andy had presented Narain with a copy of the lease. ‘I would tell them all about the apartment. I would even send them a copy of that lease with our names next to each other: Mr Narain Singh Sandhu and Mr Andrew Tay Hok Kim. I would tell them it’s the only official document the government will let us get away with.’
‘For now,’ Andy reminded him. ‘Things could change.’
Narain pressed the receiver so close to his lips that he could feel the pores in the plastic through which Andy’s voice emerged. ‘I would tell them that too,’ he said.
Amrit
The train ride was smooth, as usual. The handles swayed gently above her head but Amrit didn’t need their support; she had a steady place near the doors, where the windows were widest. She took in the view of the island. Treetops and buildings rushed beneath her feet. A Catholic school’s church steeple met her at eye level, reminding her of those days at school when everything towered over her.
As the train arrived at Toa Payoh station, it suddenly jolted. Arms shot out in every direction, reaching for the poles, but Amrit’s hand flew straight to her heart. She clutched the fabric of her blouse, crushing it between her fingers.
The elderly man standing next to her shook his head and shot a glare in the direction of the main car. ‘Why train driver go so fast?’ he asked. ‘Go so fast then when want to stop, got problem. Make passenger all fall down for nothing.’ He rubbed his eyes and blinked quickly several times.
Two youths in school uniforms exchanged a surreptitious smile. The man continued mumbling to nobody in particular. Amrit wondered what was wrong with him. The teenagers seemed to be asking the same question. One of them rolled his eyes and spun his finger in circles next to his forehead. The other chuckled softly behind his hands. Amrit shifted away from the teenagers and closer to the doors.
More passengers entered at the next stop, and then the announcer’s voice came on. In all four national languages – English, Chinese, Malay and Tamil – it was made clear that the train would reach its final destination at the next stop. A pair of young women squeezed in behind Amrit and grabbed the railings above her head, leaving her facing their armpits. As she twisted away, one of them was saying, ‘She thinks she’s so special, that’s what I can’t stand. She thinks she can get more annual leave by wearing thick eye shadow and short skirts.’
‘Damn cheap,’ the other woman agreed. ‘This kind of people, ah, they cannot make it, lah. Just wait. Few months down the road and boss will get fed up with her tricks.’
Amrit’s instinct was to freeze. They were talking about her – yes, of course they were. They were calling her names. They didn’t know her but they could see inside her and they knew everything that she was. Her body felt tight, as if it was being squeezed. Just as the panic began to set in, she recalled Dr Chow’s words: sometimes you will think everything is a message for you, but it’s not. Your mind is tricking you again.
The first time Amrit heard that explanation, it was hardly consoling. It was reiterated throughout her diagnosis and during the multitude of counselling sessions that began to blur together. The words lost their effect quickly; the idea that her own mind could turn against her was not something she could easily grasp.
‘Think of this as any other kind of illness,’ Narain urged her after her diagnosis. ‘The body which becomes vulnerable to the flu, for example, has been betrayed by its immune system.’ He had been so eager to make such comparisons, but they did little to soothe Amrit. Textbooks and studies had been written on this illness, and doctors had been trained to recognise its symptoms. This demon inside her had been given a name years ago, but she had only found out after years of believing that she was not fit for a meaningful existence.
‘What I wouldn’t do to trade this for a physical illness,’ she had told Narain after the diagnosis. One of the recommended books had outlined a list of physical symptoms expressed by people in cultures that did not have the word for ‘depression’ in their vocabulary. Stomach pains. Whole body aches. Numbness. Disappearance of the spirit. Amrit’s comprehension had been somewhere between the ignorance of a village woman and the cultivation of a modern British-educated woman. But, as Dr Chow pointed out, even the most educated people were not necessarily aware that mental illness had so many different shades.
Shades. Amrit liked the word; it
gave her a place on a spectrum, a spot among a hierarchy of patients. There were those at the very bottom – the stark raving mad: the girl she’d seen at the temple whose face hung slack as she rocked back and forth next to her mother; the man pacing a local shopping centre muttering obscenities and lugging a satchel of yellowed legal papers that he distributed to strangers; the patients she had envisioned staggering and moaning beyond the gates of the mental hospital, waiting to greet her like a band of zombies. Then there were people at the top – the normal people with an occasional hobby of moodiness: the misfits. Squarely in the centre, perhaps teetering occasionally, was Amrit. Most of the time she felt grateful to be treatable, and to be able to pass as a normal person. She could walk down the street without so much as a limp or an odd facial expression and nobody would know the difference.
However, sometimes she wished that her behaviour fit people’s expectations of insanity: banging-head-against-the-wall; shrieking; fetal position; inconsolable. Nobody would have any questions – they’d take one look at her and shake their heads and say, ‘Pity’. The downside of being only moderately mad was being doubted. Everybody was reluctant to believe in her illness. If she could behave normally sometimes then why couldn’t she always control her emotions? Who ever heard of an illness causing rebelliousness? Was every alcoholic, thief and loose woman suddenly deserving of therapy?
The train jerked to its final stop and the man began to grumble again, this time softly. His eyes caught Amrit’s but she quickly turned away. Did he see it? Did it show, a flash in her eye, a signal? She moved with the current of passengers onto the platform and the man dissolved into a cloud of shirts, bags, arms and chatter. Had he actually been there in the first place? She searched for the youths. There was no proof of anything. The tiled floors gleamed under the bright station lights. Amrit wanted to sit down for a moment but the crowd was falling into neat formation at the escalators and if she turned back, she would cause a brief disruption. After passing through the turnstiles, she found the closest wall and leaned against it with her eyes shut. Stop, she told herself. She had taken her medication this morning and there was no reason to believe that the illness was slowly creeping back. ‘You’re too conscious of it now,’ Dr Chow had told her when she described her constant panic lately. It distracted her and made her irate, which was why she had been so impatient with Narain this morning. The doctor had advised her to take a break from reading all those books about her condition, and to focus on goals that could be achieved. In her purse, carefully tucked into a side pocket, was a thin square of a notebook. It contained a list of everything she wanted to do. Despite Narain’s attempt to dissuade her this morning, there were two tasks she planned to carry out today. Each time she felt the shape of the notebook in her bag, her heart began to race.
