Sanity

"In a mad world, only the mad are sane."
-- Akira Kurosawa, 1910-98, filmmaker


“Shuja! Are you ready yet??” Mom shouted from the kitchen while I was engrossed in brushing my hair, getting ready for our excursion. My hair was among the few things I liked about myself. I bothered not to answer her, took my time and when I was satisfied, I flashed myself a smile in the mirror and ran downstairs to the kitchen.

“All ready,” I said, swooped an apple off the dining table and was about to dig my teeth into it when mom slapped my hand.

“Put that away…those are for your dad!! We might get late and so till the dinner is ready, he will have to survive on apples.”

I smiled and put the apple down. We were going for a visit to our newly-arrived neighbours. Mom loved to socialize and take care of those around her; a quality that made her the perfect mother and wife. I, on the other hand, was never keen on social gatherings.

“Mom,” I pleaded, making a face I usually made when she woke me up early on Sunday mornings. “Do I have to go? You know these things choke me out!!”

“Don’t talk like your father,” she said as she was neatly arranging something inside the refrigerator. “If you want to live in a society, you have to be courteous. Otherwise, the jungle has plenty of space.”

Man!! It was hard to reason with her.

Fifteen minutes later, we were seated on a comfortable sofa in a very well-lit and decorated lounge at our neighbours’ house. They were a family of two: Aunt Samina and her daughter Isha; although at that moment, only Aunt Samina sat across us. The interior was fabulous; the walls were festooned with paintings; beautiful, abstract. I was never fond of art but the paintings made me look at them… study them. The colours had, as if, a relationship. They spoke of things I was desperately trying to comprehend while the two elderly women continued the usual guest-room talks.

“Where is your daughter?” I heard Mom ask after a while.

There came no instant reply. I took my eyes off the paintings and glanced at Aunt Samina. She was trying not to let her smile fade away. She was not very successful.

“She is sleeping,” she said. “She just took her medicines.”

“Medicines?” Mom asked, concerned.

“Yes, she… she is a mental patient.”

“Oh, I am so sorry to hear that,” said Mom and I shared her feelings.

“In reality,” Aunt Samina went on, “she is not completely mad. She is very slow on the mental side; her brain hasn’t developed normally and she has problems understanding things. It also affects her physical behaviour. Over the years, she has gone through a lot. In our world, people with slight mental disabilities are labeled ‘mad’ and that is what happened to her. She has lost her confidence, she… has gotten worse. She can no longer study; neither does she want to socialize. For me, she is very normal. See these paintings? Isha made them.”

I was taken aback. The paintings… the craft, the harmony, the beauty in them. And they were made by an abnormal girl?

“How is that possible?” I asked. “This is certainly the work of an intelligent brain.”

“Yes, son. It seems she communicates through her paintings alone these days,” said Aunt Samina, and I saw a layer of moisture in her eyes and a smile that revealed she was proud of her daughter.

We were served and the talks went on. The two women seemed to really like each other. I ate little and all the while I thought about Isha. The more I looked at the paintings, the more assured I became that she wasn’t abnormal. And I wanted to meet her, see her…

I got the chance when suddenly she came out of a room and headed towards us. At first sight, I wondered if she really was abnormal. She wore thick glasses and her eyes were rather out of focus. She walked in a queer manner and her left hand was raised, her fingers strained. She resembled the many handicapped children I had seen on TV and in real life. And SHE had made the paintings?

She stopped half way; maybe she noticed the look of uncertainty and awe on my face. I quickly altered my expression. Aunt Samina noticed her too, went to her, took her by the hand, led her to the sofa, sat her down and introduced her to us.

Mom tried to converse with her but seldom did she answer. I thought she looked conscious… conscious of her own presence. She was almost cuddled to her mother and hardly raised her eyes.

I just HAD to talk to her. “These are beautiful paintings,” I remarked with a smile on my face. “You have made them?”

She raised her eyes and for the first time since I saw her, she appeared interested.

“Y..Y… Yes,” came a soft, shaky voice from within her as she almost smiled.

“I have seen paintings before but these… these are just way better!!”

“Y.. You are lying,” she said and giggled. She was right. I was embarrassed but did not show. But why was she giggling?

“How do you decide what colours to fill?” I asked without a reason.

She looked around at the paintings, shrugged strangely and said, “I don’t. The colours decide themselves”.

The colours decide themselves? That was philosophical. How did she say that? Wasn’t she supposed to be abnormal?

We returned home soon after. Dad was furious but Mom calmed him down. She always did… nobody could remain cross at her for too long.

My thoughts wandered to the queer girl I had just met. There was a contention within me as I struggled to accept her abnormality. She seemed odd and had a gauche behaviour but… there was more to that girl. A lot more. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she wasn’t mad at all and people had made her one because of the way she was treated. I had to find out.

The next day I told Mom that I wanted to talk to Isha, befriend her, give her confidence and make her feel good about herself… about the world. I never questioned Mom allowing me but when she said she was proud of me, I was elated.

I went to Isha’s house that evening. When Aunt Samina opened the door, she was pleased to see me. Mom had told her about my “intentions” and so she thanked me.

“Oh Please, don’t mention it. She deserves to be treated right,” I said.

“All she needs is a good friend and people who can talk to her; tell her that she, too, is a part of this world,” said Aunt Samina. She led me to her room. The door was open and Isha had her back to us; busy colouring something on a canvas. Her room was no less than a painting itself. Charts were scattered on one side of her room, markers and colours flocked the bed. The walls were filled with paintings, postcards and cutouts. All of them were a simple amalgam of colours… some profound and others with no apparent meaning. That… was her world.

“Isha, someone has come to meet you,” Aunt Samina announced softly. Isha stopped as if struck by her words. Carefully she put her colouring tray down and turned. Her hair was untidy and many of them were drenched in yellow. Her nose was spotted with green. Her expression was unmistakably surprise. I couldn’t help smiling at how she appeared. She probably took it for politeness and tried to smile back. It was a nice beginning.

Soon, I was exploring her creations on the walls. She had painted shadows with light in the background; clouds with silver linings, sceneries of extreme beauty; she had painted the air, the water and sometimes… it was a mere combination of colours I could not fathom. But it was all so beautiful. The colours and lines had a delicacy about them. They were calculated, crafted on the canvas.

I turned to look at her and she was still busy with her painting. I stepped beside her. She was painting dark hands that were groping towards a source of light.

“What is the meaning of that?” I asked, in a bid to start a conversation.

“It is obvious,” she replied in her soft voice. “Th… they are trying to … to… catch hope.”

“What a beautiful idea.” It really was. And it had occurred to HER!

“Why are you here?” She asked abruptly.

“Well… I wanted to be friends with you. Talk about your paintings and maybe… you can teach me how to paint.”

“But teachers are smart. I am not smart, I… I only paint.”

“Anyone who can paint as well as you do Isha is smart. Just in a different way,” I said; she looked at me and smiled.

“That is what I think too,” she remarked and giggled. That same strange giggle. “It is time for my tea. Do you like tea?”

“Oh, I love it,” I lied.

She preferred having her tea in her garden. As we were sipping our tea, I noticed the furniture was rather colourful. Maybe she had painted it. So far, I had seen nothing abnormal about her except her demeanor. She made strange faces now and then and her head seemed to sway about. Her right hand was fine but her left hand was always raised with her fingers strained. The only time I saw those fingers normal was when she held her colouring tray. She made strange blowing noises as she sipped her tea.

“Do… do you know why I am mad?” she asked as soon as she finished her tea. I was not expecting such a question from her. I put my cup down. It was time for a conversation.

“I don’t think you are mad at all Isha,” I said honestly. “You are a very talented girl.”

She giggled yet again. “That is not what everybody says. Do you know why?”

“No, Isha. I don’t.”

“Because I … I am not l… like them. I don’t talk like them and my… my eyes are not pretty. It is not my fault if God m… made me like this. Right?”

“Right,” I said. She was so right.

“When I… I was in s… school nobody liked me. People ran away from me. I read in a book about witches and… and… I thought I was a witch. But I am not mad. I cannot remember numbers and… and names and … and I don’t know what a friend is. I tried to… but… but I couldn’t.”

“That’s okay Isha. You paint. Not many people can do that. And you paint so well.”

“Yes,” she suddenly got excited and looked skywards. “I see c… colours in… in everything. The r… roads that birds w… walk on in the sky is… blue. Just like the sky. When my mom loves me, everything is… is… white and smiling. But I… I am black and everything else… is… so… bright!!”

I was moved. “You are not black Isha. You have brightness inside you. That is why you can see colours in everything. Nobody else does. We are black Isha, not you. All of us are.”

“Not my mom!” She said abruptly, pointing a finger at me.

“Hahaha… no… not your mom!!”

“Thank you,” she said with her head lowered. “You… you are… nice. Can we… we be… f… friends?” Her voice had a plea… a hope.

“Isha,” I said. “I already am your friend. By the way, what colour is friendship?”

She went quiet, put a finger to her forehead as if thinking hard. After a while she giggled and said, “I don’t know… maybe you… you can teach me!”

I visit her everyday. She has no problems talking about her paintings and colours. In fact when she does, she talks intellectually, better than many normal people would. Outside her world… she has problems describing things and understanding them. Loss of words ensues. She understands the language of colours and to understand her, I listen to her paintings. They speak so much about what is within her; loneliness, pity and… hope!!

The world was unable to see what was behind that awkward person; the awkwardness that was caused by a biological condition wherein there was no fault of hers. She was a gifted girl, one that deserved lot more friends. She had some physical defects and mental disabilities but her mind had ideas beyond normal thought. Her paintings spoke of worlds normal minds could not tread. THAT was why she was abnormal. When nobody cared to listen to her, she started painting her thoughts.

She has shortcomings that most of us do not. She lives in a world of her own. We get irritated by those that are different from us in any way. At times we are prejudiced and at others, disgusted. Is there a single standard of existence? If sanity is defined by how majority of people are and what they think then all those superior and inferior to them are insane. They ought not to be reprimanded for their insanity. It is, after all, no crime!!

One day when I went to meet her she refused to let me into her room. She told me to wait outside. She had a surprise for me. I waited for 10 minutes wondering what she would pull up. Then she returned and asked me to follow her.

“C… close your eyes,” she said just as we were about to enter her room. I did so and heard her giggles again. I groped my way inside her room. She took my hand and made me stand somewhere near her canvas.

“Op… open them,” she ordered. I opened my eyes. The canvas in front of me had a horizon with colours of the sunset masterfully carved onto it. It seemed so real only that there was no sun.

“Well…?” I shrugged, unable to understand what the surprise was.

She giggled. “Those… Those are… the colours… of… friendship.”

I felt warm. Never before had I seen such a beautiful thought.