That summer in Thiruvananthapuram, over twin cups of hot tea, my paternal grandmother told me a story about her older sister, her Akkachi.
One day, when Akkachi was a teenager, she was seized by spirits. She lost control of her body. She began to speak in different voices. To keep her safe, she was locked in her room, windows shuttered to keep out the discomfiting light. Their mother immediately sent for the local jyolsyan, a learned astrologer who consulted on all matters related to spirits and higher dimensions. He came at once to examine Akkachi. He confirmed her possession. He chanted furious prayers, conducted complicated rituals. In a few days, in his mysterious ways, he healed Akkachi of her affliction.
My grandmother blinked at me. “And that is why I believe so strongly in a higher power,” she said. “Because I saw my sister channel spirits with my own eyes. I saw her become different people with different voices. She wasn’t faking it. How could she?” She pressed my hand, earnest. “I hope you know I am not making any of this up. This isn’t a story I’m telling to scare you. This was real. It all happened just as I’m telling it to you.” She stared off into space, lost in a dark room in an old house far away. “It is true what they say,” she said quietly. “There are some things in this world we mortals cannot explain.”
At the time, I listened and nodded with respect. I didn’t comment on the story. I didn’t question it. To be honest, I didn’t know what to make of it. While I was certain there was a medical explanation for the events Ammooma described, I couldn’t discount her understanding of it either. In a fundamental way, she was right – who truly knew what forces were at play in our lives? I was no expert. In any case, I was glad it was a story that lay in the past. How frightening it must have been to witness. How terrifying it must have been to experience.
Little did I know what lay dormant in my blood.
There’s only one way I can tell this part of the story: no nonsense, no frills, dead straight like a shot of whiskey. Anything else would be too painful.
Here is a report of the facts.
In the days leading up to my first psychotic episode, my mania heightened. I could not stop thinking. I could not stop talking. I slept less and less every night. I was convinced I was on the verge of an intellectual breakthrough.
After Amma had landed in Los Angeles, the two of us drove down to San Diego to visit family friends. I did a good job of minimizing my symptoms to seem as ‘normal’ as possible, but my energy couldn’t be entirely suppressed. Amma was worried. She could tell that something was wrong, but what could it be?
That weekend in San Diego, my mania crested. I did not sleep at all for two days straight, yet I felt sharp as a tack.
That was when the psychosis hit.
In the early morning hours after my second night of no sleep, I began to sense a thread of golden light inside me. It started at the base of my spine, then loosely spiraled up before settling in my belly. The belly, the softest part of the body. The light was teaching me to let go of fear. I thought of what I feared the most: the death of my paternal grandmother, the death of my mother. I let them both go.
I must have done well because the light moved up my spine passing through my sternum and my heart. It nestled in my throat, then began oscillating rapidly. With a dull roar, the light filled my mouth, pressing against my lips. It wanted to be let out, but I was terrified. What would happen if the light got out? What if I unleashed something terrible into the world? So, I kept my mouth shut tight, struggling against the pressure of the light as it sat on my tongue. Communication; here, I was blocked. Eventually, the light subdued. Returning to the back of my throat, it moved upwards, passing through my third eye. Reaching the spot where my forehead met my hairline, it dissipated, leaving behind a sore spot right where my hair parted.
I had never had a more frightening, more exquisite experience in my life.
The light now gone, I finally dared to move. I opened my eyes. Tears streamed down my face. Gingerly, I reached for my forehead. There it was, a bump where there hadn’t been one before, tender to the touch. It had all been real.
But what exactly was it? Though I knew little about chakras or Hindu or Buddhist spirituality, I suspected what I had experienced was somehow related to enlightenment, some sort of spiritual awakening. Whatever the specifics, one thing was clear: that morning, I had been gifted with deep insight. I sprang up from the couch. I had to save the world.
As I brushed my teeth, my thoughts raced, each one linking to the next in a problem-solving chain. I needed to test my theory of what had happened to me without raising suspicion. I had to keep my experience a secret. Or was I supposed to share my experience with others? I didn’t know what the rules to any of this were.
Who could I talk to about this without causing alarm? Who could I trust? My father. A deeply spiritual man who had studied both Hinduism and Buddhism, Acha had once considered taking monastic vows and had meditated regularly for decades. If there was anyone who could help me, it was him. But there was a problem. My father was in Virginia and the only way to reach him was by phone. And I didn’t want to talk about this over the phone. It could be tapped. What if the government was listening in?
An hour later, despite my fear of technology, I called Acha. I tried to speak to him in code. He responded somewhat uneasily. I began to wonder if he was somehow involved in what had happened to me. I didn’t know what he did when he meditated or prayed or went to temples. I didn’t know how this worked. Was there a possibility that the experience had been planned? The stars, had they come into alignment last night? I couldn’t talk to my father over the phone. It would have to wait until the next time I was home, a few weeks from now. I could wait until then, couldn’t I?
The rest of the morning, I acted as normally as I could, but my mother and my family friends noted my euphoric mood. They told me I glowed. Around eleven, I excused myself to go out. I wanted to test out the world in my new mind and body, buy myself something to eat. Blue skies, warm breeze, perfect day. I wore my baseball cap backwards, rolled down the windows, and sang along to the radio. Without using my phone’s GPS (no tracking), I found a strip mall close to the house. I walked into an empty poke restaurant with the sun blazing behind me. I ordered food and talked to the cashier who happened to be a student at UCSD. I told her I was working on a big project and asked if she’d be interested in working with me. She was flattered, gave me her school email address. I sat down and ate my bowl, humming. I could feel the whole store light up because of me. I really was going to save the world.
I drove back to the house and joined everyone else for lunch, still hungry. It was Onam, the Malayalee harvest festival. We ate well. I sat on my secret while I talked and laughed with my loved ones as if nothing of note had happened. After the food had been cleared away, everyone split off to go rest in their rooms. Since I had not slept in two days, I went upstairs to try and sleep in the bed that my mother had been using.
Hard as I tried, I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t fall asleep. Instead, I lay there, pinning my eyelids shut as thoughts skipped across the troubled waters of my mind. A sudden darkness descended upon me. My cheery disposition in the face of my strange experience faded away. A swarm of suspicion. What if it had all been a simulation? What if my father, who worked in IT, had implanted something in my head? What if I was at the heart of some twisted experiment? And Kannan. He was in computers too. What were the chances of meeting the perfect man in the midst of all of this? What if he had been planted to monitor me? What if he had been told to charm me, to lower my defenses, so he could trick me into giving up the details of my experience? What if my father and Kannan had been working together to get the secret to enlightenment? And what would they do with it then? Sell it? Replicate it? Induce it in others?
NO NO NO.
White-hot anger. I had been betrayed. I had been used. I had been lied to. My whole life had been one long set-up. What kind of sick game was this? I couldn’t trust anyone. I couldn’t be here. I needed to be back in my apartment in Los Angeles. And Amma. Had Amma known? No, no, she couldn’t have known or if she did, she must not have known much. I couldn’t believe that my mother would do this to me, I couldn’t. But I also couldn’t dismiss the possibility. There was no way that my father could have done this to me without my mother knowing. I had too many questions, no answers. I sat up in bed, heart pounding. This was something that needed to be settled between the three of us now. This could not wait. I needed an excuse that would necessitate our immediate departure, one that wouldn’t prompt questions from our family friends.
I grabbed my bag and Amma’s, stalked down the stairs. Amma was watching tv with Bindu Aunty and Anu, acting as if everything was normal. I couldn’t bear to look at her. We needed to leave. My voice shaking, I announced that someone I knew at UCLA had died, that I had to return right away. Everyone stood up, shocked. Amma tried to reason with me – why did we have to leave so soon, maybe we could wait and have Bindu Aunty drive us there, I was in no condition to drive the two hours back. But I was firm. We had to leave now. I grabbed the keys to the car, waving them in the air.
“I am going to go get the car and pull around. Be ready to go then.”
Trembling with rage, I walked to the car, threw our bags in the back. I slammed the door shut, then paused, took in two ragged, deep breaths. I needed to stay calm until we made it back to Los Angeles.
I pulled the car up to the garage. Everyone was standing outside, waiting. Amma got in the passenger seat as I said goodbye to everyone, apologizing for the abruptness of our departure. They pressed my hands and expressed their condolences, bid me to drive safe. They waved as we drove away.
Once we were alone in the car, Amma started asking questions. I sat silent. I still couldn’t look at her, considering what she’d done. Her questions grew in frequency, until she finally snapped.
“Anjana, what is wrong with you? Are you okay?”
I looked at her wrathfully. “What is wrong with me? You know exactly what is wrong with me. You have always known what is wrong with me. For all these years. I can’t believe it, Amma. How could you and Acha do this to me?”
She looked at me in shock. “What are you talking about, Anjana?”
The jig was up. I picked up her phone and tossed it in her lap. “Call Acha right now. Call him and ask him to tell you about what he did to me. I’m not saying another word until we get to Los Angeles.”
Amma tried to turn on her phone. It was dead. “Anjana, my phone is not working. Give me your phone. I’ll call Acha.”
Oh, she thought she was so sly. She wanted my phone. She wanted my phone to tap it, to see my messages, to check to see what I’d been telling people. Did she think I was stupid?
Just then, we passed the strip mall where I’d bought poke earlier that day. I pulled into the lot, Amma peppering me with frantic questions. Once I parked, I pulled out my phone charger, tossed it to Amma, and pointed at the store. “Take this charger into that store,” I ordered. “There’s a very nice lady working there. She’ll let you use an outlet. Charge your phone, call Acha, then come out.”
Amma stared at me, not wanting to leave me in the car. I huffed at her. I took the key out of the ignition and got out of the car. My mother followed suit. Across the hood, I hissed. “Go in there and charge your phone. I am not talking to you until you call Acha.”
I slammed the door shut. I was so angry that I couldn’t stand still. I stomped away from the car and stood at the far edge of the parking lot with my back turned towards her to show my anger, my disapproval. A tantrum. My chest heaved. I waited for a few minutes, struggling to calm myself down, then turned around. My mother hadn’t left the car. She was standing there with the door open, phone charger in hand. I grew infuriated. She was clearly stalling to make me hand over my phone.
I stormed across the parking lot till I came to a small staircase. I stomped down the stairs, walked a few feet down the sidewalk and sat down on the concrete, facing the busy road. Watching the cars drive by, untouched by the drama that was unfolding, I began sobbing. Oh, it was true. My mother did know what my father had done. She had been a part of it all. My father and my mother had done this to me. They had ruined me forever. In the frenzy, I wondered if I should just start walking, see how far I would get, hitch-hike till I got somewhere safe, unknown, far away. I had my phone and my wallet. I could do it if I wanted to.
My fingers floated up. I pressed the sore bump on my forehead. There was no escaping it. Only Acha could give me the answers I needed. I couldn’t disappear. Not yet.
I walked back up the stairs. Amma still hadn’t left the car. In ten minutes, she could have easily gone in the store, charged the phone, called Acha, but she hadn’t. She never listened to me. Never. I was tired of it all.
I opened the door and got in the car. Amma peered in. I snapped at her. “Get in the car. We’re going back to Los Angeles right now. We can charge your phone in my apartment and you can call Acha then. But I’m not talking to you until we get there. Are we clear?”
Amma was flustered. “Anjana, why don’t you just give me your phone? I’ll call Acha right now and we can figure this out.”
She was bargaining with me. Who did she think I was? Someone who could be played around with? It was clear that she wanted my phone. If she could get it out of my hands, I’d be stuck. Without it, I wouldn’t feel safe enough to leave if I needed to. No.
I put the key in the ignition. “Amma, get in the car now.”
“Wait a minute, Anjana, just wait a minute. Listen to what I’m saying.”
But I was done listening.
“If you do not get in the car right now, Amma, I will leave you here.”
“Anjana, what is wrong with you? I don’t understand.”
“Get in the car, Amma, right now.”
“Anjana, please, just listen to me.”
But I had given her enough chances. I took the car out of park, put it in reverse. I eased my foot on the accelerator. The car started rolling backward.
“Anjana! Anjana! What are you doing?!”
Amma hopped out of the way. The passenger door swung shut. Through the window, I shouted, “You have your phone and a charger. We’re not far from Bindu Aunty’s house. You can figure out a way back. I’m going to Los Angeles. Don’t show up there without Acha.”
And that was how I left my mother in a parking lot in San Diego.
Originally posted on a now defunct personal blogging website.
