The Beginnings Of A Madnessby Ramesh Mahadevan Hot and humid air envelops me as I step out of the Chennai airport terminal building. My eight-year-old son is walking tamely behind me, zapped utterly by the twenty-four-hour journey from the USA. My wife is walking further back, almost semi-dead from all the sleeplessness. I pause for a moment and scan the large crowd that is milling about, looking for my folks. There they are! My mother and my father and our driver. I wave to them, double my pace and head toward them. It has been three years since we saw them! “Come, come. Saravanan, Sugandha, how was the flight?” my mother gushes out. “Do you recognize grandma, Ashwin?” She cuddles my son, almost suffocating him. She looks nearly the same. But daddy has gone a bit browner, smaller and perhaps even shorter. He is impeccably dressed, as always. Sometimes I wonder if he takes four or five showers a day, to look that fresh all the time. He still has that unmistakable scholarly demeanor about him -- scholar, he is -- after all, he is none other than the highly respected Justice Muthuswamy, of the Madras high court. “Saravanan, as a VIP, we could have come inside the Arrivals section of the terminal, but you know your daddy doesn't like to do such things,” mother has already started to complain. We load up the Sumo van and start driving towards home amidst pleasant chitchat. It is way past midnight when we finish supper. My wife and son quickly retreat to their bedrooms, and only me, daddy and mummy stay up for some much-needed face-to-face family talk. “So, daddy, they gave you two more years of extension, then. No retirement any time soon, eh?” “Yes, yes. I was surprised myself. But even with me, they don't have a full bench.” “How are you feeling about it? I was hoping you would hang your robe and come with us to the USA for some rest and relaxation…” “No, no. I don't need rest,” my father answers. “America can wait. I feel fine. I go for long walks and I try to eat healthy. If I retired, then you know what will happen? Some fools will have a communal riot some place and they will ask me to head a meaningless Inquiry Commission. I will toil all day for two years, write a two-thousand-page report that no one will read. It's much better to be an active judge than to be retired.” “How is your health, daddy?” “You tell me, you are the doctor.” My father laughs. “The government sent me through some medical exams. I am okay.”
We are still talking, even though it is past two in the morning. My daddy finally begins to talk legalese. “Saravanan, the law and order situation is not what used to be," he says. “It is a mess now. And it will be even worse, from now on.” “Is it because of the new government?” “No, no. I am making a universal statement here. Do you really want to know why I think so?” he asks me, obviously wanting me to say yes. “You see, I have been a magistrate, a judge and so on for so long, now I am ready to pass judgement on the entire humanity. Yes, son, I am going to indict the whole humanity. I have come to the erudite conclusion that everyone is a crook; every person is basically a criminal… waiting to unleash his or her nefarious actions and get away with it.” “That is a pretty harsh judgement, daddy. Why do you say so?” “Oh, I don't know where to even begin.” He adjusts himself on the sofa for better articulation. “Just last week the Supreme Court issued judgement on the Thangapandian v The State of Tamil Nadu case. I passed judgement on this case here at the High Court.” “I see…” “Well, the main accused and five others went into the victim's house, premeditated, in my opinion. There they murdered four people belonging to the same family. They didn't even spare the seventy-two-year-old patriarch of the family. I sentenced all six of them to death for their dastardly “I see.” “Under Indian Penal Code, Section 300 Murder, Section 302 Punishment for Murder, Section 320 Grievous hurt, Section 324, Section 452 House Trespassing after preparation for hurt. And also under some sundry sections of Criminal Procedure Code of 1973. Airtight case, in my opinion. And you know what? The Supreme Court acquitted all of them except the primary accused. Unbelievable! The defense did such a make-believe job, they prevailed… Unbelievable, indeed.” I can hear my mother calling me from the kitchen. She wants me to come over there. I tell my daddy I will be right back, as I walk toward the kitchen. “Daddy still has that old fire in him, mummy. Look at him talking passionately about some dumb case.” “Saravanan, this time it is different. Did you notice he is talking to himself?” “What do you mean? I was there all the time.” "No! Look! He is still talking, even though you are not there.” “Perhaps he thinks I can still hear him…” “No, Saravanan. He talks even if there is no one around for miles. He gets especially loud if we walk out of the room leaving him alone. And it is always about lawlessness and how 'everyone is a crook' kind of talk.” “He must be under a lot of stress. How long has this been going on?” “I don't know. A couple of months, maybe,” my mother replies. “I am really worried, Saravanan. I think he is losing it. Do something, please. Check him out.” “Mummy, don't worry. He is probably just overworked. His job is so stressful. Imagine, he has to be King Solomon every single day. I will take a look at him first thing tomorrow morning. It is already very late today.” I try to reassure her somewhat “Does he do this only occasionally, or is there a pattern to it?” “It happens mostly in the nights, although I am not hundred percent sure. In the mornings, he is mostly normal.” “What does his doctor say? Did he do any tests on daddy?” “You know your daddy. He absolutely refuses to see any doctor. They did make him go through some medical exams though and they all came out normal,” she says. “I don't know, but he always claims he is perfectly okay. Who can argue with the Judge of the Madras High Court?” “Why didn't you tell me about this earlier? I could have brought all kinds of new depression medications. We brought very little medical things this time. See, we packed in a hurry.”
When I come back to the living room, I find him still talking. And like mother said, he is talking to no one in particular. He doesn't even notice me walking in. I move close to him to attract his attention. He still isn't looking at me. I look to see if he is sweating or palpitating. No. He is staring straight at the wall in front of him. And talking. “Four murders were committed in one household. Four. What did the defense do? They built up a case for the accused. They presented as evidence some injuries to the accused -- really superficial wounds compared to the mortal wounds of the dead. But wounds nonetheless. Their counsel was able to probabilize that the accused were acting in self-defense and they were the ones who were being attacked by the victim and his family…” “Daddy, it's already too late. Why don't we continue this conversation tomorrow?” He doesn't respond to me. He is gazing straight ahead. “Can you imagine? Only one person was finally sentenced to prison in this case? One person. That too, only to a prison term. All others went scot-free. That one fellow got four life terms -- all to run concurrently. Four concurrent life sentences? What good does it do to have concurrent prison sentences? I don't like it at all. It is a travesty.” “Daddy, will you please get up? It is past three O' clock.” “Somebody published a statistic that only one third of all murder cases are even investigated. Lord knows how many of them are prosecuted! Here is a perfect recipe for murdering people -- first of all, inflict some simple wounds on your person and claim you did it in self-defense. Next, you kill several persons in one go, instead of just one person. Finish off an entire family, if you wish. And finally, hire good advocates to argue round and round. This way you have very little overhead…” “Daddy, you must really get to bed now. It is getting very late.” I grab his hand. God! His hands are so thin and frail! He looks very vulnerable. I lift him a little so that he would get up. He still isn't looking at me at all, not even a glance. “They had so many weapons -- daggers, sickles, many knives, bicycle chains. And they had the gall to claim that they were simply returning from work in the fields and that's why they had all those sickles and daggers… Liars. The Supreme Court is a great institution, but the defense lawyers can hoodwink them too.” I hold his hands and slowly walk him to his bed. My mind wanders into the distant past. How many hundred times did my father tuck me away in my bed and put me to sleep? “Four doctors testified for the defense. Four doctors! The accused only had a five-centimeter mild cut, whereas the victim had a thirty-centimeter incisive wound in his occipital region. Who is attacking whom, you tell me? The prosecution was obliged to explain the accused's injury, even though it was devoid of merit.” I look at him one last time, as I was about to switch off the light. He still looks fresh and ultra-clean, like he had his shower only five minutes ago. His jaw is still moving about and he is quietly muttering to himself. His eyes are still wide open. He ought to be really tired. And should go off to sleep pretty soon. Good night, daddy.
I wake up bright and early the next morning. Must be the jetlag! I am still deeply disturbed by daddy's behavior last night. I need to get to the bottom of this. For his part, he is up and about already. Gone for his usual morning walk, the driver told me. And he is behaving absolutely normally, too. No hint of anything gone wrong. When he comes back, I should give him my usual stethoscope listen. My poor wife is still sleeping. She now has a full-fledged infection. She was coughing all night. I am sure it is one of those darned Asian flu viruses -- no doubt picked up in the airplane. The airplanes are like germ factories! Daddy has just finished his morning prayers and has stepped into the living room. I have half a mind to talk about last night. Why was he talking to himself? Is he feeling okay? Confront him and his demons! But I decide to keep quiet about it. “Daddy, are you ready for a quick medical check-up? Won't take more than five minutes.” I bring out my stethoscope and blood pressure monitor and quickly get around to examining him. His pulse is strong and good; no missing beats; cartoid pulsation is normal and there is no sign of any bruit. The auscultation of the heart goes off fine. His BP is normal too. Thank god! At least his heart-health seems reasonably okay, at first glance. “Driver, what did you do just now?” It is my father, chiding the poor driver for something or the other. “Yes, I am asking you. What did you do just now?” “Nothing, sir,” the driver says sheepishly. “I won't do it again.” “Of course you won't do it again. But why did you do it in the first place?” “No, sir, it won't happen again. I won't smoke inside this compound again.” My daddy turns to me now. “See, Saravanan. This is another tactic of the criminal mind these days -- the 'I won't do it again' defense. Of course they won't do it again, because they are clever enough to commit the same crime in many other ways -- by varying their present modus operandi.” My god! He has started again! “Let me be the prophet of doom, Saravanan. The world is going to end in total lawlessness. I am not talking about thousands of years from now. I am talking about the next few years, next few decades. We are fast producing morally corrupt, legally naïve, uncultured, uncouth human beings all around us…” “Daddy, a single puff on a cigarette has launched you on this lecture?” “The whole world will be a jungle and we will have the law of the jungle. The lions and tigers will make the rules and swagger around. The antelopes and deer will have no protection under any law. People like us will be the monkeys, swinging from tree branches -- sometimes we will cross paths with the lions and tigers, some other times we may harass a poor deer. But the society will be uncivilized, horrible and savage. It will spiral into a rapid collapse.” His stare becomes lazy and he is slowly losing his connection with the external world. Enough already! Enough of his new obsessions and fears and visions! I turn around and tell his personal assistant to cancel all his appointments and extend his leave by another month, for medical reasons. “He is not going to meet anyone without me or madam approving it, and please make sure nobody from the media, no reporter of any sort, is snooping around…” Everyone, we need rest and privacy here. Daddy is really very stressed and exhausted. “Daddy, please get ready. After lunch, we are going to the labs for a complete bunch of tests and all the medical scans that this city can produce.”
We are driving daddy to the 'Chennai Scans' -- the most modern lab of its kind in the city. My son too comes along for the ride. He is already getting quite bored at home. He only has the driver to keep him company. 'They don't even have a soccer ball in this house,' he already complained. Worse still, I couldn't get his PlayStation to work. Can't blame him. At the 'Chennai Scans', a doctor invites us in. “Sir is the High court judge, isn't he?” “Yes.” “And you are…?” “I am his son, Saravanan. Actually, I am a cardiologist too.” “Oh, where do you practice, sir?” “I live in the US. I am just here on my vacation.” “What is the prognosis?” “He is a little stressed out and exhausted. I would like a complete battery of tests. CAT scan of the brain, complete blood work. It will be good if we can check the cortisol activity.” “What test would that be, sir?” “I don't know if you have anything that will indicate hypothalamus activity… So, let's go with the standard Endocrine panel.” “Okay, sir. I am sure you will want to do PSA also. The test results should be ready in twenty-four hours, sir. Would you like coffee, juice?” By the time we come home, it is late evening. My wife is still sniffing and coughing. She is walking around with that my-holidays-are-already-ruined look. My son too is showing signs of infection and I start him off on antibiotics. We are supposed to go to Delhi in three days to be with my in-laws. Then meet my sister's family and take the 'Palace on Wheels' for a few days. And then, head south again, and spend a weekend in an island off the Kerala coast with Mummy and Daddy. Now everything seems iffy.
I wake up suddenly in the middle of the night. I thought I heard the radio or TV playing. I get up and amble around. It is daddy! Talking loudly to himself! I find him in the kitchen, crouched next to the refrigerator. He is only in his underwear, his dhoti had fallen off near the dining table. I pick it up and give it to him. He isn't even aware that he is semi- naked. He is far too gone. I wrap the dhoti around him. Jesus Christ! His Lordship, Justice Muthuswamy, one of the greatest legal minds of the country, is talking to his refrigerator in his underwear in the middle of the night? “Or take the case of Gopalan v. Indian National Bank. The appellant was a simple pensioner. He took his Gratuity and Provident Fund and built a nice flat, in the hope of renting it out and getting some supplementary income in his retirement years. What did he do? He leased the premises to this bank for a year. He thought he was getting a good deal. But, at the end of the year, his tenants would neither vacate nor pay him rent…” “Daddy, what is going on? Please go back to your room and sleep,” I plead with him. “Gopalan wrote to so many officials in the bank. Nothing happened. He sued. The lower court sided with the bank! They surmised that there was insufficient ground for a criminal case. There was no criminal breach of trust. This case was purely civil in nature arising from contractual obligations, they said. Fraudulent intention must be established at the time of the contract. They fined the bank a mere Rs 250. That's it. Not even enough to buy some stamp papers… The bank used this magistrate order to even harass the poor complainant. Imagine, a judgement being used as a vendetta. Disgusting!” “Daddy, are you listening to me? Please shut up and listen to me.” “I got the criminal charges reinstated and indicted the bank under Sections 415 and 420. You know what they did? When the bank fellow finally vacated the flat, he trashed the entire premises -- it would take Gopalan years to repair it. Where is justice? The courts should be circumspect and judicious…” “Enough, daddy,” I put my hand around his shoulders and gently shake him up. He is a bit surprised by this, but at least he wakes up from his delirium. He stares at me for a few moments. He finally recognizes that I am present. “Saravanan, maybe you will understand this analogy, because you are a doctor. You know antibiotics? Every time you invent a new antibiotic, the bacteria also eventually mutate and become more and more resistant. The legal system is exactly like that. The Indian Penal Code was framed in 1860. Since then, there have been numerous amendments, myriad other codes and laws. But human beings have also refined their criminal behavior. Moral mutation is taking place everywhere. Most people are so scheming that they have now become immune to law. A huge locust infestation is going on right now and we judges are like fly swatters, swatting about once in a while and knocking down one or two insects.” We are in his bedroom by now. I put him in his bed and cover him with a light sheet and crank up the air-conditioner a notch. And then, I retire to bed myself.
The next day. Daddy is back to being Dr. Jekyll. Why was he giving a lecture in the kitchen last night, I ask him. He vehemently denies he ever did that. What kitchen? What speech? Maybe I was there for a drink of water or something. Yes, I have my pet theories about law and lawlessness, but I haven't gone completely crazy yet, he argues. The classic denial response! The smell of chicken biriyani getting cooked for lunch floats everywhere. These cooks! Wonder how they have such a vast repertoire. Hunger pangs are slowly getting nucleated in my belly. “Aha, I caught you!” It is daddy, talking to my son. I idly turn toward them. “I caught you in the act. I have prima facie evidence now…” What is going on? My son is staring at his grandfather, his runny nose notwithstanding. “I will prosecute this case, right now. The accused threw his wet towel on the sofa and when he saw me, he removed the said towel and put it away. There is sufficient ground to establish malice aforethought. My lord, since the towel was wet, when its fibers contacted the fibers of the sofa, it caused the fibers of the sofa to absorb the water molecules and thereby shortening the life span of the said sofa… Criminally negligent behavior causing me property damage and mental anguish.” My son is finding it very amusing. “The prosecution is going to call its first witness -- the cook. Where is Prosecution Witness number one, PW 1, please? Come forward and take the oath. The accused is running away. That will be contempt of court. I will throw in an additional RI and a fine for that. See, this is the other thing wrong with the legal system -- poor and half-hearted enforcement of the court verdicts -- the enforcement is so bad, many criminals manage to escape justice and wander freely in the streets.” Our amusement is slowly turning into horror, as my daddy begins to lose all of us. “The poor child has been sick for some time now. Leave him alone,” my mother pitches in. “Objection overruled, my learned amicus… See, this is yet another legal façade that many criminals hide under. Being medically unfit. Career criminals have sudden heart attacks two days before sentencing. My learned senior counsel, don't lead the witness. This court has irrefutable evidence of the criminal act. This court fines the accused, but since the accused is a juvenile, the sentence is suspended. Case closed. Where is my gavel?” He quickly gets up from his chair -- or at least he tries to. He swerves around like a deadbeat drunkard, his head swinging about wildly. He reaches to grab something imaginary and collapses pathetically on to the floor, like a house of cards. “Quick, call Apollo hospital and get an ambulance. Phone up his doctor,” I yell, as I reach for my steth to give him a quick, preliminary exam. His breathing and vitals are mostly okay. His pulse is racing, almost in the realm of tachycardia. It doesn't look like he is having a stroke or an attack. But he is gone. Probably having a super-sized breakdown of sorts.
Daddy is sleeping soundly in the hospital under sedation. For a change, he doesn't have his freshly-showered look about him. I feel bad for him. His regular doctor arrives promptly. And in a matter of minutes, we even have a psychiatrist come into the room -- one of the best in the city, we are told. “Was he involved in any stressful cases or something, of late? Did he have to do anything against his will? I mean, any politician tried to twist his arm?” The psychiatrist asks his routine questions. “Nothing as nearly as I can tell,” I say. “Did he fall down anywhere recently, any trauma to the head?” “I don't think so,” I reply. “What do the scans show?” he asks. “They were mostly normal. There is a bit of cerebral atrophy, but we don't know what brain functions are affected, if any. His sodium is below fourteen and his sugar level is also so low he can go into hypoglycemia. It can be anything. By the way, his father had dementia. I think his condition is mostly temporary and psychological…” I pipe in with my opinion. “I agree with you, Dr. Saravanan. I am seeing a lot of this these days. Police officers agonizing over some action they took years ago, judges feeling guilty over their verdicts. Even religious leaders and politicians get into depression over what they see as their imperfect lives. This happens especially around the twilight part of their career, when they sit down to reflect and evaluate themselves… That's when all the ghosts come out. Don't worry, sir, we have wonderful pills these days for all this. You know it.” “Very true,” I concur. “I am not a psychiatrist, but to me his symptoms look like the initial stages of psychotic depression. A course of some dopamine agonist like apomorphine might work." Hopefully! He is not going to wake up any time soon. I guess I will go home and come back perhaps later in the night or tomorrow. I am so exhausted myself I could sleep for twenty hours at a stretch. Can't believe I landed in Madras only a couple of days ago. Seems like ages ago.
The drive back home is very reflective. It looks more and more likely that I will have to extend my vacation. I can't leave Madras till things come to some kind of a closure. This is supposed to be the year of my big vacation -- when I basked in the sun and indulged. Instead, I am plunging head-first into a crisis. And it doesn't get any easier when I get back to the USA. I am supposed to be in a training class on some new Angioplasty technique. Then the Western Regional Cardiology Meeting; and of course, all those usual patients, some of whom have made their appointments some six months ago. Back on the sixty-hour-work weeks with no respite. Someone, please, give me a break! It is pretty quiet at home when we arrive. My son and wife have gone off to the temple. Mummy is lying down. Lying down?! She never does that, this time of the day! That is unusual. Just feeling a bit dizzy, she tells me. I give her a quick exam. Her diastolic blood pressure is over a hundred-and-twenty. She too is under stress! Jesus Christ! I quickly give her some blood pressure medication that I had brought along. This is great! My wife is sick, my kid is sick, my mother has high blood pressure, and my daddy is in the hospital! And I am a doctor! Maybe even the cook is sick and the driver is sick. The driver must have smoked so many cigarettes, by now his lungs must be having pimples. Everybody in this world is sick, sick, sick. And this is only the beginning. The beginning of the end. The morbidity and mortality rates of this world are going to soar through the roof. This is how the world is going to end, my esteemed patients. In a medical calamity. Everybody will be in constant need of special medical attention. The whole world will be sick. Sick to the core. Ten-year-old children will have heart attacks. Babies will have Type 2 diabetes. Senior citizens will have their best sex lives at age eighty when they have Viagra with their dinner. Super-seniors will abound. A hundred-and-forty-two-year-old will come into my office to test his cholesterol. He would have been on Lipitor for a hundred-and-two years already. There will be SARS, smallpox, people's choice of flu virus, hepatitis A to Z, headaches, mad cow disease, Don't-Know-What-It-Is Syndrome. Every person will be tethered to doctors, hospitals and monitors. Everyone will eat a cocktail of medicines. Everyday. The only conversation will be about health. The only advertisements will be for medicines. Claritin and prozac and vasotec. Doctors will be given vacation only once in five years, and that too only for five days. Of course, there will be those statistically probable few that will be healthy. I won't call them lions and tigers. Maybe lion kings and tiger kings. They will have to work damn hard to compensate for the sickness of everyone else. You watch out. I am not talking about a hundred years from now or a thousand years from now. It may happen in my lifetime or yours. The medical world is internally hemorrhaging and it will collapse into an imploding chaos. And this is my Final Diagnosis. Where is my stethoscope?
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