THE SIKH PATIENT: Chapter One

THE SIKH PATIENT 

A NOVEL

                            by nina kaur

Tom Brokaw, who has Manic Depression, pronounces Sikh, ‘Seek.’  It’s actually pronounced, ‘Sick-h.’  Now let’s not blame the mispronunciation on Manic Depression.  He can’t pronounce Osama either.  Osama is not pronounced ‘Osaama.’  It is actually pronounced ‘O-Sam-Ah.’ ‘Sam,’ like Uncle Sam.  How do I know this?  Not because I know the man you are thinking of, but because I have a friend named Osama, who politely asks me to call him Sam in public, even though he’s Christian.  Maybe Osama Bin Laden is just mad at us because he’s so famous, and we still don’t pronounce his name correctly.  Maybe they can’t find him because they keep shouting out the wrong name when they go to the desert or the caves, or wherever it is they’re looking.  (Even though Osama is probably hiding in Disneyland dressed in a Mickey Mouse Suit). 

A great author, Ben Marcus, said something along the lines of, Maybe God is mad at us because ‘God’ is not his real name.  Maybe we’ve been shouting out the wrong name.  The Sikhs believe you can use any name for God and by repeating His/Her name you can reach God.  Actually, they believe that you will get to god if you remember his name.  Do you remember what his name is?  If it’s any name then what is there to remember?  Since he has every name, we can’t forget him.  Sikhs believe god is everything that can be named, and anything can be named.  So God is the universe, and there is only one universe.  There are many names.  There is One God.   

 OK, enough preaching.

At the end of the film, The English Patient, Ralph (pronounced ‘Rafe’) Fines’ character says, “She died…because I had the wrong name.”

            But What’s in a name?  The reason I’m so obsessed with this name thing is that no one can seem to pronounce my name.  Yasmine.  Yazmeen is how you say it.  Not Yasmin, however, I do believe that’s how you pronounce the birth control pill named after me.  And please, do not call me Jasmine by mistake.  Jasmine is the Jennifer of India, and Y is way far away from J in the alphabet.  

            Some Sikhs and some other East Indians look like me.  They have fair skin and narrow bone structures.  I have one of those faces that…let’s say you put me in Mexico, everyone would think I was Mexican.  If I went to Egypt, everyone would think I was Egyptian.  But I was born in America, yet no one thinks I look American. 

            I was always obsessed with the film The English Patient, however, when I read the novel I realized that the book illustrates the Sikh character much more elaborately than the movie does.  It also upset me that in the only Academy Award-winning film where a Sikh is depicted, they did not cast a real Sikh for the part.  It only added to my anger that there are a billion people in India but they chose to cast a Caucasian as Gandhi, in the film.  What was that movie about again?

            But please, don’t stop reading because you think this is some long rant about racism.  It’s a long rant about other things.

            Yeah, I know, there are not that many of us Sikhs out there.  But we exist.  Sikhism is a religion, by the way.  It’s O.K. if you didn’t know that; you are not alone, you’d be surprised how many people there are that still don’t know anything.  The problem is the chances that I know the name of your religion are pretty high, even if you are an atheist, I’ve heard of Atheism.  Maybe it’s because Tom Brokaw can pronounce “atheist.”

             I have a lot of respect for atheists, even though I think God is talking to me.  I respect them because they don’t just question authority, they question the very existence of the biggest authority that exists, or not.  So this God talking to me thing, yeah, that’s my secret.  I don’t know if it’s the smartest thing to give it away right away.  Now you might think you know me.  Now you might think it’s not worth it to listen to the untamed chatting of a livid woman who is clearly unstable.  The comedian George Carlin said something like when asked whether Churches should get tax breaks, “I’m all for assisting the Mentally Insane. Because if you think there is a guy up there who’s judging and punishing you but he’s all good, and he might send you to Hell if you’re bad, you’re Insane.”

            So why do I believe in God?  I believe in a different God.  I’m not his creation, She’s my creation. 

            Many Sikhs, might not call me a Sikh.  Like I care.

            “Am I sick, or am I Sikh?” I asked Dr. Andrews, my favorite shrink when I was hospitalized for Manic Depression in Beaumont Hospital.  His reply to me was to not reply to me.  He told me Silence was a bigger Celebrity than me.  Like I can live up to that legend.

            By the end of this book, you’ll be sick. (It’s OK. I know a good doctor).  You’ll be sick of me talking about how confused I am.  You’ll be sick of me not knowing what is real, you may become so sick you’ll start to think I’m real. You’ll be sick of reading about someone who is imaginary.  You’ll want to pick up the newspaper, and read about real people, with real problems.  You’ll want to burn this.

            Do that instead of reading this and getting angry and then, I don’t know, getting violent.  I’m not into burning books, but I think it’s better than burning people.  

I want someone, even if it’s just a loser who is forced to read this because it was the only book he could afford at a Garage Sale in Texas; to realize what a loser I am when he buys the hardcover version for under a dollar. I want that loser to know, I am a loser too.  That there are a lot of us.  So many, that maybe we’re not losing.  Maybe we lost some battles, but the war is not over. 

                                                            *

So let’s not start at the beginning or the end.  Let’s start in the middle because the middle is usually where things get messed up.  It’s always the Middle East, the middle child, and the mid-life crises.     

            “Are you trying to drive your doctor crazy?” Dr, Andrews asked me, one night when I was sitting in his office, he is my psychiatrist.

            “Driving?  The notion that anyone who’s crazy is driving, is crazy.  The concept of being crazy is that we don’t want to drive.”  I noticed there was some lint on my gray pants and was wondering if I was bordering on becoming compulsive towards lint.

            “Then who’s driving?” he asked and dipped a small plastic spoon in a cup of soup.

            “That’s the difference between people who are crazy and those who are not.  Crazy people can acknowledge they don’t always know who’s driving, and what’s driving them.  We can acknowledge that we don’t always know who we are.  You ask us questions like: ‘What is your name? What city do you live in?’ to see if we are coherent.  You should be asking us, ‘What do you want your name to be?  What city do you wish you lived in?”

            “Yasmine, what do you want your name to be?”  Dr. Andrews asked and set down his bowl of soup, staring at me.

            “Madonna, she took the best name.  And I swear to God, whatever I don’t say, Madonna will say for me.”  I looked into his grey eyes.

            “Well, it’s reassuring to know that your role model is a woman who masturbates in public, but do you really want to be that type of woman?”

            “Well, I mean when you put it like that, I mean I wouldn’t mind some respect.”

            “What does the word ‘respect’ mean to you?” 

            “I want people to understand that I’m not any crazier than them, but I just decide not always to hide it.  Madonna’s not raunchier than a lot of people, she just doesn’t hide it.”  I wanted some soup, some soup in a bread bowl.

            “Do you think people think you’re crazy?”  He was writing something down.

            “I think I’m crazy.”  I paused for a second and looked at the clock, we had five minutes.  “Do you think it’s O.K. to be crazy?”

            “Sometimes I think it’s crazy to be normal.  But it doesn’t matter what I think, it matters what you think.”

            “Then what did I hire you for again?”

            “To make you think.”

            “Something is wrong, I just don’t know what it is,” I stared at him as he put his soup on the table next to him.

            “You’ve studied chemistry right?” He held up his wooden clipboard.  “You know that essentially this thing is made out of nothing.  Some electrons and neutrons, but mostly empty space.”  Then he hit his hand on the wood producing a thud.  “Ouch, but it hurts.  Nothing hurts, we don’t really know why, or how, all we know is that it hurts.”

            “Do you think God is the opposite of Nothing?”

            “You mean is He something?”

            “Maybe the only something….I don’t know.”

            “There’s us too, don’t forget about us,” he smiled.

            “I think we are god, you know like me and you sitting here right now.  Like maybe, can I tell you a secret?  Sometimes I think I’m god.”  I waited for him to lock me up, in a padded room. 

            “Can I tell you a secret?”  He paused for a solid second, “You’re not.”  And that’s what I liked about Dr. Andrews, he calls ‘em like he sees ‘em.

            “How do you make emptiness stop hurting?”  I hate pain, physical or mental, I’m not one of those people who want to walk on hot coals.  I think that’s crazy.

            “You realize it’s not worth it to let your emotions be ruled by the chaos of the universe.  Take control.  It’s gonna hurt sometimes, you have to learn tolerance of pain.”  I looked at my shoes, I even had to have the perfect shoes that didn’t hurt my feet even a little bit.

            “I’m weak.”

            “No, you’re just sensitive.  There’s a beauty in being sensitive, you feel things that not everyone feels, but the risk is that you feel the pain that doesn’t need to be felt.”

            “Do you think I’m strong?”  I looked up at his face.

            “I think you have many dimensions, one of them is strong, but one of them is still that little girl, who’s scared.  Nobody’s one thing: Strong, Weak, or even in between.  We’re a lot more complicated than that.”  I thought he was strong.  I thought I wanted to be able to say things that mattered, that made sense like he did, one day. 

            “You remind me of my father,” I said and looked away from him.  It had only been a few months since my dad died.  Died of a tainted liver caused by alcoholism.

            “Everyone will remind you of your father for a while.”

            I was waiting for him to wave some fingers in my face and ask me how many I saw.  Then maybe show me some pictures of weird splotches of ink.  Psychology and psychiatry are nothing like it is on T.V.  I thought I was going to be taking tests.  That he would test my brain and see if I’m allowed to be normal.

            But really, all we do is chat.  Sometimes about nothing.  And somehow, some of the pain gets sublimated, it changes, it becomes a curiosity.  It becomes a question.  When I can intellectualize pain, it becomes a game.  Like the games they made me play in the psyche ward, Bingo, Battleship.  They just wanted me to forget about the bigger game, they were showing me tactics, of how to win.  And teaching me that it was O.K., to lose. 

I learned how to play poker in a Mental Hospital.

*

You came here for a story. I’m here to tell my story. Funny we should meet like this. I’m not real. You should know that right off the bat. I’m make-believe. Let’s stop pretending that both of us don’t know that.
            I’m based on reality and imagination. What a mix. I’m heavily sedated as well. In this story. Remember in real life I don’t exist.
            You are not real either. The world is not real it’s a figment of gods imagination. And you are god by the way. So you created your fake self. Get it?
             I am god. I am the author and I’m the character all at the same time. My name is Yasmine. But I’m no different than nina.
             They say insane people are having delusions of grandeur. It’s not a delusion. It’s an insight. We are all grand.

              So I told you my name, now let me tell you my game. I am here to entertain you. That’s about it. If I’m able to inspire you I’m lucky. Or maybe you are lucky.

              I’m a girl. I say that because technically I’m a woman but that word seems so adult to me. I feel like a little girl sometimes. I have long curly hair with green eyes. I’m Indian. You should know that because it’s a significant thing about me.

              I don’t live in the real world. I mean, not just because I’m in a book, but because my head is always in the clouds. I swear I once lived in the clouds. I’m looking in the mirror right now and sometimes I see a fairy godmother. Or a princess. But the reality is I’m just another person just like you.

            The world doesn’t care that I exist. But still, I exist. I like to think I’m special, but what does special really mean? What are words? They are just a bunch of symbols that can be misinterpreted. You can take my words the wrong way. You can misunderstand me.

            I want to be understood. I want to be known. By someone. Will you know me?

                                                            *

            They say I’m well now.  But what do they know?  They say congratulations like it’s a gift.  I’m here, yeah.  It’s really me this time, not some woman sitting on the edge of reality, on a bus somewhere, laughing like she’s on weed.  And when I look in the mirror I see a face that’s not even, something has always been missing in this face. I forgot the other day when I looked in the mirror, I forgot at what rate I was missing myself and running into an image of a stranger.  It's like smelling fake flowers.  But it's my face and I can finally see it.  I have green eyes and sometimes when I look into them I see the sea.  And sometimes I see green eyes. The part in my hair is like an exclamation point, announcing something, like the partition of India and Pakistan, it is just a line.

             “That’s what I think maybe sanity is, finally realizing that something is missing.  When you are insane, you are the one who is missing.”  I say it in his nice posh office where we sit on black leather chairs and sit next to mahogany tables.  And I think of how luxurious it is to have an interiorly decorated discussion about insanity, as opposed to just being it.  Let’s dissect it; let’s tear ourselves apart. How about we just be?  For a second I wish my mind could shut up and I could just be one with the furniture or something…

            “Where do you think you went when you went missing?”  My doc, as I like to call him, is a Jew.  He has that introspective sort of beard that suggests he understands the Holocaust, or perhaps I’m projecting.  I’m the crazy one, I’m allowed to hallucinate.

            “I went up and I went down and I went around and around.  I just went, like the wind.  I was free.”  I think about how there is no wind in this room; it’s stuffy.  Outside the window, I don't see any wind but it might just be there. I never saw my freedom but I know it was there and now it's gone.  Like the wind. 

            "Are you not free now?" he asks and scratches his chin, which is a bit uneven too.

            “No not like that, I mean I didn’t care what other people thought.  I didn’t care about my thoughts.  I let them be, I let myself just be what I was.”  I stare at his gray eyes that remind me of the gray sky and my gray life. 

            “Do you think you care too much about what people think now, now that you are sane,” he actually waved his four fingers in the air like quotation marks.  I appreciated that.

            “Yeah, I don’t know, I think about everything…I don’t know how to just be. I could be and not think about it so much.”  Like I think about how you have a gray beard and how everything in the world matches, kind of.  

            “Do you think you are romanticizing mania because there is something missing in your life that is making you feel unhappy?”  Oooh, that was such psychiatric talk…he was losing me….

            “Look I know when I went home with an unknown cab driver that I could have been raped or killed or something…I know the mania impeded my judgment and made me yell and cry…I know all that…but I was also free for a second.”

            “Free of what?”

            “We are not free.”  I looked at him hard, my green eyes met his gray eyes and for a moment we were just color.

            “I know that…but the question is now that you tasted freedom, can you incorporate that into your life experience?”  He was wearing a suit, for god’s sake the man was wearing a suit!

            “Yeah…I guess I just want to say that there is something out there that’s better than this…” and I could go on but I’ll save that for later.

            It’s funny, there are times I think that when I laughed so hard and the next minute cried harder, that was the only time I was ever really alive.  It might be a mental myth...and maybe I don’t want to relive it.  But I’ll tell you that I know something….

            It’s been a fabulous few years now, and they keep changing the names of the pills and the doses.  Sometimes they’re pink, sometimes they’re yellow.  But my name is still Yasmine and I’m still brown.  They say now to call it Bipolar, they rarely say Manic Depression anymore.  I mean, those are the names of the disease I have.

            And what about my name? My daddy’s dead but he was the one who wanted to give me a Muslim name even though we are not Muslim.  We are Sikh.  He lived in Pakistan when it was still India and when he hung out with Muslims he noticed that he always liked their names.  He really liked the letter z.  That’s how you say it, you know, it’s really “Yazmeeen.”  When there was war and he had to leave what is now Pakistan, the only thing that was Muslim that he could remember was the z’s.

            I probably name my daughter Zara, if I even have one.

            I might not have kids, you know, I mean I might pass my disease to them.  Do I want other people walking around this earth as confused as I am?  I don’t want to be responsible for that shit.

            I don’t have any kids yet, but I do have a family.  I blame them for everything, ‘cause that’s what families are for.  I think it all started when my grandmother died. 

*

To be continued….

By

Nina Kaur