She had locked herself inside the room at 3.15 in the afternoon.
Four hours had passed.
Nobody had asked her to open the door yet.
She looked at the ceiling fan. From it hung a thin, pink rope.
“More like a fat, pink thread,”
she muttered to herself.
It was the nada from her mother’s rose-coloured petticoat.
She stood on the bed and tried making a noose out of the pink rope.
All she got was a knot.
It looked so simple in the Tamil serials that played every evening in her husband room.
She tried a second time.
Again, a knot — a bigger one this time.
Frustrated, she pulled at the rope.
The fan swung violently,
making a loud,
Terrified, she jumped off the bed.
Death by thin pink noose was alright.
Death by a ceiling fan smashing her head to bits?
Thank you, but no.
“This will definitely work.” Better now than later.
She sat on the floor and opened the bottle.
she decided to smell it first…!!
The next day onwards she was put on medication. Six pills a day.
That was 12 years ago. Things are better now. she only take five pills a day.
A year after that visit to the psychiatrist,
I learnt that I had a condition that explained why she felt and behaved the way she did.
They called it bipolar disorder.