All That is Well, Ends

(Continued from the previous diary)

Thalia was never asked to be the chairman, I don’t think. Saner patients were usually chosen for that assignment. After the morning meeting; the doctor, the nurse, the chairman for the day, and myself (volunteer) moved to a smaller room. We adjudged each patient’s progress based on what they said at the meeting.

Roger was given the chairman’s job more often than the others. I don’t know his surname. In fact, surnames were never mentioned; even the doctors were called by their first name. Roger was young, in his late twenties. Tall and slim, his clothes were well pressed. (As a rule, patients were not required to wear a uniform, making it difficult to distinguish them from hospital staff). He had a handsome face, with high cheekbones and light stubble that suited him well.

A man like him can be found in an English theatre, rather than in a mental hospital. His smile was sincere and full of charm. Though he spoke slowly, sometimes haltingly, he looked perfectly normal.

“My father left us years ago.” Roger told us during a meeting. “My mother raised me single-handedly. She always made me a hot breakfast before leaving for school, university, right up to my first job. Hot breakfasts and hot dinners. Every evening, my mother was ready at the dinner table with a hot meal, hovering like a waiter in the restaurant. Sometimes I wouldn’t come out of my room, shout at her. She pleaded with me to join her, heated the food again. Later, she washed the plates. She never taught me to cook, and never asked me to wash. She washed and pressed all my clothes. When I started my first job, she polished my shoes while I was having breakfast. Mom, for god’s sake, don’t polish my shoes, I would tell her. She didn’t listen. I hated her. She was there from morning to night, setting an alarm for me, making my bed, packing my bag even if I was going away for a weekend, vacuum cleaning my room. You won’t believe it; she often knocked on the bathroom door to ask if I had a shampoo bottle inside when I was showering.

To be fair, I could see how much she loved me. And it was all very comfortable for me. If she had suddenly asked me to do the dishes, I’m not sure I would be happy washing them. During my Uni years, it never occurred to me to leave the house. I should have left her and lived on my own. But who would take such good care of me?

Then I fell in love. My girlfriend and I discussed renting a place together. Mom said we have such a big house. Why do you want to move somewhere else? Like a fool, I listened to her. My girlfriend started visiting me.”

We were in the bedroom. Had just undressed. We started making love, when there was a knock on the door.

Mom, I’m not alone, go away, I screamed. She knew I was not alone, I didn’t know what sort of emergency she had.

She entered my bedroom. She saw us on the bed. “Roger, the BBC news is on.” She said. “Do you want to watch it?”

*****

At this point, Roger began shaking violently. His lips moved rapidly, as if to say something more, but no words came out. The stories about his mother were the source of his convulsions, and whenever he retold them, he would get an attack. He hated his mother, and couldn’t get away from her. He understood the scale of her love for him, and he didn’t want any of it. Her obsession for her son had finally driven him to the mental hospital.

Getting it all out by narrating his life story was apparently part of his psychotherapy. At times, it worked. I heard the same story from Roger five or six times, and once or twice he managed to tell it without an attack. However, after each convulsion he was put on medication. He would then be seen in a hospital gown instead of his neatly pressed clothes. His blank smile told you he was not perfectly normal.

The mental hospital shuts down

Shakespeare said: all is well that ends well. I have slightly twisted the saying. “All that is well, ends”.

Margaret Thatcher was the Prime Minister of the UK when I volunteered at St Mary Abbot’s hospital. Thatcherism claimed that mental patients were better off staying with their families, in their community, not in a hospital. The patients were a burden on taxpaying public. The conservative party was opposed to it. Eventually, in 1992, under John Major, St Mary Abbot’s hospital shut down. On hearing the news, I imagined Roger going back to live with his mother, and Thalia throwing things at her family. No more morning meetings to attend, no social groups to share your woes with.

Volunteer camps

Volunteer camps offer experiences your normal job or education doesn’t. After thirty years, I still remember Roger’s face and his story as vividly as if it happened yesterday.

Jobs are configured in four different ways. (1) Great, enjoyable work in a great company. (2) Great, enjoyable work in an unpleasant or awful company. (3) Unpleasant work in a great company. (4) Unpleasant work in an awful company.

Those who are in the first category are the luckiest people, but very rare. Those in the last category, with awful work and unpleasant colleagues are the tragic people. Work is punishment for them.

International voluntary camps, by gathering young students from different countries, made sure you were part of an interesting group. For me personally, the work at a mental hospital was very interesting, if stressful at times. It enriched my life for ever.

*****

When I was six or seven years old, I heard the following story.

An unemployed man goes to the king and says, “Oh king! I have no money, no job. My parents haven’t left me any inheritance. I want you to take care of me.”

The king says, sure. I will give you money, what can you give me in return?

In return? The man asks, surprised. I have nothing, no home, no property, what can I give you?

The king says, I will give you one crore rupees. Give me your left eye.

The man is stunned. Oh King, one crore rupees is a lot of money, but how can I give you an eye, he asks.

I will increase my offer, the king says. I will give you two crore rupees. In return, give me one of your legs.

Please, says the man. My lord, I beg you not to make a mockery of my pitiable state in such a fashion.

My final offer, says the king, is an attractive one. I will give you four crore rupees. Give me your right hand.

The man wants to walk away from his weird ruler. The king stops him. Together, they calculate the cost of the eyes, hands, legs, ears.

See, you are worth crores of rupees, says the king, you just don’t know about it. Use your hands, your legs, your brain, donate your labour and you will get paid for it.

The modern scam

The world was a much nicer place thirty years ago. Unemployed people, poor students, pensioners could donate their labour, and get all expenses (accommodation and meals) paid in exchange. You could attend a voluntary camp for two weeks or six months, and it was worthwhile for hard-up volunteers. Students could enrich their lives without asking their parents to shell out money.

But, as mentioned above, all that is good eventually comes to an end. The earlier fair-minded, innocent voluntary camps don’t exist any longer. Mind you, those camps were held in the pre-internet era. Volunteers needed to research (how did we research before internet?), write letters, order paper catalogues, receive confirmation letters by post. Now the process is easy and the internet is flooded with voluntary camps.

But most modern voluntary camps are a SCAM. They invite volunteers to work, just as in the old days. However, they ask them to donate substantial, sometimes obscene amounts of money to get the privilege of working at a camp. You donate your money, and you donate your labour. It is an unreasonable, fraudulent barter directed at gullible or lonely pensioners who are looking to be part of an international group. Young students can attend such camps only if their parents are rich.

I am glad I could attend international voluntary camps before they turned into a scam.

WWOOF

What can young students or adults with limited means now do to travel the world cheaply? To exchange their labour for accommodation and meals? What is the way for visa-handcuffed nationals to work abroad without a work permit? With the near-demise of the voluntary camps, the WWOOF (World-Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms) movement offers a ray of hope. Next week, I will share with you my WWOOF experience in Poland and Bulgaria.

Ravi