Zain sat at the edge of a bed that creaked uncomfortably under his weight. The poorly furnished dormitory reeked of routine. One by one his eyes grazed all the sixteen beds, each covered in the same orange bed sheet, differentiated only by the blemishes and marks left behind by predecessors. A broken picture frame adorned the stark white wall and a lizard sat on it lazily.
Zain’s gaze rested on his own reflection in the glass of a window. He could barely recognise himself. He hadn’t shaved for days, and had lost much of the weight that a well to do man often shows off as a status symbol. He tried to say something, but his voice cracked with lack of use. He thought of how things had changed since the last three months.
He clearly remembered that day which had changed his life completely. Just before his weekly ritual of playing poker with his friends, he had exercised his power on the office boy who had knocked timidly, coming in with a cup of black coffee, shaking at the very sight of him. “S-s-sir,” the boy quickly put the coffee on the table, waiting for his next order. Zain took a sip, looking up at the boy with sheer disgust. His coffee had sugar. Zain smashed the cup on the floor, the glass shattering into a million pieces. Muttering an obscenity he hollered, “YOU! Don’t you know I have my coffee without sugar? Get out! I said GET OUT!” The boy stood there frozen, unable to move. Zain held him by the collar of his shirt and pushed him out of his office. He seethed with rage.
After a while he smiled. He drew insatiable pleasure from power. He dialled his secretary’s number and waited. “You, fire that good for nothing office boy, and get me my cheque book, I am going to play poker tonight.”
“Mr. Zain Shah?” the mention of his name brought him back to the sordid dormitory. Wistful of his previous life, he chose not to respond. The woman in a stark white uniform repeated his name again. He ignored her. Unconcerned she went on, “Mr. Shah, there is another hour left before your appointment is due. You can rest till then. There will be no need to venture outside your dormitory as yet.” She kept a glass of normal coffee on the side table and walked out without another word. He bit back a retort.
He could do this. He told himself. There was no need to be scared. Nothing was lost, yet. His thoughts drew him back to that fateful game of poker, the repercussions of which had brought him here.
Snippets of that night flashed in front of him...
Him sitting with his friends drinking, smoking and playing...
Him winning game after game...
Drinking more...
Smoking more...
Winning more...
A friend accusing him of cheating...
Him losing control of himself, and arguing...
Arguing more. Obscenities exchanged.
Drunk, and staggering forward, his hands grabbing the collar of his opponent and punching him in the face...
His so-called friends taking his opponents side.
Him challenging another game, this time raising the bait to his more than half his income, including his business...
He knew he would win. He always did.
But his friends had framed him. They cheated and won the round. He was one against many.
There was nothing he could do about it now. He had been framed and one silly mistake had led him close to bankruptcy.
His ego didn’t allow him to beg. Like a valiant fool, he walked away from the scene, acting as if the blow was nothing but a scratch on his skin...
His ego and the need to control had lost him his friends, and he was slowly losing himself too. He had lost everything. He sold off whatever he had left, and disappeared.
The Asylum for Special People was situated in the suburbs of Panipat, a small town in Haryana. Funded fully by the government it took care of anyone who showed signs of retardation or derangement. Zain Shah was their latest patient. He had been brought in by a local shopkeeper, who reported that the man was screaming at an electricity pole, claiming that it was his office boy who had brought him coffee with sugar. When he tried to pull him away, he got violent. With difficulty the shopkeeper managed to bring him to the asylum.
The Asylum was poorly furnished but clean. Zain sat at the edge of his bed, waiting. It was his new home for the next seven years. He allowed himself a smile. He had taken care of his life for the time being. The plan was going well. He was in control and most importantly he was not mad. He simple had to wait for his fixed deposit investment to double up and he could get out of this hell. It was the only way out, and he was ready for it…
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Zain couldn’t move. It had been six years of madness, and he could no longer differentiate between logic and insanity. “I have to be brave”, he told himself. He felt a cold hand touch his ankle. “STOP! STOP imagining things that don’t exist!” He trembled at the thought of that medicine being forced down his throat every day for six unbearable years. He tried to behave like a sane man, but no one believed him. He spoke to himself as he often did, “It is just the effect of the medicine, it will all go away… no one can ever take possession of my life.” The words had lost connection with meaning. His reverberating thoughts of empty optimism only emphasised the sinking feeling that a nightmare had turned into plain, stark reality.
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