Payankulam : The first time I met Shashi Valiachan

We started after breakfast from Guruvayoor. I asked Raju Valiachan questions, trying to piece together the story. Shashi Valiachan was now a resident at the Sacred Heart rehabilitation centre. In another life, he had been a tall, handsome gold medalist in engineering at Kerala University, a district-level basketball captain, and his band's lead singer. After a failed love affair, he fell into depression, became violent, and was eventually diagnosed with schizophrenia. The family pooled their resources to place him in a rehabilitation centre for the rest of his life.

I dozed through most of the journey, waking only when the car stopped. They had decided to make a shopping stop along the way—though in my groggy state, I didn't quite grasp why. The large bags in my dad's hands later explained the delay. We paused for a quick meal, chatting about everyday things—TV, politics, food—like any normal family.

Twenty minutes later, the blue board of the Sacred Heart Center for Rehabilitation came into view. A small tilled plot stretched across the wall, where Valiachan explained the inmates worked as part of their occupational therapy. Beyond stood two buildings, their architecture a blend of Malayali, Anglo, and modern styles.

We found ourselves before an ornate wooden door, waiting as the bell echoed. A frail lady in a blue sari peered through the narrow opening. "Aara?" (Who is it?)

"We're here to meet Johnny Madathilezham." Shashi Valiachan had converted to Christianity after moving to the centre, though he kept his family name. No one knew exactly when this happened—perhaps my paternal grandfather knew, but that knowledge died with him in 1995.

She led us inside to a simply decorated room with two circular tables. Pictures of patron saints, sisters, and institutional founders lined the walls. Being my first visit to a mental rehabilitation centre, I felt uncertain about what to expect.

We settled at a table overlooking the garden—its brightness a welcome contrast to the interior's solemnity. Dr. Shine, Johnny's doctor, came to speak with us, mixing courtesy with status updates and a plea for more frequent visits.

"The patient is doing well physically. However, it's been eleven months since his last visitor. I request you to increase the frequency of your visits."

Meeting Dr. Shine's gaze proved difficult.

"He still believes he's an acclaimed research scientist working here. He's jovial and capable of intelligent conversation, though his hearing has deteriorated with age. Given his advancing years, we'll need help with hospital arrangements when necessary. Could someone be available to accompany him for medical visits?"

The protests came quickly: "Most of us are elderly ourselves," "We live far away," "We might need to send someone else." Dr. Shine listened patiently before delivering what seemed a well-rehearsed response about staff shortages and psychiatric care needs. I wondered how often he'd had a version of this conversation.

Shashi Valiachan's entrance cut the discussion short. "He's here." Silence.

An awkward atmosphere settled after the initial greetings—perhaps due to Dr. Shine's presence or the long gap between visits. Everyone coped differently: my uncles and father hesitated to speak, my father alternating between his camera and work calls, Raju Valiachan searching his phone for old photos, and Babu Valiachan filling out the visitor's form.

"Valiachan, how do you spend your time here?"

"Oh, you know I don't particularly like working. I spend my time thinking and conducting research."

He described a hidden supercomputer at the centre, secret research monitored by Americans. He spoke of Muhammad Ali visiting to congratulate him for founding the World Health Organization. "Computers can broadcast information everywhere," he explained. "Do you know about Neurology? I research that. Sometimes I spend eighteen hours a day, just typing my notes. It all goes to America. They want me to visit, but they won't let me go."

What struck me wasn't his alternate reality but the lucidity and intelligence behind his words. Having attended college in the 1970s, when computers and even television were novelties in India, his forward-thinking was remarkable. "Casio is actually 'Shashio,'" he insisted. "The Japanese stole my ideas." In another life, perhaps that could have been true.

My uncles joined in, each in their own way. Raju Valiachan finally found what he sought—a black-and-white photograph of the college swimming team, everyone in dark blazers and white shirts. "Remember Sebastien? Look at me... and that's you!" He had indeed been handsome. The swimming team captaincy had passed between brothers back then. Raju Valiachan reminisced about those days while my father remained quiet.

Then came the bags—T-shirts, shirts, lungies, pants, and underwear. Shashi Valiachan examined each item with visible joy. "Don't give these to them! I won't get them back," he warned. Babu Valiachan used the gifts to keep the conversation flowing, joking about sharing toffees and having the sisters stitch names into the new clothes.

"We should all travel together, all us oldies!" Shashi Valiachan suggested, hinting at escape under the pretence of visiting America. Raju Valiachan joked about difficult visa processes. But it wasn't America he truly meant—it was home. We lived scattered across the country now, and home in Alapuzha felt distant in every way. A restlessness grew—the eternal tension between staying and leaving, wanting and wishing. Time to leave approached.

Sister Hussey arrived to collect the clothing and supplies, assuring Shashi Valiachan everything would reach him. As we rose to speak with her, we all knew the door was our next destination. He knew too, hugging each brother twice.

"He looked like he needed a hug," he told Sister, explaining his brother's travel fatigue.

"May I walk them to the door?"

Those words were difficult to bear.

"Don't look back," my uncle warned as we walked away. I turned anyway. He stood at the door, waving.

We sat silently in the car as tears ran down my face. Dad offered me a tissue. We drove away.

L to R : Babu Valichan, Papa, Sashi Valiachan, Raju Valiachan