Chapter 1: Midnight Emergency

It was past midnight in Pune, and I was staring at my fourth cup of chai when the call came—a family in panic, a woman losing her mind.

Sometimes a case comes along that makes you sit up at night with chai, staring at the fan, the city’s distant horns mixing with your doubts. In our line of work, you think you’ve seen it all, but then something like this lands on your table.

The patient, Mrs. Meera, was a 40-year-old senior manager in a corporate office in Pune. Her life looked set—success, family, respect. But lately, something had gone terribly wrong.

Meera ji was the sort of woman you’d see briskly walking through glass doors, her dupatta always perfectly pinned, but that morning, it hung lopsided over her shoulder. She wore a no-nonsense expression, mobile glued to her ear, giving directions in both English and Marathi. What happened next—no one could have seen coming, not her, not her family, not even the bai who swept their 2BHK flat.

One day, Mrs. Meera's family rushed her to the emergency room. Her condition was urgent, but thankfully, her vital signs were still stable.

Arjun, her husband, was at the wheel, hair dishevelled, face pale—driving through Pune’s chaos, cursing at bikers weaving past, barely hearing the sabziwala shouting on the street. Their daughter clutched her mother’s hand in the backseat, whispering prayers. The antiseptic tang hit them the moment they stepped into casualty, white lights harsh and unforgiving.

After asking a few questions, I realised that Mrs. Meera's situation was quite complicated.

There was tension thick in the air, like humidity before the monsoon breaks. Arjun’s voice shook as he recounted the week’s strange happenings. The mother-in-law, who’d insisted on coming, sat in the corner, muttering shlokas under her breath.

Here's what happened:

On the morning of the previous day, Mrs. Meera suddenly told her husband, Arjun, that someone was following her.

She poked at her poha, the spoon scraping the steel plate, her voice barely louder than the ceiling fan. Her eyes kept darting to the window as if she expected someone among the gulmohar trees. Even the family dog seemed uneasy, barking at shadows that morning.

When Arjun heard this, he was both angry and frightened.

He set his cup down with a loud clink, tea almost spilling. "Kya bol rahi ho, Meera? Who will follow you? You’re imagining things, na?" His voice was sharp, but worry flickered underneath—a husband’s helpless fear.

To be followed in broad daylight—how could that be a good thing?

He remembered all those India TV debates—crime, stalkers, the city never safe for women. A chill crawled down his spine. "What if something actually happens?" he wondered, not daring to say it aloud in front of their daughter.

What if someone really wanted to harm his wife? What was he supposed to do then?

He imagined standing up to some unseen threat, but what if he was helpless? He mentally reviewed every lock in the house, the CCTV app on his phone, the watchman—Jagdish, wasn’t it?

But what his wife said next left him even more confused, torn between believing and doubting her.

He searched her face for a joke, but she looked deadly serious. Was this a prank, or had something gone terribly wrong?

She said, "Do you know how I know someone is following me? Because I have superpowers. I heard someone using telepathy to quietly tell me that someone was peeking at me from the corner..."

The room was so quiet, the ticking of the wall clock sounded like thunder. The spoon in Arjun’s hand clattered into his plate. He looked around, hoping someone would laugh, but no one did.

Her words left him worried and even a little scared.

A knot formed in his chest, a dread he hadn’t felt since his father’s stroke. ‘Superpowers’ and ‘telepathy’—it sounded like something from a Hindi serial, not from his practical, logical wife.

Superpowers? Telepathy? What on earth was this?

"Accha, is this some kind of stress thing? Maybe too much pressure at office. Or did she see something on TV?" But deep down, the fear was growing.

Was this still the wife he knew so well?

He tried to remember if she’d ever behaved oddly before. She’d always been strong, managing work, home, even the nosy neighbours. This wasn’t her. “Bas, this can’t be my Meera,” he thought.

He thought the matter would pass, but unexpectedly, two days later, his wife said the same thing again.

It was evening this time, TV anchors shouting about some scandal. Meera suddenly blurted, “They’re watching again.” Arjun’s heart sank; this wasn’t just a passing thing.

Moreover, some of her colleagues at work contacted him privately, telling him that his wife's behaviour at the office had been very strange and unpredictable these past few days.

He got WhatsApp messages from two of her close friends—Priya and Neeraj—saying, “Bhai, is everything okay at home? Meera ma’am is acting very differently. We’re a bit worried.” You know how fast word spreads—by lunchtime, even the chaiwala knew something was off.

For example, she would lose her temper for no reason, talk to the wall, laugh to herself, or suddenly look terrified all by herself.

In the open-plan office, people had seen her muttering, gesturing as if arguing with invisible people. The office boy told others, “Madam bilkul alag ho gayi hai—sometimes she laughs loudly, sometimes just stares.”

Now Arjun's head was spinning—oh no, this time there was really a problem.

He paced the living room at night, running his hand through his hair, unable to sleep. His leg bounced nervously as he waited outside the casualty, WhatsApp open on his phone, but no words to send. The tube light flickered, city sounds fading into the background. “Is she possessed? Is this some mental problem? Kaun jaane!”

He stopped working and hurriedly drove his wife to a nearby multi-speciality hospital to find out what was wrong.

He called his boss, voice trembling, “Sir, I have a family emergency. Please approve my leave.” Without another thought, he bundled Meera into the car, praying to all gods he remembered along the way, running a shaky hand over the idol of Ganpati in the corner, praying silently.

The admitting doctor asked a few questions, learnt that the patient was having delusions and hallucinations, and quickly referred her to psychiatry.

The junior doctor on duty looked grave, scribbled notes, and called in the psychiatry resident. Arjun watched as the white coats conferred in low voices, feeling more lost than ever.

The psychiatrist examined her and said Mrs. Meera had auditory and visual hallucinations. After a careful analysis and a brain CT scan that showed no abnormalities, the diagnosis was schizophrenia.

Arjun listened as the psychiatrist explained, “She’s hearing and seeing things that are not real. We did a brain scan—sab normal hai. We think this is schizophrenia.” The word hung in the air, heavy and frightening, echoing in the hospital’s tiled corridors.

This was a bolt from the blue for the couple.

In all their years together, they had handled in-laws’ fights, EMI troubles, even a dengue scare, but this—this was something else. Arjun felt the ground shift beneath his feet.

How could someone suddenly develop schizophrenia out of nowhere?

“She was fine just a week ago, laughing with our daughter, managing everything. How can such a big thing happen so fast?”

Arjun couldn't make sense of it, but though he felt helpless, he had no choice but to accept reality.

With trembling hands, he signed the hospital forms. In the waiting area, he sipped tasteless machine chai, staring at the flickering tube light above, trying to make sense of this new world they’d entered.

The doctor said it might be related to genetics, or possibly due to work stress, or other factors.

“Sometimes it runs in the family, sometimes due to tension, sometimes... we just don’t know,” the psychiatrist said gently. Arjun thought of Meera’s father, remembered stories of his odd behaviour long ago, and wondered, “Could it be?”

In short, the cause was unknown.

The uncertainty gnawed at him. He called his elder brother in Nagpur, his voice barely above a whisper, “Bhai, doctor says kuch samajh nahi aa raha—just that it’s not her fault.”

To rule out organic brain lesions, such as brain tumours, the doctor suggested a brain MRI, which also turned out normal. Mrs. Meera did not have a brain tumour.

They waited outside the MRI room, the machine thumping inside, Arjun’s mother fingering her rudraksha mala. The report came: everything normal. For a moment, relief mixed with more confusion.

So, schizophrenia was considered primary.

There was a finality to the word—primary. Like a judge’s sentence. “It’s schizophrenia,” the doctor said, “we don’t know why, but that’s what it is.”

"Primary" here means the cause is unknown, or at least no specific disease has been found to explain the symptoms, so it is treated as primary schizophrenia.

The doctor’s tone was matter-of-fact, but Arjun saw the empathy in his eyes. “Beta, sometimes we can’t find a cause. We call it primary—just means, for now, it’s a mystery.”

The doctor prescribed antipsychotic medication for Mrs. Meera, and the effect was actually quite good.

The tablets were small, white, with complicated names. The pharmacist explained the dosage, while Arjun listened, nodding. Within a week, Meera’s odd behaviours started to fade.

After taking the medication, Mrs. Meera's strange behaviours decreased significantly. She no longer claimed to have superpowers, no longer talked to the wall, and no longer said someone was following her.

For the first time in days, Arjun felt hope. Their daughter smiled again. Even the maid remarked, “Madam is better now.” The house felt less haunted, less tense.

But after taking the medicine, Mrs. Meera's energy also plummeted. She was drowsy all day and felt weak all over.

Meera spent long hours on the sofa, eyes half-closed, barely answering when spoken to. She moved slowly, as if her bones ached. The laughter was gone; her sharp, witty comments now replaced by silence.

Forget about working—even ordinary household chores became difficult, and she couldn't muster any motivation.

Arjun found her sitting by the window, staring at nothing. The kitchen remained messy, the plants on the balcony unwatered. He tried encouraging her, but her reply was always a tired, “Bas, thak gayi hoon.”

This was simply a disaster.

A pall fell over the household. Their daughter started tiptoeing around the house, afraid even to switch on the TV. Even the neighbours started to notice, gossiping over their evening tea, “Kya ho gaya Meera ko? Pehle toh kitni active thi.”

Arjun was extremely worried as well.

He tried Googling side effects, calling doctor friends, seeking second opinions. The anxiety chewed away at him, making him irritable at work and at home.