The Calm Before the Storm
“Healing doesn’t always come like a thunderclap. Sometimes, it arrives quietly—with a gentle breath, a hopeful smile, and a sense that maybe, just maybe, the worst is over.”
My father’s treatment with Dr. Keshav Ram was going surprisingly well.
Every fifteen days, almost like clockwork, my mother and father would set out for their appointment. It became a quiet ritual, a rhythm that brought some much-needed structure to our otherwise chaotic lives. I still remember watching them return from those visits—there was a gentleness in their eyes, a softness in their voices. Both of them would look... lighter. My father’s face, so often clouded with anxiety or fatigue, seemed brighter. And my mother, who had carried the weight of our family on her shoulders for so long, seemed to walk just a bit taller, as if someone had finally helped her lift a corner of that burden.
After every session, they would discuss all sorts of fascinating things—how the human brain functions, the difference between psychiatry and neurology, and how even the most complex psychological conditions could sometimes be managed through the right balance of medication and care.
“Do you know,” my mother told me one day with quiet wonder, “a psychiatrist studies almost as long as a surgeon?”
I nodded, not quite understanding everything, but curious. My father joined in, adding, “And if there’s ever a doubt about something neurological, like seizures or deep brain function, he’ll refer us to a neurologist in Chandigarh. But he’s sure—one hundred percent sure—that my condition is not that serious. He says it’s manageable with care.”
It was the first time I had heard my father speak about his mental health with hope instead of shame. That moment is still etched in my memory, like sunlight breaking through a storm cloud.
Dr. Keshav Ram was different. He didn’t just prescribe medicines—he spoke with warmth, with confidence, and most importantly, with patience. He told my parents that my father’s condition wasn’t irreversible. “This is not a disease,” he explained. “It’s a state. It comes from pressure, neglect, and unresolved emotions. It can be healed.”
That one sentence meant the world to us.
At home, things slowly began to improve. My father had fewer sleepless nights. The restlessness that once drove him to roam the house at 2 a.m., or scream without warning, was starting to fade. My mother managed to keep up with everything—her work, our studies, the household chores—yet she never missed a single appointment with my father. She was his silent strength, his constant companion. He never admitted it in words, but we could all see how much he leaned on her presence.
In those days, my father often spoke about the future—not in the grand, impossible ways he used to (like becoming Prime Minister or launching a massive factory), but with dreams that felt real, reachable. The one that came up most was a trip to Kerala.
“Once I’m fully better,” he would say, “we’ll all go to Kerala. We’ll see the sea.”
Neither my mother nor I had ever seen the ocean. For a small-town family like ours, it was a dream that always felt just out of reach. But my father had something special: a free travel pass from the Indian Railways, a privilege he earned working for Northern Railways. Every three months, he received a fresh pass, allowing him to take the family anywhere in the country. And every time, he would write down “Kerala” as the intended destination.
But destiny had other plans.
We never made it.
Every time the date neared, something would go wrong. Sometimes it was a health issue, other times a work emergency, or an episode that left him too unstable to travel. The plan would be postponed... and postponed again. But the dream never died. My father would still talk about it every few months—“Next time. Just wait. This time we’ll really go.”
“Dreams are strange things. They’re not just about where we want to go—they’re also about what we believe we can survive.”
Those Kerala plans weren’t just about travel. They were about healing. They were a symbol of hope for my father—a finish line to cross, a victory over the years of suffering. To him, standing by the ocean wasn’t just a tourist’s joy. It was proof that he had made it through the storm.
And to us—his family—it represented a return to normalcy, to peace, to the version of him we had only seen in fragments.
In those few months under Dr. Keshav Ram’s care, we almost believed that peace was possible. For the first time in years, our home had moments of silence that weren’t heavy. We had dinners where nobody cried. I could sleep without jumping up at strange noises. My mother hummed songs while cooking again.
It felt like we were all slowly waking up from a long nightmare.
But we didn’t know how fragile this peace really was.
One evening, I overheard my parents talking softly in the next room. My father said something that stayed with me for a long time.
“I feel like I’m becoming myself again.”
It was a sentence so simple, and yet so profound. Because for years, his illness had taken away his identity. He wasn’t the eldest son, the joyful young man, or the charming husband anymore. He had become someone else—lost, erratic, confused. And now, for the first time, he saw his real self in the mirror again.
That night, I saw my father smile in his sleep.
And I prayed that the smile would stay forever.
“Sometimes healing looks like a quiet morning. Like a conversation over tea. Like a man remembering who he used to be.”
The next few visits to Dr. Keshav Ram went by smoothly. He remained calm and reassuring. He always said the same thing, with gentle certainty: “Everything is fine. We just need to stay consistent.”
He never made us feel like a burden, and that made all the difference.
As the weeks passed, my father became interested in the small details of life again—he helped my mother water the plants, he played with our pet, he even talked about repairing the old scooter himself. There was a subtle but real shift happening inside him.
My mother, too, changed during this period. For years, she had worn her strength like armor. But now, she allowed herself to soften a little. I’d catch her smiling to herself, or laughing at something my father said. For the first time in what felt like forever, they looked like a couple—not just two people surviving together, but two people living.
But life, as always, is unpredictable.
Just when the sun seemed to rise, clouds gathered again on the horizon.
We received news that Dr. Keshav Ram had been offered a prestigious research fellowship in the United States. He would be leaving in a few weeks. It was an incredible opportunity for him, and we knew we couldn’t ask him to stay.
Still, my mother’s face fell. My father was silent for a long time after hearing the news. Then he whispered, “He was the first person who made me believe I wasn’t broken.”
It was true.
And when he left, a void settled over our home.
“Sometimes, the people who give us the most hope aren’t meant to stay forever. They simply pass through our lives to remind us what is possible.”
Though Dr. Ram referred us to another doctor, it wasn’t the same. The new psychiatrist was younger, less experienced, and more focused on medicine than conversation. The warmth, the trust, the emotional connection—everything that made treatment work—was suddenly missing.
But that chapter, and everything it brought, is for later.
For now, I hold on to the memory of those few precious months.
When my parents came home smiling.
When Kerala seemed within reach.
When my father slept with peace in his heart, and my mother had faith in the future.
That short season of healing didn’t last forever, but it gave us something to cling to when the storms returned: a glimpse of what healing could look like, if we just kept believing.
Inspirational Message:
“Hope is not a destination—it’s the road we walk every day, even when the path seems lost. Healing is not a miracle—it’s the daily act of choosing to show up, to trust, to try again.”
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