Chapter 9: The Illusion of Care

 

Chapter 9: The Illusion of Care

After Dr. Keshav Ram left for America, we were left with an empty chair, both literally and emotionally. His absence created a vacuum in our lives, and with my father still fragile, we needed a new doctor—someone trustworthy, grounded, and hopefully not another person who saw mental health as just another money-making machine.

It was around that time we came across a name that was rapidly gaining popularity in our city—Dr. Navneet Jain.

He was a newly settled psychiatrist, known for charging just ₹50 per consultation, a laughably small amount in a system where most doctors charged thousands while simultaneously pushing branded vitamins, “nerve boosters,” and unnecessary medicines just to earn their share of commission. In India, sadly, this wasn’t shocking—it was common practice. So when my mother heard about this doctor who charged so little and had long queues of patients from nearby towns, she felt a rare sense of relief.

“Maybe he’s not greedy,” she said with a sigh. “Maybe he genuinely wants to help.”

We visited his clinic. The first thing that struck us was the crowd. People were sitting on staircases, waiting outside in the sun, some with sleeping mats, some with kids. It looked less like a clinic and more like a railway platform. Still, there was something about that rush—it made us feel like we weren’t alone. So many families were dealing with the same unspoken pain, the same desperation.

When we finally got to meet Dr. Jain, his demeanor surprised us. He was soft-spoken, calm, and polite—very different from the rushed, cold attitude we had seen in some city doctors. He didn’t just ask routine questions. He sat with us and listened—really listened. My father explained his history, my mother filled in the emotional details, and I sat silently, observing every word and response. He nodded gently, gave occasional comforting lines, and made us feel like we were finally in good hands.

He prescribed just two or three medicines, including a new sleeping pill that, he assured us, was less harmful and non-addictive. It was a refreshing shift from the past. We left the clinic feeling lighter—as if we had found a lifeboat in a sea of helplessness.

And for a while, it felt like we had.

For the first six months, my father responded well to the treatment. His behavior seemed more stable. He slept better, wasn’t aggressive, and didn’t show any major signs of restlessness. The emotional chaos that had haunted our house began to settle.

But this calm was short-lived.

Soon, small cracks began to appear.

My father started experiencing panic attacks again. He would suddenly sit up and say, “I feel like I’m dying.” There was fear in his eyes—raw, uncontrollable fear. At times, he would start shouting without any reason. Sometimes in the middle of the night, he would wake up and leave the house, walking around aimlessly or knocking on neighbors’ doors.

The first time it happened, we rushed back to Dr. Jain. He nodded knowingly and said, “It’s just a panic episode.” He scribbled some more medicines and assured us it would pass. The new pills worked—but too well. They knocked my father out for three to four days straight. He wouldn’t talk, barely moved, and was half-asleep even during meals.

Then, when he would finally “wake up,” he’d seem calm again. Normal.

But slowly, this became a disturbing pattern.

Every two or three months, he’d go through the same cycle: panic, abusive language, irrational accusations, and then deep sleep from medication. And every time, Dr. Jain gave us another prescription, another batch of pills, another cycle of silence.

My father’s outbursts became sharper. He began using vulgar language, something we never imagined from him. He started calling relatives—especially from my mother’s side—and complaining that we were the problem. That his own wife and daughters were stopping him from living freely, from “doing what he wanted.”

It didn’t stop there. He would call neighbors too, whispering lies, spreading paranoia, trying to twist reality into something that made him feel justified. And when he did, we were helpless. Every single time we begged him to stop, we were met with aggression, accusations, and endless arguments.

Then the pattern would repeat: we’d take him to Dr. Jain, and again the doctor would hand out pills that would render him nearly unconscious for days. Once sedated, he’d remain dull and disconnected for two to three months, barely functioning, barely speaking, just surviving.

And then… out of nowhere… the next attack.

By now, I had started to feel like we weren’t treating depression anymore.

We were stuck in a loop, a trap. A carefully managed cycle that only benefited the doctor and robbed us of peace. I couldn’t ignore the feeling anymore—that my father, maybe without fully knowing it, was manipulating us. Exploiting us emotionally to justify his own behavior. Using his illness as a weapon. Saying things just to be proven right, just to gain control.

Every time we pleaded with him to rest or take care of his health, he twisted it into oppression. Every attempt to help became an attack in his eyes.

And the worst part? We had no one else to turn to.

We were clinging to a doctor who, on the surface, seemed generous and empathetic—but behind that soft voice, something darker was growing.

This chapter of our life felt like a betrayal of trust. We didn’t know it at the time, but this was not healing. It was a slow, suffocating descent into chemical control, emotional blackmail, and a pattern of trauma that no medicine could fix.

The real medicine we needed—honesty, accountability, and boundaries—was nowhere in sight.

And this was only the beginning.

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