'My 74-Year-Old Father Is My Everything': Saraswathi’s Journey Through Pain, Poetry and Healing

She takes a paper, draws a house and places a man outside it. She then draws a dog, a tree and writes her father’s name. He must be lonely, she says. “I miss you,” she writes next to his name. And then, she sobs. I take the pen and draw a little girl next to the man. “That’s you,” I tell her. I write her name. She smiles. She is there now in that frame. No more loneliness. No acute pain. A paper is a testimony.

Saraswathi is a client at the Emergency Care and Recovery Centre in Chennai run by The Banyan for those who live on the margins and have suffered from psychosis. For years, she has lived here. She lost a lot. Like many others here. But there is that freedom — to be who they are. Broken, sad, ecstatic. Nothing is linear. They have broken free from those inessential rules.

Saraswathi found words. Then she found paper. She writes when she is happy and when she is sad. There is a letter in her purse addressed to her husband. She says she suffered, but she would want to be with him in another life. And the way she sees the words is how one sees a star. “If two words fall from a sentence, what happens to a sentence?” she says. But one always makes a wish when they see a breaking star. That’s the power of the broken — the power to be free from the shackles of a sentence.

She got us flowers and bangles that day. She wrote a poem each for the two of us. She said I was like her sister.

I kept a yellow flower as a bookmark.

Saraswathi’s story is hers to tell. An incomplete truth. Read.

Saraswathi’s Story

My name is Saraswathi Premkumar. I came to The Banyan on November 12, 2015. It’s been ten years now. This is the eleventh year of my stay. When I first arrived, I created a lot of problems for about a week—I was feeling too many emotions. Even while they were taking me in the ambulance, I was singing love songs. I kept talking about the police station, the police booth and the river near my house.

I asked for chicken rice—I love it so much. But there was no shop on the way, so they got me parotta instead. I couldn’t eat it properly. My body wasn’t well at that time.

I’ve struggled a lot since I was young. I studied up to twelfth standard—pure science: physics, chemistry, botany, and zoology. I scored 810 marks in 2002.

But I’ve been affected—at the community level, and even politically. My mother-in-law called me “mental,” “loose” [a harsh word for people with mental illness]. She humiliated me in public—stood in the middle of the road and shouted at me. Those things really affected me.

In January 2023, from the 1st to the 23rd, I had an episode. I had taken up a short-term job at Subhiksha Supermarket. I didn’t even get paid. That job affected me mentally.

I had a love marriage. My husband loved me for eight years before I started loving him back. There was no support for us—we faced caste problems. My father was a Nadar, but my mother-in-law was Marata. My father-in-law, Mani, had left his first wife in Tirunelveli. My mother-in-law was his second wife. Their marriage wasn’t accepted, and that history became one of the reasons for my problems.

But my father—no matter what happened—always shared everything with me. He is my everything: my body, my soul, my breath. Whether I’m sitting quietly or sleeping, I only think of him. He just called me now. I told him I’m in a meeting and would call him later.

He’s 74 years old. I had just visited him. I stayed for only 26 days, but I wanted to stay 20 days more. That didn’t happen. I can’t say the reason now—maybe later.

From a young age, he wanted me to study well, to become a doctor. But me? I wanted to be a traffic police! I’d make gestures on the road, pretending to stop vehicles. I love traffic signals—red light stopping, green light going, yellow flashing in between.

I always had the dream to become a social worker. But when the world kept calling me “mental,” I actually became mentally ill after twelfth standard.

Even then, I didn’t give up. I decided I must educate my children well. I must not leave them like orphans. I must stay well for them.

My only wish was to keep my father with me and take care of him. But right now, that’s not possible. He’s hard of hearing. He has also lost his eyesight.

I have a son and a daughter. My son is Deepak P. We’ve had a small fight, and we haven’t spoken in ten days. I even sent him a voice message from a staff member’s phone—it was like a heartfelt letter—but he didn’t listen. I called him three times yesterday. He didn’t answer. I feel very sad about it.

Fifteen days ago, I got admission for my daughter in a B.Com in Computer Accountancy. The Banyan has supported both my children.

The Banyan is like shelter—like the roots of a banyan tree. I am one of its small branches.

I spent more than four months in Theni, learning gardening. I always wanted to cultivate plants, and now I’ve learned that too.

When I wanted to spread my wings and fly, this loving home embraced me. So many kind and caring hearts—just like an affectionate mother. That’s what The Banyan is to me.

When I cried, they fed me, gave me clothes, medicines, a place to stay. I even worked as a personal assistant in the Home Again programme for one year. It didn’t continue—maybe my bad time, maybe theirs. But I still get full support here.

From my young age, I’ve participated in writing and essay competitions. I played kabaddi well—anyone can challenge me! I danced, I gave speeches. I won first prize for oratory when I was in fifth standard—out of 55 students.

I was born in Mannargudi and grew up in Chennai. I studied in Pulianthope, in Japrampet School. My photo is still hanging there. You can ask for me as Saraswathi, daughter of Govindaraj. People remember me not as Prem’s wife, but as Govindaraj Vandaiyar’s daughter.

I say all this because I love my father very much. [Crying] I miss him. Since I was small, I shared everything with him. “Appa, buy me this dress, that dress…”

I love palaya soru, especially with moormilaga and sambar onion.

Recently, when I went to my native place, I stayed with my chithi for ten days. She didn’t even have money to buy rice. Still, she managed to give me Rs 1,000. I said, “If there’s no rice, give me leftover rice. I’ll eat that.” She even gave me her own portion of food.

My periyamma raised me when I was young. My chithi is like my mother too. She always calls me. If I don’t pick up, she gets scared. My mother died in 2011, when she was 48. My husband died in 2015. My chithi is very similar to my mother.

Whenever I go to her house, she gives me things—groundnut, tamarind, banana stem, jackfruit. She says, “Who’s there for my child in Chennai? Who’ll look after her? What will she eat?”

My elder sister lives close by, in Padi, Korattur. She’s good at cooking—fish curry, chicken fry, chicken gravy. But she’s not well. She’s in the hospital. She’s 45 and has epilepsy, joint pain, high BP. She takes 12 to 15 tablets every day. Her husband sold all her gold and drank it off. That’s how she got affected.

I used to call my sister “amma”. I’d give her my salary. My father would scold me: “Why give your salary to her? Look after your children!” But I’d say, “Appa, people may not be here tomorrow. Let the money go. She’s my sister, your daughter too.”

She likes only me. I’d get her everything—sarees, nighties, blouses. Even if she liked what I was wearing, I’d give it to her. She doesn’t wear churidars, so I’d get her nighties. Even the clothes Banyan gave me, I’d give her. She takes so many medicines, so she needs to go to the washroom often.

She’s unwell now, and that’s why I’ve been feeling disturbed since yesterday.

I went to my native place because the doctors said my father needs dialysis—seven times a month. But he refuses. He says, “You are my life. How can you come from Chennai seven times a month? I’m also taking care of your younger brother’s wife. He’s in 15 lakhs debt. We need school admission for his son next year.”

We’ve admitted his daughter in a hostel because there were problems at home. The hostel is just three kilometres away. He said, “I can go see her when she calls. Why do you worry about me, Ma?”

When it comes to my father, I get depressed.

I’m feeling better now. I plan to go to Theni. I’ll move soon, after taking care of my health.

Between my appa’s home and my mother-in-law’s home, I choose The Banyan. Here and Theni—that’s where I want to be. Even if I lose my body, soul, and breath, let me be here or there. Never in my native place. Never at my mother-in-law’s place.

[Saraswathi sobs. Others around her offer comfort.]

In its August 21 issue 'Everyday I Pray For Love' Outlook collaborated with The Banyan India to take a hard look at the community and care provided to those with mental health disorders in India. From the inmates in mental health facilities across India—Ranchi to Lucknow—to the mental health impact of conflict journalism, to the chronic stress caused by the caste system, our reporters and columnists shed light on and questioned the stigma weighing down the vulnerable communities where mental health disorders are prevalent. This profile is part of a narrative set of lived experiences the residents of The Banyan shared with Outlook’s editor Chinki Sinha. They were published in August 21 issue Everyday I Pray For Love as My 74-Year-Old Father Is My Everything.