Asylum's Ardour

I had to complete my research paper on female psychology-an assignment given to me by my father. He was a man of stern ambition and academic obsession, and he expected no less from me. It wasn't just any project-it was a culmination of months of work. The final unit of my thesis. And for this last chapter, I had to step outside the comfort of books and theories and face something real. Something raw.

That meant visiting a mental asylum.

I remember the strange thrill that passed through me when I first realized where I'd be heading. While most of my classmates recoiled at the idea of entering such a place, I felt something else entirely-a sense of pull, like gravity, like curiosity wearing a darker coat. I've always been fascinated by the mind-how it works, where it breaks, and more importantly, how it heals.

So, without wasting a moment, I packed my luggage and booked a train to Ranchi, Jharkhand. I'd heard of the Central Institute of Psychiatry-an institution with a legacy of treating some of the country's most complex mental illnesses. It felt like the right place to finish what I had started.

Ranchi held faint, foggy memories for me-family visits during summers, awkward childhood laughter, mango trees, and the distant echo of tribal drums. But that Ranchi was different. This time, I was arriving alone, with a mission carved in ink and expectation.

It took some convincing to get my parents to agree. Especially my mother, who was terrified of the word asylum. She imagined padded rooms and screaming patients in straightjackets. I had to sit with them at dinner for almost an hour, listing my safety plans, showing them the address, and reminding them-again and again-that this was for research. That I'd be safe.

My father, after hearing me out in silence, gave a curt nod. "Don't waste time there. Observe, collect data, and come back."

And just like that, I was on my way.

I reached Ranchi close to midnight. The city looked half-asleep, wrapped in yellow sodium light and scattered fog. The streets were quiet except for the occasional howling dog or rattling auto-rickshaw. I checked into a modest hotel near the station-a boxy room with a flickering light, a single bed, and a fan that hummed with mechanical boredom.

Sleep didn't come easy. My mind kept circling the same question: What kind of people would I meet? What does schizophrenia *feel* like? How real do hallucinations become? I didn't know then that the answer was waiting for me in a room labeled C-91.

At 5 a.m., I was up.

The city was still stretching itself awake as I went through my routine-brushing, dressing, double-checking my notebooks, pens, and recorders. I skipped breakfast. My stomach was a tight knot of nerves and anticipation. Outside, the air smelled faintly of earth and coal smoke.

A short ride later, I arrived at the gates of the Central Institute of Psychiatry. The entrance was quiet, clinical, and strangely beautiful-tall colonial buildings, wide courtyards, trees casting long shadows under the rising sun.

I hesitated at the gate.

It didn't feel like a hospital. Not in the traditional sense. It felt more like a silent fortress of secrets, holding years of human fragility inside its aging walls.

A guard waved me in after checking my ID. My shoes crunched gravel as I walked toward the main administrative block.

Inside, the corridors stretched endlessly, smelling faintly of antiseptic and old wood. I met one of the attending doctors-a man in his early fifties with a thin mustache and a sharp, unreadable face. He had already been informed about my arrival.

"You're the student from Bareilly?" he asked, scanning my face like he was looking for cracks in my resolve.

"Yes, sir," I replied, offering a polite nod. "I'm looking for a patient who could assist me in my research."