Asylum's Ardour

The girl in Room C-91 was not always like this. There was a time when Hitisha Sharma had a different name to her soul-a little girl's laughter, wrapped in a world of innocence, unaware of the doom that awaited her. Her story did not begin in the echoing hallways of a mental asylum. It began much earlier, in a modest town, in a home where love had already begun to rot.

Hitisha's father, Arvind Sharma, was a charming man. Intelligent, successful, and born into a respected Brahmin family, Arvind was the pride of his parents. But behind the layers of obedience and respectability, his heart belonged to someone else. Before marriage, Arvind had fallen deeply in love with a woman named Kamini. She was bold, free-spirited, and everything his conservative family could never approve of. When Arvind's parents learned of the relationship, they were furious. Threats followed. Emotional blackmail became routine. Bowing under the weight of their demands and the expectations of a traditional household, Arvind was forced to sever ties with Kamini and marry a girl chosen by his family.

Her name was Sulekha. She was quiet, cultured, and exactly what Arvind's parents thought a wife should be. But to Arvind, she was a stranger who had stolen the life he had dreamed of. He hated her from the moment they exchanged vows. To him, Sulekha was the representation of everything he had lost. And despite her best efforts to win his affection, she became a prisoner of his disdain.

Still, from that unhappy union, a child was born. Hitisha.

Sulekha loved her daughter more than anything else in the world. Hitisha became her reason to breathe, to smile, to hope that someday Arvind might change. For a few years, she protected her daughter from the growing darkness in their home. But shadows always find a way in.

By the time Hitisha was ten years old, her world had already begun to crumble. Her father had reconnected with Kamini, now a successful entrepreneur. Their affair resumed with a ferocity borne out of years of longing. Arvind would leave home for days. And when he returned, his bitterness toward Sulekha had curdled into something more dangerous. His words became weapons. His presence, a looming threat.

Then came the night everything changed.

Hitisha remembered every detail. The smell of camphor. The dim yellow light in their bedroom. Her mother, curled up in bed, clutching her chest, gasping for air. Her father standing over her, whispering soothing lies while slipping crushed sleeping pills into her water. He stroked Sulekha's hair gently, even as her breath grew shallow and panic filled her eyes.

Hitisha stood at the door, watching silently, the glass of milk she was supposed to deliver now trembling in her hands.

"Maa?" she whispered, but Sulekha couldn't respond.

Within minutes, it was over. The doctor said cardiac arrest. But Hitisha knew what she had seen. Her mother hadn't died naturally. Her mother had been murdered.

And the murderer was her father.

After the funeral, everything fell apart. Arvind made no effort to hide his relationship with Kamini. She moved into their home within weeks. But worse than the loss of her mother was what followed.

The abuse began subtly. A touch too long. A lingering stare. Hitisha didn't understand it at first. But as the days went by, it escalated.

He would come into her room at night.

He told her not to scream.

He told her it was normal. That this was love.

He threatened to kill her if she ever spoke a word.

Hitisha's reality blurred into nightmares. She couldn't sleep. She couldn't eat. At school, her teachers noticed the change-a brilliant, vibrant girl now dull, withdrawn, covered in bruises. But no one dared intervene. Arvind Sharma was powerful. Influential. Respected.

The horror continued for years.

She tried to run away once. She made it as far as the railway station before he found her. That night, he beat her until she bled. Told her he would burn every photograph of her mother if she ever tried again.

Her soul broke in pieces. And from those shattered fragments, something dark was born.

One day, when she was fifteen, she found herself standing in the kitchen, staring at the large butcher's knife.

It was heavy.

Cold.

And it whispered to her.

That night, her father came into her room again, reeking of alcohol. He sat on her bed. Told her how pretty she was becoming. And as he reached for her, she pulled the knife from beneath the mattress.

The first stab surprised even her. He gasped, grabbing at his chest.

She didn't stop.

She stabbed again.

And again.

Thirty-four.

Thirty-five times.

By the time she stopped, blood soaked the walls, the sheets, her hands. Her school uniform was torn, stained in red. Her breathing was shallow. Her heart pounded in her ears. And for the first time in five years, she felt free.

Kamini screamed when she saw the body.

Neighbors gathered.

The police came.

She didn't resist. She just sat there, staring at her father's corpse, whispering her mother's name.

The trial was short. The evidence clear. But the psychological evaluations painted a different picture.

"Severe trauma-induced schizophrenia."

"Capgras delusion."

"She believes her father was replaced by an imposter. Possible PTSD."

The judge ruled her mentally unfit to stand trial. Instead of prison, she was sent to the Central Institute of Psychiatry, Ranchi.

They shaved her head.

Gave her pills that made her drool.

Locked her in a padded room when she screamed.

But no one ever truly heard her.

Not until a boy with a notebook walked into Room C-91, many years later, and sat beside her like she was human.

Only then did her story begin to breathe again.

Only then did Saraswati-what she had come to call herself-begin to feel alive.

And only then did her ghosts find a voice.

The girl in the asylum wasn't insane.

She was wounded.

Torn.

Abandoned.

But most of all-she was a survivor.

This is the past she carried.

And it explained everything.