Patient Number 11:
There is this empty house at the end of my lane. When I moved into the neighborhood with my husband four years ago, I often wondered who lived inside while walking back from our area’s park. It was supposed to be empty as the family had died in suspicious circumstances six years ago. Bano khala, my cook, told me it had been an accident, but she didn’t know any details.
The house was pretty but had a forlorn, expectant look.
As if, it was waiting for someone.
The swing in its front yard would creak in the wind.
Echoing of better days gone by. A child’s broken tricycle lay in the corner of the terrace.
I often wondered where they went. What happened to them. They must have been happy here.
Once.
It felt as if it had been a happy home. Empty pots and dried up shrubs had their own story to tell. I would get goosebumps as I walked in front of it each day. I don’t know why but I always felt as if there was someone inside watching me go by. And one day it seemed to me that the curtains moved as I was returning from the park.  

That day I walked fast back home then thought long and hard. What if someone was imprisoned there. What if it was a child or an old person abandoned by their family. It had happened before.
The next day armed with a huge torch, a fully charged cell phone, a hammer (don’t ask me why) and dressed in dark jeans and sneakers I walked stealthily towards it as the late afternoon sun lazed around.
Though there was no issue walking up to the front steps through the overgrown garden, I hesitated. My brain started giving off tiny alarms. The hair on my neck stood. My mouth went dry. I didn’t know why I was doing this. This is crazy that voice in my mind said. I didn’t even know these people. But something, maybe curiosity, my grandmother called it insanity, made me turn the handle and open the door.
It opened with such a noise that I felt all the neighbors would be here in a second but there was just silence. Inside it wasn’t dark as I expected it to be but light. The afternoon sun shone bright and warm as I stepped in the hall. Exposing lots of discarded furniture but little dust. Hadn’t it been closed for 6 years? Through the hall I walked in the kitchen which was quite open and well ventilated. The counters were clean. Dishes had been washed. The fridge was on. I opened the fridge to see when behind me there was a noise.
I turned around but not fast enough as my world exploded and then fell dark as something sharp hit a side of my head.
I woke up nauseous and with a throbbing killer headache. Even turning my head increased the pain. I lay there, eyes closed…feeling my hands and legs. Everything seemed fine. My purse was beside me on bed. It seemed to be a little girl’s bedroom. It was breezy and felt as if the inhabitant had just stepped out for five mins. Everything was pink. Barbie’s themed. And cars. She was also an avid book reader. Her pictures were everywhere.
she seemed to be around 5 and the pictures were mostly of her and her cat and some with her friends. A few were with who I presumed were her parents. They were a cute couple, but their daughter was the real beauty. Her smile was so engaging and captivating.
Then a thought struck me. Where the hell was I and what time was it.
I checked my mobile…it had only been an hour since I had left my home. I could see it was still day outside even with the drawn curtains. I could also hear a faint rumble of rickshaw as it passed by.
The door opened and despite the protest in my head, I turned to look.
Standing in the doorway was a tall man in his forties. Bespectacled, bearded and with long uncombed hair. He looked like a ruffian. I should have been scared of him but strangely wasn’t. I think it was his appearance that somehow relaxed me. He was wearing tom and jerry pajamas with cheap slippers and had two cups of tea in his hand. Hardly the standard serial killer look.
“I thought you might need this.”
He placed the tea on the bed side table.
As he did, I recognized him as the girl’s father from the picture. A pleasant scent of green apples wafted in my nose.
I sipped the strong tea and felt its warmth go in. He sat on his daughter’s study chair.
Cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry I hit you. I couldn’t stop in time. I thought you were a burglar. Who are you?”
He had a rich timbre voice. There wasn’t any inflection or tone but just an expectation of an answer to his query.
“I live nearby. I thought I saw a light in and came to investigate.”
“Why?” Still no tone. Just a normal leveled voice.
“Don’t know.” I felt my ears getting warmer. It felt ridiculous now. But couldn’t tell him the real reason. Felt stupid.
He nodded still looking down on the carpet which had multicolored alphabets etched in it.
I touched my head gingerly. “I should have knocked. I didn’t realize someone was living here. I apologize for barging in like this.”
I put my tea on the table.
‘Well, I really should be going,’ i got up then sank back as a wave of nausea overcame me. The whole room started spinning.
He looked up. “Oh no! You can’t. Not like this. Rest for the night.”
I looked at him with half closed eyes suddenly aware of the awkwardness of the whole situation.
He pushed his hair back from his glasses and got up. “Don’t worry. The door locks from inside. I’ll see to dinner.”
I locked the door as he left and propped a chair for extra precaution. Then I called Bano Khala to let her know I was staying over at a friend’s place knowing very well she would freak out if I told her the truth.
I switched off the lamp and laid back.
And slept.
I heard a gentle knock after half and hour I guess.
“Dinner’s ready.” He called out. I turned on the light and found out that it was 11pm. I was shocked. Had I slept that long. How? And what restful deep sleep it had been. I almost felt like a new person when I opened the door and went out in the hall. Lights were on in one room. It was a living room of sorts. A small table with three chairs and books piled everywhere. There was a pull-out couch at one side facing the open kitchen. It looked warm and welcoming despite the mess.
I washed my face in the sink nearby. And then sat down at the table.
Dinner was simple. Yellow lentils and rice with fresh salad. But it was delicious. I felt horribly hungry and to my embarrassment gobbled it up in no time. I hadn’t felt this hungry since ages. Ever since ….
‘I’m glad you liked it’ he smiled.
I smiled back. “This is delicious”.
“Thank you. I feel we should properly introduce ourselves. My name is Zayne by the way and my dadi(grandma) taught me how to make this daal(lentil)’.
‘I’m Natasha. You cook really well.’
He shrugged as if something disturbed him. ‘Well, not as good as my wife used to.’
I asked him as to where she was. And that got us talking. It felt as if he was eager to talk to someone. He told me as to how he has been living here since the past six years. After the death of his wife and daughter in a car accident. Living off by painting which had been a hobby and partly off his family’s money. Few friends. A recluse of sorts.
I told him about my hubby and how he died in a bomb in downtown Karachi three years ago leaving me childless and a widow at the age of 32. I didn’t mention the abuse. It was too heavy a topic for a first conversation. I indicated by my hand that I lived a few homes away with two aged servants and cat named Bunty, having no family of my own except an uncle who was in South Africa.
After dinner, he showed me his library. Books lined on shelves everywhere, some even on the ground due to lack of space. He had an arrangement with a boy to bring books and groceries for him on a weekly basis.
Then I got to see his paintings. Dark and deep. His agent would come after a few months or so to pick up the paintings and she would put them at her gallery to sell. And that’s how he had been getting along all these years.
“You don’t even have a cell phone?”
“Cell? I have no need. I have a landline. Whoever wants to talk they can call on that but I usually don’t pick up unless it’s my agent.”
I told him I couldn’t live without my cell. To my surprise he had no idea about smart phones. I showed it to him. He had no idea about Netflix either. I wondered as to why hadn’t his friends or even his agent told him about it. I showed him pictures of Bunty over tea accompanied by a delicious coffee cake, which was his own special recipe. I washed up the dishes with him and tidied up the kitchen. It was the least I could do.
I could see he was tired.
It was nearly 2 am.
I retired for the night with a book he really liked, The Selected poems of Emily Dickinson. I could see his scribbles all over the book.
Evidently, it was his favorite.
I left early in the morning whiles he was still asleep on the couch in the living room.
I got back, made excuses to my worried servants, instructing them to cook a delicious meal for the evening… then left for my job at the bank.
Everything seemed so fresh. Even the smoke of the buses and the incessant tooting of the horns seemed as if a part of beautiful Bollywood song. I smiled at customers. Got a few compliments from my coworkers. My colleague Shazia quizzed me and asked if I had gotten a facial.

I asked her why? She replied back that I was glowing.
I checked in my compact mirror.

I was.
I blushed and shrugged it away.
Days passed by.
Each evening I would reach home, change and take food to Zayne’s house. Where I would regale him with stories that had happened that day. Funny customers. Flirty colleagues. I brought over an old laptop at his place and we would watch Netflix or old movies together. I realized he too was into mystery genre like me. I tried taking Bunty too, but he became so strange and wouldn’t even go inside the front door and hissed and meowed so dangerously that I had to take him back to my home. It was a relief that he had been on a leash otherwise he would have run off.
My housekeepers didn’t ask me much as to where I was taking the food or why did I return in the morning. One day Bano khala just said, “It’s so good to see you happy again Baji.” I hugged her. I didn’t know it was happiness or not, but I felt alive after a decade of lifelessness. Something in Zayne’s quiet protective nature dispelled all my ghosts away. I felt comfortable even in his silences or when he was painting. I knew that he had a fear of meeting people and of stepping out of the house, but I never minded that. I knew we had a world of our own and I wasn’t going to spoil it by taking it out or letting someone else in.
After a few months we started sleeping together. It just felt natural. As if I was made for him. And vice versa. He was a considerate and a gentle lover. I now know what they meant when they say love with every fiber of being. Zayne’s love and care made me realize that not all men are like my ex-husband. Not all husbands humiliate their wives or kick them so much that their womb caves in. Zayne noticed everything be it the tiredness in my smile or a backache. I could sense his loneliness too and gave myself openly and unconditionally. And believe me, that’s that best emotion in the world. To give yourself completely to someone.
We slowly started redoing our place. One day, taking a break from painting the walls in the color we both had chosen, white rose, I decided to wash the curtains. Zayne was painting in his studio. When he came out and saw the open windows, it upset him so much that he ran back in his studio and locked himself in his studio. I knocked and knocked but he didn’t open up until an hour later. I felt angry and we argued for the first time.
“I….don’t understand. It’s just curtains..they were dirty..I should have asked you, I know but I thought it’s my home …..”
“But it isn’t, is it?,” He stared at me.
“Zayne, why are you being so cold?”
He looked contrite and sat down with his head in his hands.
“I’m sorry.”
I stayed silent.
He ran a hand on his face, took a deep breath. “I have this condition. This illness. I cant take in the outside world. Even through the windows. I get panic attacks. Its something…its something I developed after my family……I thought you understood.”
Tears ran down my face and I sat down on the floor before him. “I do darling. I’m so sorry…. So sorry’.
We hugged and make up.
We covered the windows with bed sheets. I put the curtains in the washer. And set the paint aside for some other day.
That night I held him as tightly as I could. Comforting him. I know what he had was a psychiatric illness. People get scared of even stepping out of their front doors or open the curtains. Some don’t even leave their homes for decades. The incident made me realize how important we had become for each other. Maybe what Bano khala had said was right. That it was time I thought of marriage.
I woke up early the next day as it was our annual auditing day at the bank. And everyone would be on the edge. I tried to leave early but not before a sleepy Zayne forced me to put one of his tasty chicken sandwiches made the night before, in my purse, hugged me tight and went back to bed.
My whole day went by in a blur. Dead tired I reached back home by 10. I called Zayne but the line seemed off. Maybe the wire was loose.
I climbed the stairs up to my home and saw the worried faces of my Uncle and Aunt who were visiting Karachi after two years abroad. We had made plans to meet on the weekend so I was surprised to see them so late in my house.
After greetings I asked how they were. Nearby Bano Khala stood looking very uncomfortable.
My uncle informed me that as it was his daughter’s wedding coming week, he and aunt had come to take me to their place. He knew I had the coming week off courtesy Bano Khala who looked guilty as I stared at her.
I smiled. “I still have to go in tomorrow.” Which was a lie.
My uncle seemed a bit impatient then my aunt pressed his hand. I felt uneasy.
“What is going on? Rida isn’t getting married is she?”
Bano khala spoke up.
“Baji don’t mind na. I called you but your cell was coming off. I felt that you were late, so I went around to Zayne sahib’s(Mr) house. Thinking you were there. But it was locked from outside, so I just panicked and called your uncle.”
“What do you mean padlocked from outside?”
Bano khala was unable to meet my eyes.
“Bano khala! What do you mean padlocked??”
I didn’t realize I was standing and shouting until I saw my aunt flinch.
Bano khala spoke softly but firmly. “That’s what I’m saying. There was a lock on the door. And no light. It felt as if no one lives there”
My blood boiling, I rushed out despite my uncle yelling me to stop.
I ran barefoot all the way to Zayne’s house. Our house.
The lights were out but I had my torch with me. I banged on the door. It had a new lock there. What? Who put this in? Then I remembered what Zayne had told me about an extra key he used to keep under his daughter Zainab’s tricycle for the delivery boy. I found it and unlocked the door and stepped in.

And then I sneezed. As everything was covered in dust. As if a violent dust storm had erupted inside. Tables were upturned and chairs were piled in another.
Running towards the living room, I saw everything was in a dilapidated state. The air was stale as if the windows hadn’t been open for a while. I walked towards the kitchen as if in a bad dream. It was exactly as I remembered it. But the fridge was off and the counter had layers of dust and few cockroaches were crawling around. Zayne’s room was empty except for our bed which seemed broken and his bookshelves were devoid of any books. All looked as if it hadn’t been disturbed for years. I heard steps and coughing behind. My aunt, uncle and Bano khala had followed me in.
I could only look at the them. I was speechless. I couldn’t understand. My head was throbbing. I turned to look at the windows. There were bed sheets on them. Running towards the laundry I saw the curtains were in the washing machine, all moldy and black. The paint can ‘White Rose’ that I had opened, now yellowed with time, lay exactly as I had left it yesterday…or was it more than that…..
Oh God what the hell was happening.
Where was Zayne.
What had happened to the house.
What was going on.
I started crying and screaming for him.
My whole world had turned upside down in a few hours and I couldn’t take it in.
As I sat on the floor wailing my heart away Bano khala bent down and slapped me .
I just stared at her. Shocked.
She was crying but spoke quietly. “There’s no Zayne here. No one lives here or has since the past six years. There’s no Zayne, the whole family is dead. ‘
“What do you mean witch..” I grabbed hold of her throat, “What do you mean there’s no Zayne? He was here!!! I have been living with him for the last year. You’re lying!”
My uncle rescued Bano khala from my clutches while my aunt held me close to her bosom like a little child as I cried. And cried.
Unable to process anything.
She kept stroking my hair. “It’s okay Natasha, it’s okay. We should have taken better care of you. We should have been there for you my child…I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”
I just stood there.
My uncle turned and seated me gently on the dusty couch where only yesterday I had sat comforting Zayne.
“Natasha, you need to know something.” He took out his phone and pressed some buttons and then showed me a photograph in a newspaper article. It was Zayne. He was smiling and seated in his studio.
“Uncle that’s him…that’s him! See I wasn’t lying! Where is he…I want to meet him. Can you call him…please,” It was almost a wail.
My uncle took hold of my shoulders. Tears running down his face.
“I can’t, my child. I can’t. You see Zayne died six years ago. He committed suicide after the car he was driving resulted in an accident which killed his wife and daughter. He could never get over it and after two months he died right here in the kitchen by gassing himself.”
I looked at his phone. Local Artist kills himself after family dies in a car accident.
I felt as if I had left my body and was looking at myself sitting on the sofa where I had been planning a future with a man I loved and now my uncle was saying that he had been dead for 6 years?
I felt pity looking at that lifeless woman in front of me.
My aunt and uncle took me back to their home and the next day, got me admitted in a psychiatric ward. After a few tests, I was diagnosed with Severe Depression induced Psychosis. Or a nervous breakdown, in layman terms.
Everyone was very sympathetic. They felt bad for me. Knowing my abusive first marriage, the passing away of parents, then the sudden death of husband and then this.

Poor girl. I could see it in their eyes, their sympathetic smiles. They didn’t believe me.
The institute was good. The staff especially the head nurse Sister Jasmine and my doctor took great care of me and I even made friends there with other patients. There was also one patient there called Amina, who had the same problem as Zayne, that is Panic Disorder with Agarophobia. She had developed it after she was brutally raped in her hostel and was now confined largely to her home or the ward. We bonded well. And I confided my thoughts to her, my disbelief about the whole past year which had been the best year of my life. Had it been a figment of my imagination or a consequence of decreased levels of a few neurotransmitters in my brain as my psychiatrist Dr. Serena told me.
All these moments, that completeness in my soul…the utter peace, was it just in my mind?
Slowly, I came back to the world of living. With Dr. Serena’s help, I was able to piece together the whole 14 months I had been with Zayne. We researched him online. My uncle had been right. He had committed suicide 6 years ago. But then how did I end up spending all that glorious time with him? I had no answer. All I knew that our love and relationship even if just in my mind had been the best thing that had ever happened to me.
As the days went by in the ward, I came to realization that Zayne hadn’t been real. I started studying about my illness and saw that it was quite common especially for those who had been through traumatic experiences like I had to create such figures. And that I wasn’t a rare case. Human mind sometimes traverses boundaries of the reality and escapes to the world beyond to seek solace and love. I started giving awareness classes about mental illness to families visiting the patients in the ward on Saturdays.
After three months, I was discharged from the ward with instructions of weekly follow ups and tons of medication. I hugged Dr. Serena, Sister Jasmine and the other nurses. And had my last cup of tea with them. The ward master, Mr. Alam, a poet in his free time, read a short poem he had written for me. My eyes teared up.
Coming back, I learned that Zayne’s house, had been sold by his brother and had already been razed to the ground. It saddened me as it was a beloved memory but with the help of regular follow up sessions at the ward and a few friends I got through. I decided not to return to the bank. Sister Jasmine found me a job in a nearby orphanage run by an order of Belgian Nuns, as a book- keeper and administrator and I joined them within a month of my discharge from the hospital.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months and months into years.
I worked hard. I came to grips with my psychosis. My breakdown. I continued going with my psychiatric ward team and gave lectures in schools and colleges about mental illness. I now knew it was my own spirit that had created Zayne. My loneliness, my yearnings for a soulmate had led me to that house and him. Though there were still a lot of gaps and unexplained phenomenon, but I decided with the blessings of my doctor not to dwell on it anymore but to remember it as a happy memory which it really was. I loved him and would always do so but life had to go on.
I sold my house and along with Bunty and Bano Khala, shifted to a new home nearer to my job. Then after a year at the Lorenzo’s Orphanage, I decided to adopt a 9-month-old abandoned baby girl. Ordinarily the nuns didn’t allow adoptions to unmarried people but in my case, they made a special concession. I decided to name her Zainab in memory of Zayne’s daughter who had been a sparkling child.
My daughter and I bonded well. Soon, she became the axis of my universe. Within a few months Zainab was resembling me, and people often would tell me how much she looked like me to my delight.
The nuns and I continued our work together and I felt closer to God than I had ever felt before. At times, a sort of peace would overcome me while working or doing chores around the orphanage.
One fine autumn day, three years after my hospital stay, I entered the lobby of the orphanage after leaving Zainab at the playschool the sisters ran adjacent to the building. I as per my routine asked about messages and requested tea from Maria, my assistant, then stopped short and if I hadn’t been holding on to the reception table, would have fallen as I felt all the strength drain off my legs.
The smell of green apples wafted in my being.
It wrapped around me like a long-lost lover.
Filling all my senses.
Zayne….
Zayne….
Not noticing my state, Maria went on. “Oh yes, I forgot to tell you, a guy dropped some things for you with Khan Lala at the gate late last night. He didn’t give his name, in fact, Khan Lala couldn’t even see him clearly as he was wearing a hoodie. He said that you would know. He also mentioned that it’s your birthday today. Happy birthday madam! Why didn’t you ever tell us? I informed Sister Helen about it. She was so delighted and is planning a sort of tea party in the afternoon with the kids…,” Maria droned on.
But I couldn’t hear her anymore. I was back at our house. Our dances, our kisses, our cuddling up while binge watching Netflix. His laughter. The afternoons spent reading books. The way he anchored me.
“Madam? Madam are you okay?”, I heard Maria’s voice from far away. I nodded dumbly and as if in a daze walked in my cabin where I saw a small bunch of beautiful Dutch tulips, coffee cake and an old withered book of Emily Dickinson poems on my table.
With trembling hands, I picked up the card atop the flowers.
It was a reprint of one of Zayne’s painting. A woman dancing with a ghost. It was a favorite of mine. He had titled it ‘Natasha’s Dance.’
There was simple inscription on the back in his handwriting.

Dear Nat,
Sorry for leaving like that. I had no choice but to go.
But do know I love you and am counting the days when I can hold you in my arms again.
Yours always,
Zayne.
PS: I met our Zainab. And she is beautiful just like you. Love you both.

Maria caught me before I collapsed to the floor.

The End.

Dr. Serena, Sister Jasmine and Mr. Alam, though not defined by their real names , all exist and work at the psychiatric institute. The above-mentioned illnesses are real Psychiatric Diagnoses and are a common occurrence though I have taken artistic license here and there. Psychosis or (nervous breakdown) is a state when we lose in touch with reality. It can occur due to many causes. In Natasha’s case it was her loneliness and the trauma of past abusive relationship. It is treatable in some, depending on the cause and some patients make a full recovery, some relapse. It all depends on their social support and circumstances.

I hope you liked this story. Its a part of my observations of a real psychiatry institute titled ‘Tales heard in an Asylum.‘

If you liked this story do give me a follow here or on Instagram @zarminaswords thank you. Have a great day.🙏🏻
𝓩𝓪𝓻𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓪 𝓚𝓱𝓪𝓷🌺