Ever since I can remember, Mummy used to be rather moody. Her moods could swing sharply through the day — cheerful in one moment, angry or withdrawn the next. Some days she seemed on edge, ready to explode; on others, she was distant, lost in her own thoughts.

I was eleven when she had a nervous breakdown. Before that, her behaviour had become increasingly strange — she’d talk of hearing voices and mention conspiracies. It was a severe episode, and she had to be hospitalised for a few days. That’s when she was formally diagnosed with schizophrenia, and she remained on medication and therapy for the rest of her life.

At the time, my elder sister was away at medical college, and Papa had to manage everything — the hospital, our home, me, and his work. I still remember him climbing into the ambulance with Mummy. He looked back at me and said, “Be brave, and take care of things at home.”

Our next-door neighbour — my friend’s grandmother, whom we called Mata Ji — came over to stay with me for the next few days, along with our ever-reliable maid, Saraswati.

Oddly enough, my memory of that period isn’t one of fear or anxiety, but of a strange sense of empowerment. Papa had trusted me with a responsibility, and I was determined to manage things until they came back.

I even took the liberty of ordering Saraswati and Mata Ji around, choosing what they’d cook for me — and skipping school for a day just to enjoy being “in charge.”

Papa visited every afternoon and gave me updates on Mummy’s recovery. Once she was back home, he sat me down and explained what had happened.

“Mental illness,” he said, “is like any other illness. Some problems are treated at home, some by the neighbourhood doctor, and some need specialists at big hospitals. Mummy will be fine — she just needs time, care, and our support.”

That simple explanation helped me make sense of something enormous. It taught me compassion, and it shaped how I would approach mental health for the rest of my life.

Over the next few years, I saw Papa’s love and patience up close as he helped Mummy heal. When he passed away, I took over that role. With time, medicine and therapy improved — and Mummy went on to live a full, happy life.