A whose who at Antara.

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I am writing this with about three people staring over my shoulder watching the screen, and every key that I press. Although the fact that they have not reacted to me just writing that statement suggests that they do not even read English. It is just one of those things that you put down as a “cultural thing”. I find it quite interesting how a waiter may try and take your plate away three or four times before you are finished, shaking your head often means “Yes” and snorting phlegm from your throat in a horrifically loud, rasping sound does not bat an eyelid. I am slowly learning the subtleties of Indian gestures, and the technique of using three fingers as a scoop and your thump as a shovel to push rice into your mouth.

I now have less than a week left at Antara Psychiatric (Yes, they have revolutionised the name) Hospital. I have booked my sleeper train to Varanasi this Monday, which is all very exciting, but I already feel there is a lot I am going to miss, particularly the people.

I thought I would give you a whose-who at Antara. So there was Amanda, Kelly, Nat, Rach and me. They are Leeds psychology grads, whose experience should leave their CV’s shining off the competition for the competitive career paths they have ahead of them. I like to see them as my little harem, although they are very vocal in their protestations to this suggestion. Thankfully the conversations on nail varnish and bikini waxing are capped by there being another guy, Suman. His parents are Antara staff, and he is doing a hotel management course, somehow managing to pronounce French dishes better than me, along with his five other languages he knows. We have good fun swimming in one of the murky green fish ponds, where he reassures me the water is clean and safe, despite me coming out covered in leeches. He showed us how to celebrate Diwali, namely burning a firework (aptly called a bomb) in your hand until its at the end of its wick, before throwing it just in time so it explodes mid-air. We showed him how to celebrate Halloween, resulting in ingenious uses of sleeping-bag liners and rationed toilet roll. Most of all, we play cards, possibly too much, and definitely with too much competition.

Then there are the Doctors. One in particular I very near worship, who has genuinely opened my eyes to the wonders of Psychiatry. He has had over 40 publications, with one particular breakthrough involving electrical signals to prove that OCD is due to hyperactivity of certain deep cortical nerve fibres. It’s the biological causation of schizophrenia, for example that fascinates me. As he keeps on saying, the 21st century is the century of the Mind, and with this scientific research, solid evidence for cause and treatment of illnesses will emerge, making Psychiatry such an appealing subject for me.

The patients are obviously a big part of the day to day life at Antara. They are often fascinating to listen to, even if you cannot get a word in edge ways. You always feel so welcome on the wards, even if it results in you being talked at simultaneously on why I need to bring my family to Uttar Pradesh in India, as England is poisoned, at the same time as a detailed description of photosynthesis and how combustion engines work.

The children’s ward has given me the chance to learn a Bengali poem. However things have got a bit complex there as of recently. A 13 year old boy has taken a bit of a shine to me, and would talk about “Jackda” all day apparently. Its quite a sweet nickname all the kids call me as the -da means elder brother. I thought I could act as a positive role model for the boy, but was a little concerned as I had noticed he had some obsessional compulsions. I was sitting in on the Ward Round, with around 10 other staff members when his case came up. What followed was one of the most awkward and bizarre positions I think I have been in. The boy came into the room for his consultation, delighted to see me (standard procedure). Through the rapid exchanges of Bengali that followed that smile was slowly wiped off his face causing him to leave in tears and looking very glumly at me on his way out. My name was mentioned about a thousand times without having a clue what they were talking about. There was also a lot of pointing and gesturing at me, and at one point they made me stand up and the doctor, nurses, psychologists and social workers just stared and nodded slowly. What on earth was going on?!

It turned out that the boy had Body Dysmorphic Disorder, and would not be able to stop himself checking his muscle mass. The Doctor said I should be quite flattered that he had become obsessive with me (or my rapidly-shrinking-in-India-guns) but that this had become my curse and for the boys progression to stable mental health I should not see him anymore. I duly obliged, but I can’t say I don’t feel bad when I have to ignore the boys cries of “Jackda, Jackda” when I walk past the ward.

Finally, got to say I am very relieved Obama got in, although one patient is convinced “gorgeous” Sarah Palin is President. Sometimes its best just to go along with such delusions.

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