Wisdom in Mental Asylum

By Nasiruddin Hamid

In the 18th century, there was a mental asylum—a large, isolated institution where the mentally ill were confined. The asylum was a large, bleak building located somewhere in Europe. Its walls were covered with vines, tangled with different flowers and fruits. To outsiders, it looked haunted, and to those who lived within, it felt even worse. The building was connected to vast gardens, while its gloomy rooms were dimly lit by old lamps, casting long, eerie shadows.

On the 3rd floor in Ward Number 7 of the asylum, a man, no older than 35, sat on a chair. The room was small and contained only a folding bed, a toilet seat, a washbasin, and a steel mirror instead of glass. He sat in deep thought, lost in his own mind.

This man was Mr. K, admitted just a few days ago. He believed that life had no meaning and that death was certain, making the act of living seem foolish. In despair, he attempted to end his life, but his neighbour intervened and had him admitted to the asylum, where doctors began treating him by discussing his condition.

At first, Mr. K appeared so rational that some doctors suspected he was faking his illness, possibly to escape from a crime he had committed in another part of the country. They prescribed him medicine, conducted physical evaluations, and found nothing abnormal. Eventually, they decided to hand him over to Mr. Y, a senior member of the asylum and an expert in psychological disorders. Mr. Y questioned the patient about his thoughts.

Mr. K replied, "I am afraid of dying, yet I do not want to live in this world. I fear God, yet I do not believe He exists. I long for heaven, but I do not know where it is. I want to live a life of happiness, yet I cannot find a purpose because life seems temporary and insignificant. People die of hunger, yet no one cares. There are so many religions in the world, but none provide real answers to the fundamental questions. They only try to discredit one another, claiming their religion alone belongs to God. But the real God—who is He, or is He even a He? What does He want? We do not know. We rely on a handful of self-proclaimed prophets and messengers, yet they offer no answers except to tell us that their teachings were revealed by God and that we must not question Him."

After listening to this statement, Mr. Y asked, "And what do you think about all these questions?"

Mr. K sighed. "I don’t know anything. I have tried so hard. I have worshipped God—the God I could see in statues in churches and the God I could not see anywhere. But still, I have heard nothing. I am confused. How can God reveal Himself to some people but remain silent to those who truly seek Him?"

"So, what have you discovered?" Mr. Y asked.

"Nothing," Mr. K admitted. "That is why I long to die—because my questions remain unanswered."

Night after night, they spoke, searching for meaning. But it was in vain. Both doctor and patient found themselves trapped in the same uncertainty, unable to find answers. Mr. K’s frustration grew deeper. He spent sleepless nights staring at the ceiling, his thoughts racing in circles. His hands trembled as he struggled to hold a cup of water, his mind overwhelmed by questions with no answers. Some nights, he paced his small room until exhaustion forced him to sit, his head in his hands. At times, he erupted in anger, throwing his steel mirror across the room, watching it dent against the wall, yet it never shattered—just like his endless doubts. He pressed his palms against his temples, whispering to himself, "Why? Why is there no answer?" But silence always replied.

At one point, both he and Mr. Y even contemplated leaving the world behind, hoping to discover the truth in the next. But in the end, they agreed on one thing—uncertainty about the afterlife. And so, they chose to stay.

Yet, something changed in Mr. K. One night, unable to sleep, he sat by the small window of his room, watching the moonlight spill into the garden. The flowers and vines swayed gently in the wind. For the first time in months, he felt something stir inside him—not an answer, but a feeling. He realised that, though he may never know the truth, he could still capture the questions. He could put his thoughts into words and let them exist as poetry, if nothing else.

When he left the asylum, he no longer sought answers from the world. Instead, he turned his uncertainties into verses. He became a poet, not because he had found meaning, but because he had found a way to live with the questions.

Mr. Y, deeply affected by their conversations, decided to remain close friends with Mr. K. Though they had not found answers, they had found companionship in their search, and that, in itself, was something worth holding onto.

By Nasiruddin Hamid