As she watched him fill out the paperwork, Kavita sensed his hesitation. He had created clear boundaries between his professional and personal lives. And to him, his life with his condition, while not a source of shame, was nonetheless, personal. It was his to talk about, or not talk about, as he chose. He had never bought into the idea that people living with mental health issues should out themselves in order to change mainstream perception. The mainstream could broaden its own mind, as far as he was concerned: his hands were full. Now, it seemed, the cost of accessing the help he needed in order to heal, would come at the expense of his right to privacy.

Reason for absence, she read on the form. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the doctor’s note, and scanned it. Kavita noticed his expression darken. Then he hastily folded the paper in two.

He hovered his pen over the empty black line. She wondered what the doctor had written, what prognosis could make Sunil reluctant to even write it out. Medical, he scribbled finally. See doctor’s note.

On the way home, they stopped at the pharmacy to fill his prescriptions. They were about to pull out of the parking lot, when Sunil asked, “Can we go somewhere?”

Kavita looked at him, surprised. “Aren’t you tired?”

“I just don’t feel like going home yet.”

“What do you want to do?” their mother asked, watching him from the rear-view mirror.

“How about the marina?”

It was their family’s favourite picnicking spot from when Sunil and Kavita were little. They would pack a cooler of drinks, a tiffin of aloo jeera and puris, and spend the day collecting clam shells, building sand castles, and skipping stones. “We haven’t been there in ages,” Kavita said.

“I think it’s a good idea,” their father agreed. “Some fresh air might help you sleep, raja.”

“Marina it is,” their mother declared, and they were off.

The marina was about thirty minutes away. Stepping out of the car, Kavita took in the view. The river glimmered in the distance as though flecked with mica. Gazing at its gleaming waters, she remembered the stories their parents had told them about the rivers in India—the Ganga, Yamuna. About people who would travel to bathing ghats to dip in the sacred waters in search of absolution and the healing powers of gangajal. She wondered if the river in front of them flowed with mysticism too. If her brother bathed in its waters, would it cleanse him of his troubles?