Could the knots in my mind be like a ball of wool?

*Trigger Warning: Death by suicide

This story is the personal account of Taro, a woman from Ustehad, a small village in Himachal Pradesh. Yet, it is not just the tale of one woman’s suffering; it reflects a deeper social and economic reality where poverty, caste, mental health, and patriarchy are closely intertwined. Taro was married off when she was thirteen years old. Poverty, unfulfilled dreams, the struggle to build a home, ridicule, taunts, and the burden of unemployment gradually broke her husband, Ramlal, from within. After his death, Taro faced scorn and blame from both society and her family, but she refused to give up. Her story shows that poverty and silence do not only starve the body, they also starve the mind. Until we begin to see mental health as inseparable from poverty and social violence, true change will remain out of reach.

Read this story in Hindi

Ah, this complexity within me is not a thread of wool, yet it keeps knotting itself endlessly. The knot is deep and tightly bound, but it must be untangled. I have seen many who could not find a way to undo it and lost their battle, for they had no help. But I have faith. I will untangle it, slowly, patiently, yet one day, I surely will……..!

Oh, forgive me, I’ve gone off on a tangent. Come with me to Himachal Pradesh. They say people come to these mountains to untangle the knots of their minds. Nestled among these very hills is a small village called Ustehad in Kangra district, perched along the Dhauladhar mountain range, just two kilometers from Baijnath. Baijnath is a historic and sacred town, famous for its ancient Shiva temple. Long ago, this place was known as Keergram. It is said that the area was once home to a great many parrots (keer) and so it came to be called Keergram. Today, the world knows it as Baijnath. And yes, this is where my little home stands, tucked among the hills, where I live with my family.

My closest friend, Taro, lives here as well. Like me, she belongs to the Kathit Dalit community. She is 46 years old, older than I am, but friendship doesn’t measure itself in years. I met Taro today after a long time. It was morning. She was wearing a yellow suit and looked absolutely beautiful in it. Her loose, curly hair and her brown eyes only added to her charm. I said to her, “Wow, you look lovely today.” She blushed and replied, “You always say such things.” Then we hugged, and as always, asked each other how we were doing.

When I asked her, ‘How are you?’ She said, ‘I may look fine and healthy on the outside, but even I don’t fully know how my mind is doing. The mind needs care just as much as the body, because when the mind is heavy, nothing feels right.’

Whenever Taro needs to share something, she talks to me. That day, as we sat chatting, she teasingly asked, “So, when are you getting married?” And as always, I gave the same answer: I don’t know… or maybe I won’t at all. Hearing this, Taro said, “You’re lucky. At least you have the freedom to choose.”

I’ve always loved listening to stories and understanding them. Maybe that’s why whenever someone shares what’s in their heart, I simply listen. This time was no different. My friend Taro opened up layers of her life before me, layers she hadn’t revealed to anyone for years. She told me that when she was young, no one even asked her whether she wanted to get married. She was married off at the age of thirteen. Her first period didn’t start until after the marriage. She never got to live her childhood, nor could she live properly in her in-laws’ house. For many years now, she has been living here in her parents’ home with her two children.

People in the village often say that Taro’s laughter isn’t the same anymore. But every morning, when she sweeps the courtyard, it feels as if the house and courtyard come alive with her very breath. Often, she sits by the window and gazes toward the distant mountains. And every morning, as she sweeps the courtyard, the soft sunlight falling on her face and her gentle humming of pahadi songs make it seem as though the home is breathing with her presence. After finishing her work each morning, she sits for hours by a large window, looking out toward the faraway hills as if some unspoken pain is eating away at her from within. This pain is tied to the memories of her husband, Ramlal. Yes, Ramlal’s memories…

She says, “I always remember the days when our whole family lived together. Back then, we didn’t even have a proper house. Ramlal and I, along with our two children, lived in a small hut. It was a bamboo hut whose walls had completely rotted, and even the tin roof had rusted away. There were holes everywhere, through which the sky was perfectly visible, as if we weren’t living inside a home at all, but out in the open. In those days, we didn’t even have enough money to buy a new tin sheet, let alone a tarp.

Monsoons used to be the hardest time for us, because whenever it rained, water would pour through the roof. My children and I would scramble to find containers so we could place them wherever the water was dripping and save our belongings from getting soaked. But it never really helped. I would put a pot in one spot, and at that very moment, water would start leaking from another. Even the cooking stove would fill up with water. On those days, we wouldn’t even get a meal because we didn’t have a gas stove to cook on. Everyone would go to bed hungry, just like that. Perhaps this was what worried Ramlal the most. Where will I keep the children? Will they grow up in this same hut? He used to think about it constantly, but he never shared this worry with anyone, not even with me. Maybe he thought I, too, would start worrying. Days kept passing like this, and gradually, he began drowning himself in alcohol.”

One day, the village council head announced, ‘The government is giving money to build houses. You should also fill out the forms.’ So Ramlaal and I filled them in. This was back in 2012, when one day the news came that ₹50,000 had been sanctioned by the government for building a house. The news made us very happy, but far more anxious. How could we possibly build a home with such a small amount? And that’s the real question: they show dreams of building a home to poor people, but the schemes and promises collapse long before the walls of the house ever rise.”

“Ramlaal started working harder than ever. We began saving every single rupee, buying materials for the house bit by bit, and slowly we managed to gather everything we needed. Now all we needed was a mason so the construction could begin. Ramlaal set out to find one—he went to every mason in the village. But not a single one agreed to work. Perhaps they were thinking, ‘People who don’t even have enough money to buy their daily food, how on earth will they pay us?’                                                      

The mason kept putting it off every time, ‘I’ll come tomorrow… I’ll come the day after.’ Clinging to hope, Ramlaal kept going back to call him again and again. Days turned into weeks, and our dream of a home remained unfinished. Whenever the villagers saw him, they would jokingly ask, ‘So, when is the construction of your house starting? If you delay any longer, the government will take the money back!’ He would force a faint smile and reply, ‘We’ll begin soon—just waiting for the mason, he’ll come in a few days.’ But no one could read the helplessness hiding in his eyes. Slowly, that helplessness became a heavy weight on his chest. He began drinking to escape it. Many times, in his drunken rage, he would beat me and the children and throw us out of the hut.

It was one of those days when the rain was pouring down relentlessly. The roof was leaking from every corner, and the stove had been flooded with water. That day, Ramlaal had drunk heavily even before noon. In his anger, he raised his hand on me again and shouted furiously, ‘Get out! All of you, get out!’ I took both of my children and went to sleep at a neighbor’s house. He remained alone inside the hut. I thought he would eventually fall asleep, just like every other time, but who knows what was going on in his mind that night.

That night, he did not sleep. Using one of my dupattas, he tied a noose to a beam in the roof and ended his own life. The rain was so loud that none of us heard even a cry from him. In the morning, I returned to our hut, hoping he had calmed down by then. Our door had no latch, so it opened from both inside and outside. As soon as I pushed it open from outside, the ground slipped from beneath my feet. He was hanging from the roof. His body had already turned cold. His eyes were open, and there was the same familiar smile on his face, the one he always had. I could not believe what I was seeing. For a moment, I was completely numb.

I gathered myself somehow and, crying, ran barefoot through the rain and mud to my brother’s house, begging him to come and see him once. My brother took one look from a distance and said, “He’s gone… he isn’t in this world anymore.” That was the worst day of my life. On one side, I had lost my husband—and on the other, people began accusing me, saying he had taken his life because of me. They called it a suicide, but in truth, the real cause of his death was poverty and despair, burdens he could never express to anyone. The constant taunts and ridicule from people tangled his mind so badly that he finally decided to end his life.

For this, people kept blaming me again and again. Even the police tortured us. The very people who are meant to protect us refused to listen, and they kept summoning me and my son (who was studying in the ninth grade at the time) to the police station repeatedly. In those days, I did not even have ten rupees to my name. Yet for a crime I had never committed, the police demanded money from us.”

What kind of justice is this, where those responsible for protecting the poor are the ones squeezing them even further, while the real causes of his death, poverty, hunger, and depression, receive no punishment at all?

“On one side, I was grieving the death of my husband, and on the other, I was being tortured so much that I became completely shattered. I could not even think of dying, because now the responsibility of my two children was on my shoulders. I felt utterly defeated by life. It became difficult for me to even feed my children two meals a day. No one was willing to give me work. Only I know how my children and I survived during those days, surrounded by the hateful eyes of everyone around us. While talking, her face suddenly fell, and her smile faded completely. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her choked voice was deeply shattering. After a moment, she began to speak again, I would work in people’s houses, and even after doing all their household chores, they would pay me only thirty rupees and give leftover stale food from the previous day. It broke my heart that I could not even fulfill the most basic needs of my children. At such a young age, my children witnessed things that have become lifelong wounds engraved deep in their hearts.

When my children went to school, everyone would ask them, ‘How did your father die?’ ‘Did you people kill him?’ These questions caused them great distress. Both of them stopped going outside and stopped playing. After that, they never went out to play again. People’s questions stole their childhood from them. I also began falling seriously ill. I stopped being able to sleep at night. In the language of our village, we say, ‘Minjo bada bhaari ullan paunda tha’ which means I would have panic attacks. I would feel intense fear, my hands and feet would tremble, and I would suddenly start sweating. It lasted only for a short while, but it could happen many times a day, without any warning.

Whenever I tried to tell someone that I was not okay, everyone thought I was pretending or creating drama. No one was willing to listen.”

After hearing Taro say this, I began to wonder: why is it so easy to call a woman crazy, but so difficult to ask who shattered her soul? Why is the woman always blamed, and why does the real responsibility escape the system that abandoned her and her family?

Once, I went to see a doctor and he asked me,

‘Sister, do you think too much about things?’
 I said, ‘No, what would I think about?’
He replied, ‘This is depression, a mental health condition. Everyone takes care of their physical health, but they forget to take care of their mind. To recover, you will need to take medication for some time. When you start feeling better, you can gradually stop taking it. And yes, one more thing, do not stay alone. Spend as much time as you can with people, and go out whenever possible. This will help you heal faster.’

I did exactly as the doctor advised, and slowly I began to feel a little better. I also got a job at a school in the village, doing cleaning work. At that time, I used to earn 2000 rupees a month. The money was very little, but it gave me some strength, knowing that I would not have to beg anyone for food. With courage, I began thinking about starting the work of building my home again.

This time, with the help of my brother, I went to call a mason from another village. I told him in advance that I would only be able to pay his daily wages when I received the installment money for the house. He agreed, and the construction of my house finally began. But this was also not that easy! There were many obstacles. In the middle of the work, we ran short of bricks. Since I had no money left, I decided to make raw bricks myself. I had a wooden mold made for shaping them, and then my children and I started making bricks together. After the bricks were ready, the construction resumed. This time, the walls of the house were completed.

The roof work came to a stop because I could no longer afford to buy bamboo wood. I asked people for help, gathered the wood, and a few days later the roof was completed. It took us almost two years to get it done. Still, there was comfort in knowing that we finally had a room of our own where we could live in peace. Even so, the pain of Ramlal’s passing remained in our hearts forever.”

She fell silent for a moment while talking, closing her eyes as if lost in thought, as though some unspoken conflict was raging within her.

“It has been thirteen years since Ramlaal passed away, but not a single day has gone by when we have been able to forget him. Now the children have grown up and have started earning a little. My daughter used to work at a nearby non-government organization (NGO). There, she learned how important it is to speak openly about mental health issues. With the help of the people there, she received counseling, and she also told us that if you are unable to share what is in your heart with someone and it is causing you pain, you can take therapy sessions for support.

There are many organizations in Himachal that offer therapy sessions and counseling for free. I have not taken any sessions yet, but now I am aware. I understand that the solution to inner turmoil is not death. To live, you must seek help from others. My mental health has improved compared to before. Now, I even sit with the women of the village and talk with them, and they share their feelings with me as well. It feels good that I am able to listen to someone when they need it.”

After listening to Taro’s story, I began to wonder how long we will keep telling men to stop drinking, and women to stop crying, yet never ask how long poverty and silence will continue to kill us. Until we start asking these questions, until we come together on this issue, perhaps nothing will change. But the question is, is personal courage or family support enough? Thousands of women like Taro are still far from access to mental health services. In the mountains, there may be primary health centers, but counselors, psychiatrists, and psychological services are almost nonexistent. In the villages, people are not even familiar with words like depression or mental health problems. When someone says their heart feels heavy or they cannot sleep, people simply call them weak or accuse them of pretending.

When governments speak about poverty eradication, women’s empowerment, or rural health, mental health is often ignored, even though it should be included in every policy. Due to lack of employment opportunities, poverty here only deepens the suffering, because treatment and counseling are out of reach. If community counseling centers are established at the panchayat level, if mental health workshops are conducted with women’s self-help groups, and if awareness campaigns are launched, then perhaps many “Ramlaals” and “Taros” will be able to change the ending of their stories. Because resolving the conflicts of the mind is not the responsibility of a single person, but a shared responsibility of both society and the government.

Some organizations in Himachal are now trying to work on mental health in the villages, but there is still a long journey ahead. Taro’s story is an example of how poverty, silence, and social taunts slowly break a person’s spirit, and how conversation, support, livelihood opportunities, and empathy can help rebuild it again.