Umair Ashraf
In Kashmir — a place of soul, sorrow, and snow — mental illness doesn’t always follow the books. It doesn’t always show symptoms the way psychiatry expects. Sometimes it looks like a son who’s silent, who once stood proud, and now struggles to form even a full sentence. He isn’t just sick. He’s holding on. To his father’s scolding voice. To his mother’s warm whisper — “Lajya Mouj.” To the memory of being called “Sonne Gobur,” the golden son. He doesn’t speak because he’s confused. He speaks because he still wants to be heard — even if it’s just through broken English.
Psychiatry Treats Chemicals. But Who Treats the Story Left Behind?
Psychiatrists often talk about serotonin and dopamine. They prescribe medications that aim to restore mood — not numb dopamine, but increase it to counter deep sadness. But what happens when the injury isn’t in the brain chemistry — it’s in memory? This man does not need a neurotransmitter fixed. He needs his dignity remembered. He needs his childhood name — “Sonne Gobur” — to mean something again. He needs to remember how his mother once looked at him as if he wore a crown and softly said, “Be chus Sonne Gobur.” And how she used to lovingly call him “Angrez Ladke” — a term that, in Kashmiri culture, held admiration. To be called that was to be seen as clean, sophisticated, desirable — like a foreigner bringing pride to the family. That identity became emotional gold, embedded in his developing brain. So, he speaks not to communicate, but to survive. “I’m Angrez Ladke,” he says — not because he believes it literally, but because it once made him feel like he mattered. These are not just phrases. They are small anchors holding the soul from drowning.
Two Languages, One Heart: How a Man Splits Himself to Stay Whole
This man — broken, exhausted, maybe unable to form full sentences — still speaks in two languages. One is emotional. It’s made of phrases like “My father said I’m worthy,” “Lajya Mouj,” “Be chus Sonne Gobur.” These are not for the world to understand. They are for him to feel safe, to remember he was once someone’s pride. The other language is broken English — “I will speak English and get a job,” “I am Angrez Ladke,” “I am not dirt.” These are not fluent sentences. They are emotional vocabulary. He speaks them not because he learned them in grammar books, but because they’re linked to emotions — moments of hope, of identity.
These English words, now repeated in fragments, once belonged to dreams: becoming someone, getting a job, being respected. But when the world — work, finances, father’s death, sister’s marriage, medical needs — collapsed on him, the adult identity shattered. So he returns to the only safe identity he knows — the one his parents carved into him with love. “You are our Sonne Gobur.” “You are our Angrez Ladke.” In that space, he is never judged. He is always enough.
He repeats these phrases not out of illness but because they are the only truths he can still hold without fear. These were the words that once brought him joy, and now, they bring shelter.
Repeating the Same Words Isn’t Madness. It’s Memory Trying to Breathe.
Psychiatry might call it echolalia. Word salad. Repetition. But what if it’s something more sacred? What if the man is repeating the last words that held him up? Words like “System… broken… she told me I will make it…” These are burned into his nervous system — emotional leftovers from when he still had a dream. English, in his case, is not a language. It is a safe house. A last shelter. And though it may sound broken, it is whole in the way it holds his pain. The grammar might not match, but the emotions do. Each repeated word is a diary line, etched in survival.
Why He Holds English: Not Grammar, But Grief
Why does he remember English vocabulary — sometimes complex, sometimes simple — and not the grammar? Because the words were not academic to him. They were emotional. They were used during moments of dignity, of trying, of love. They were associated with memories where he felt capable. That vocabulary is now tied to emotional survival. It’s convenient for the brain to recall not because it’s logic — but because it’s familiar, even after sanity wavers. And when people question him, he gives the only response he knows won’t betray him: those same words.
So in psychiatric interviews or rehabilitation centers, when someone tries to decode him, they find two kinds of speech: emotionally charged phrases, and broken English. Both are not meant to explain. They are meant to guard. They are not for diagnosis. They are for safety.
Let the Last Sentence Be This:
He does not need your diagnosis.
He needs to be remembered.
Not as a patient,
But as someone who once stood proud in his father’s shoes, And was called “Lajya Mouj” by his mother.
Umair Ashraf holds a Master’s in Psychology and is an independent scholar in molecular neuroscience, focusing on decoding brain biochemistry and its impact on behavior and society. He is also a passionate mental health advocate. He can be reached at Umairvani07@gmail.com.
