Letters from India

Virali Modi

The day I swallowed a bottle of pills, it was winter and my mother was in the shower. She had left my medications by my bedside table. I was under psychological treatment and my mother did everything she could to help me, but my friends were enjoying their lives while I was left in a wheelchair.

I reached for the bottle of pills on the table and swallowed the contents. My ears started ringing and soon I couldn’t feel my face any longer. I thought the world would be better off without me: without a disabled child, my parents could follow their dreams, and I could be reborn into a body without any faults. But when the ringing started, I couldn’t hear anything. I panicked. I couldn’t feel my face; I couldn’t breathe. Death is a heavy weight, like an anvil on your chest - pressing against your lungs. Death is like drowning.

I was screaming uncontrollably, and my mother ran into my room. Seeing what happened, she called 911 and I was rushed to the emergency room. They stuck a tube up my nose, like a straw - the tube tearing at my nostrils. Doctors forced me to drink activated charcoal, which induced vomit. I vomited so much my throat hurt. I remember getting diarrhoea and defecating on myself. I was made to wear a diaper.

I was born in Mumbai, India, 27 years ago. When I was two months old my family and I moved to the United States. I was raised in Pennsylvania, an only child. I was a straight A student who wanted to be a doctor, a heart surgeon, or a lawyer. I was a good writer, I studied hip hop, jazz, and Indian dances.

When I was 14, I visited India for a month to see my grandmother and relatives. I went alone during the rainy