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He walked into my clinic and placed a bottle on my table. A bottle of insecticide.

This disease has long been called the 'suicide disease'. In recent times, it briefly returned to public conversation when actor Salman Khan spoke about his experience with facial pain. But two decades ago one man gave me a lesson in its brutality I will never forget.

Until 2004, I performed Microvascular Decompression [MVD] surgery for Trigeminal Neuralgia but not with the urgency and singular focus that now defines my practice. Then came an afternoon that changed the course of my life and shape of the work that we do at our neurosurgical centre in Pune today.

My clinic hours were over and I was ready to leave when my secretary hesitated at the door. "There's a gentleman who has come from very far", she whispered. "He looks quiet distressed. I think you should see him. I asked her to send him in. Years of treating this disease had prepared me for patients in pain, yet this man's appearance was startling. He was unshaven for days, his eyes were heavy. His right hand clutched a bag- his last hope.

"Are you Dr. Jayadev?" he asked with teeth clenched. Then he reached his bag and placed a bottle on my table labelled 'insecticide'. "Please tell me you can cure me or I will drink this and end the pain."

He had been suffering for six long years, surviving on high dose of anti-seizure medications. This man- a living proof that the disease could drive a person to the edge. Like the other patients he had been to various dentists in vain. The day he came to me, he was convinced that he needed surgery and so was I. Operation done, culprit found, a small artery.

He walked into my clinic and placed a bottle on my table. A bottle of insecticide.

This disease has long been called the 'suicide disease'. In recent times, it briefly returned to public conversation when actor Salman Khan spoke about his experience with facial pain. But two decades ago one man gave me a lesson in its brutality I will never forget.

Until 2004, I performed Microvascular Decompression [MVD] surgery for Trigeminal Neuralgia but not with the urgency and singular focus that now defines my practice. Then came an afternoon that changed the course of my life and shape of the work that we do at our neurosurgical centre in Pune today.

My clinic hours were over and I was ready to leave when my secretary hesitated at the door. "There's a gentleman who has come from very far", she whispered. "He looks quiet distressed. I think you should see him. I asked her to send him in. Years of treating this disease had prepared me for patients in pain, yet this man's appearance was startling. He was unshaven for days, his eyes were heavy. His right hand clutched a bag- his last hope.

"Are you Dr. Jayadev?" he asked with teeth clenched. Then he reached his bag and placed a bottle on my table labelled 'insecticide'. "Please tell me you can cure me or I will drink this and end the pain."

He had been suffering for six long years, surviving on high dose of anti-seizure medications. This man- a living proof that the disease could drive a person to the edge. Like the other patients he had been to various dentists in vain. The day he came to me, he was convinced that he needed surgery and so was I. Operation done, culprit found, a small artery.

He walked into my clinic and placed a bottle on my table. A bottle of insecticide.

This disease has long been called the 'suicide disease'. In recent times, it briefly returned to public conversation when actor Salman Khan spoke about his experience with facial pain. But two decades ago one man gave me a lesson in its brutality I will never forget.

Until 2004, I performed Microvascular Decompression [MVD] surgery for Trigeminal Neuralgia but not with the urgency and singular focus that now defines my practice. Then came an afternoon that changed the course of my life and shape of the work that we do at our neurosurgical centre in Pune today.

My clinic hours were over and I was ready to leave when my secretary hesitated at the door. "There's a gentleman who has come from very far", she whispered. "He looks quiet distressed. I think you should see him. I asked her to send him in. Years of treating this disease had prepared me for patients in pain, yet this man's appearance was startling. He was unshaven for days, his eyes were heavy. His right hand clutched a bag- his last hope.

"Are you Dr. Jayadev?" he asked with teeth clenched. Then he reached his bag and placed a bottle on my table labelled 'insecticide'. "Please tell me you can cure me or I will drink this and end the pain."

He had been suffering for six long years, surviving on high dose of anti-seizure medications. This man- a living proof that the disease could drive a person to the edge. Like the other patients he had been to various dentists in vain. The day he came to me, he was convinced that he needed surgery and so was I. Operation done, culprit found, a small artery.

He walked into my clinic and placed a bottle on my table. A bottle of insecticide.

This disease has long been called the 'suicide disease'. In recent times, it briefly returned to public conversation when actor Salman Khan spoke about his experience with facial pain. But two decades ago one man gave me a lesson in its brutality I will never forget.

Until 2004, I performed Microvascular Decompression [MVD] surgery for Trigeminal Neuralgia but not with the urgency and singular focus that now defines my practice. Then came an afternoon that changed the course of my life and shape of the work that we do at our neurosurgical centre in Pune today.

My clinic hours were over and I was ready to leave when my secretary hesitated at the door. "There's a gentleman who has come from very far", she whispered. "He looks quiet distressed. I think you should see him. I asked her to send him in. Years of treating this disease had prepared me for patients in pain, yet this man's appearance was startling. He was unshaven for days, his eyes were heavy. His right hand clutched a bag- his last hope.

"Are you Dr. Jayadev?" he asked with teeth clenched. Then he reached his bag and placed a bottle on my table labelled 'insecticide'. "Please tell me you can cure me or I will drink this and end the pain."

He had been suffering for six long years, surviving on high dose of anti-seizure medications. This man- a living proof that the disease could drive a person to the edge. Like the other patients he had been to various dentists in vain. The day he came to me, he was convinced that he needed surgery and so was I. Operation done, culprit found, a small artery.

He walked into my clinic and placed a bottle on my table. A bottle of insecticide.

This disease has long been called the 'suicide disease'. In recent times, it briefly returned to public conversation when actor Salman Khan spoke about his experience with facial pain. But two decades ago one man gave me a lesson in its brutality I will never forget.

Until 2004, I performed Microvascular Decompression [MVD] surgery for Trigeminal Neuralgia but not with the urgency and singular focus that now defines my practice. Then came an afternoon that changed the course of my life and shape of the work that we do at our neurosurgical centre in Pune today.

My clinic hours were over and I was ready to leave when my secretary hesitated at the door. "There's a gentleman who has come from very far", she whispered. "He looks quiet distressed. I think you should see him. I asked her to send him in. Years of treating this disease had prepared me for patients in pain, yet this man's appearance was startling. He was unshaven for days, his eyes were heavy. His right hand clutched a bag- his last hope.

"Are you Dr. Jayadev?" he asked with teeth clenched. Then he reached his bag and placed a bottle on my table labelled 'insecticide'. "Please tell me you can cure me or I will drink this and end the pain."

He had been suffering for six long years, surviving on high dose of anti-seizure medications. This man- a living proof that the disease could drive a person to the edge. Like the other patients he had been to various dentists in vain. The day he came to me, he was convinced that he needed surgery and so was I. Operation done, culprit found, a small artery.

There was only one small chink in the armour of austerity that had sat so heavily on my grandmother ever since I could remember: she had a secret fondness for jewellery.

She had stopped wearing jewellery, after she was widowed. But there was one piece of jewellery that she had never parted with. It was a long, thin chain with a tiny ruby pendant. She had never taken it off, at least not in my recollection. I wear it because He gave it to me, she explained to me once. You know your grandfather. It was the first thing He ever gave me in Rangoon, soon after we were married.

One afternoon I came home from school to find the radio blaring at the top volume in my grandmother's room, upstairs. I ran in and found my mother lying prostrate on her bed, with her fingers jabbed against her temples and a wet cloth draped over her eyes.

What's going on? I asked her.

Who's to know but God? She said, Your Tha'mma went out of the house at ten this morning and came back a couple of hours later. She wouldn't have anything to eat, instead she went upstairs and turned on her radio and it's been going on like that ever since.

I ran upstairs and pushed my grandmother's door open. I could only see her back. She was crouching over the radio.

Tha'mma! I shouted. What happened to your chain? What have you done with it?

She turned to look at me then. Her hair were hanging in wet ropes over her face; her eyes glazed and her spectacles had fallen off. I was frightened by the sight of her.

I gave it away, she said, her eyes glazed, unfocused eyes alighting, not on me but on a point on the wall above my head. Why Tha'mma? I said, why did you do that?

I gave it away, she screamed. I gave it to the fund for the war. I had to, don't you see? For your sake; for your freedom. We have to kill them before they kill us; we have to wipe them out.

There was only one small chink in the armour of austerity that had sat so heavily on my grandmother ever since I could remember: she had a secret fondness for jewellery.

She had stopped wearing jewellery, after she was widowed. But there was one piece of jewellery that she had never parted with. It was a long, thin chain with a tiny ruby pendant. She had never taken it off, at least not in my recollection. I wear it because He gave it to me, she explained to me once. You know your grandfather. It was the first thing He ever gave me in Rangoon, soon after we were married.

One afternoon I came home from school to find the radio blaring at the top volume in my grandmother's room, upstairs. I ran in and found my mother lying prostrate on her bed, with her fingers jabbed against her temples and a wet cloth draped over her eyes.

What's going on? I asked her.

Who's to know but God? She said, Your Tha'mma went out of the house at ten this morning and came back a couple of hours later. She wouldn't have anything to eat, instead she went upstairs and turned on her radio and it's been going on like that ever since.

I ran upstairs and pushed my grandmother's door open. I could only see her back. She was crouching over the radio.

Tha'mma! I shouted. What happened to your chain? What have you done with it?

She turned to look at me then. Her hair were hanging in wet ropes over her face; her eyes glazed and her spectacles had fallen off. I was frightened by the sight of her.

I gave it away, she said, her eyes glazed, unfocused eyes alighting, not on me but on a point on the wall above my head. Why Tha'mma? I said, why did you do that?

I gave it away, she screamed. I gave it to the fund for the war. I had to, don't you see? For your sake; for your freedom. We have to kill them before they kill us; we have to wipe them out.

There was only one small chink in the armour of austerity that had sat so heavily on my grandmother ever since I could remember: she had a secret fondness for jewellery.

She had stopped wearing jewellery, after she was widowed. But there was one piece of jewellery that she had never parted with. It was a long, thin chain with a tiny ruby pendant. She had never taken it off, at least not in my recollection. I wear it because He gave it to me, she explained to me once. You know your grandfather. It was the first thing He ever gave me in Rangoon, soon after we were married.

One afternoon I came home from school to find the radio blaring at the top volume in my grandmother's room, upstairs. I ran in and found my mother lying prostrate on her bed, with her fingers jabbed against her temples and a wet cloth draped over her eyes.

What's going on? I asked her.

Who's to know but God? She said, Your Tha'mma went out of the house at ten this morning and came back a couple of hours later. She wouldn't have anything to eat, instead she went upstairs and turned on her radio and it's been going on like that ever since.

I ran upstairs and pushed my grandmother's door open. I could only see her back. She was crouching over the radio.

Tha'mma! I shouted. What happened to your chain? What have you done with it?

She turned to look at me then. Her hair were hanging in wet ropes over her face; her eyes glazed and her spectacles had fallen off. I was frightened by the sight of her.

I gave it away, she said, her eyes glazed, unfocused eyes alighting, not on me but on a point on the wall above my head. Why Tha'mma? I said, why did you do that?

I gave it away, she screamed. I gave it to the fund for the war. I had to, don't you see? For your sake; for your freedom. We have to kill them before they kill us; we have to wipe them out.

There was only one small chink in the armour of austerity that had sat so heavily on my grandmother ever since I could remember: she had a secret fondness for jewellery.

She had stopped wearing jewellery, after she was widowed. But there was one piece of jewellery that she had never parted with. It was a long, thin chain with a tiny ruby pendant. She had never taken it off, at least not in my recollection. I wear it because He gave it to me, she explained to me once. You know your grandfather. It was the first thing He ever gave me in Rangoon, soon after we were married.

One afternoon I came home from school to find the radio blaring at the top volume in my grandmother's room, upstairs. I ran in and found my mother lying prostrate on her bed, with her fingers jabbed against her temples and a wet cloth draped over her eyes.

What's going on? I asked her.

Who's to know but God? She said, Your Tha'mma went out of the house at ten this morning and came back a couple of hours later. She wouldn't have anything to eat, instead she went upstairs and turned on her radio and it's been going on like that ever since.

I ran upstairs and pushed my grandmother's door open. I could only see her back. She was crouching over the radio.

Tha'mma! I shouted. What happened to your chain? What have you done with it?

She turned to look at me then. Her hair were hanging in wet ropes over her face; her eyes glazed and her spectacles had fallen off. I was frightened by the sight of her.

I gave it away, she said, her eyes glazed, unfocused eyes alighting, not on me but on a point on the wall above my head. Why Tha'mma? I said, why did you do that?

I gave it away, she screamed. I gave it to the fund for the war. I had to, don't you see? For your sake; for your freedom. We have to kill them before they kill us; we have to wipe them out.

There was only one small chink in the armour of austerity that had sat so heavily on my grandmother ever since I could remember: she had a secret fondness for jewellery.

She had stopped wearing jewellery, after she was widowed. But there was one piece of jewellery that she had never parted with. It was a long, thin chain with a tiny ruby pendant. She had never taken it off, at least not in my recollection. I wear it because He gave it to me, she explained to me once. You know your grandfather. It was the first thing He ever gave me in Rangoon, soon after we were married.

One afternoon I came home from school to find the radio blaring at the top volume in my grandmother's room, upstairs. I ran in and found my mother lying prostrate on her bed, with her fingers jabbed against her temples and a wet cloth draped over her eyes.

What's going on? I asked her.

Who's to know but God? She said, Your Tha'mma went out of the house at ten this morning and came back a couple of hours later. She wouldn't have anything to eat, instead she went upstairs and turned on her radio and it's been going on like that ever since.

I ran upstairs and pushed my grandmother's door open. I could only see her back. She was crouching over the radio.

Tha'mma! I shouted. What happened to your chain? What have you done with it?

She turned to look at me then. Her hair were hanging in wet ropes over her face; her eyes glazed and her spectacles had fallen off. I was frightened by the sight of her.

I gave it away, she said, her eyes glazed, unfocused eyes alighting, not on me but on a point on the wall above my head. Why Tha'mma? I said, why did you do that?

I gave it away, she screamed. I gave it to the fund for the war. I had to, don't you see? For your sake; for your freedom. We have to kill them before they kill us; we have to wipe them out.