I would rather not see myself as proceeding through a journey. In embracing a notion that we might say emanates from Buddhism, we live in a situation of timelessness: there is no beginning and no end. We are part of a continuing flow. So, I would rather prefer to think of my journey as marked by certain events, certain ruptures—a very interesting set of events that have shaped the way I have developed my identity, and also my professional work as a clinician working in London and India, as well as my academic job. These ruptures, I would say, generated a kind of double vision that, in the jargon of neurologists, is known as diplopia or a double vision. I’d like to call it a kind of cultural diplopia: an intellectual double vision of the cultural psyche that you experience and live. Having grown up in both rural and urban India—in a Dalit family from Maharashtra who were traditionally Chamars, cobblers—it established a kind of grounding and sensitivity in me: to exclusion, to social oppression, humiliation, and stigmatising experiences. I went through the whole gamut: informal lessons from a Muslim cleric as a child in Erode, Tamil Nadu—quite the hamlet then—and subsequently, formal Christian convent and public schooling across several metropolitan cities in India, Kanpur, Delhi, Cuttack, Agra, Bombay, Bangalore, Madras. And then, training at premier academic institutions: medical degree from Grant Medical College, Mumbai, post-graduation in psychiatry at NIMHANS, Bangalore. This imparted in me a sense of esteem, a vision, perhaps a standing, and flexibility. I might now call myself a post-colonial elite of sorts.