If I could come out of it, others can too, if they are supported and willing.
In the margins of Bengaluru's expanding healthcare economy, a man who once could not pay a Rs 1,200 fine has spent three decades quietly building what institutions often fail to offer: recovery rooted in recognition. Lakshminarayana Narasappa, sober for 32 years after eleven years of addiction, has treated thousands through centers that charge nothing to those who have nothing — a model born not from policy but from the particular knowledge of having been lost. His story asks what it means to transform suffering into structure, and whether lived experience might be among the most undervalued resources in public health.
- A drunk-driving arrest, a family held together by a garment worker's wages, and a night in a police station with no money for bail — Narasappa's addiction had already cost everyone around him before it cost him everything.
- Dismissed for refusing to extract money from patients, then disillusioned by diverted funds in Haryana, he returned to Bengaluru carrying a conviction that rehabilitation built on profit was rehabilitation built on sand.
- He launched his first center from a rented poultry shed, turning away no one, charging only what each person could bear — a structure held together by small donations, a journalist's help, and a refusal to name anything after its funders.
- A 2011 raid — which Narasappa attributes to refusing a protection demand — shuttered the center temporarily, but it reopened under a new name and continues operating today with around 30 beds and referrals from NIMHANS and police.
- The center now handles some of the most complex cases in the city: a man found unconscious on a street, diagnosed with schizophrenia, with no known name, was eventually reunited with his family in West Bengal after three years of patient detective work.
- As commercial rehabilitation scales up across India, Narasappa's model — imperfect, underfunded, and irreplaceable — stands as evidence that proximity to suffering can be a form of expertise no curriculum yet teaches.
Lakshminarayana Narasappa spent eleven years drinking away his family's stability, while his wife kept the household afloat on a garment factory worker's income. The memory that stays sharpest is not the domestic fights but a night in a police station — arrested after a drunk-driving accident that injured four people, unable to pay a Rs 1,200 fine until his mother arrived with the money.
In 1994, his sister admitted him to the Freedom Foundation rehabilitation centre in Hennur. He arrived resistant. What followed was not confrontation but sustained conversation — about family, about responsibility, about why a life might still be worth living. Recovery came slowly. He stayed on as a volunteer for four years, taking on counselling duties including HIV care during a period of deep stigma, and performing last rites for patients who died abandoned. When he refused to collect money from patients, the organisation dismissed him.
He kept working in rehabilitation spaces regardless. Sent to Haryana to build a new facility from scratch, he went door to door, grew the centre until it qualified for government support — then discovered that funds meant for food and medicines were being diverted. He returned to Bengaluru in 2000 with a single conviction: this work had to be built on accessibility, not profit.
His first centre began almost by accident, after a free counselling camp drew an unexpected response. With no infrastructure and little money, he rented an old poultry shed for Rs 3,000 a month and converted it into a dormitory. Support arrived in fragments — a Rs 25,000 donation, small individual contributions, a journalist's help. He refused to name the centre after any donor. A 2011 raid, which he attributes to refusing a protection demand, temporarily shut the operation; it reopened under a new name.
Today, Sumana Ellen Centre operates with around 30 beds, treating addiction, mental health cases, and abandoned individuals referred by hospitals, police, and NIMHANS. Fees range from nothing to Rs 6,000 — whatever a person can afford. One patient arrived unconscious from a Bengaluru street, diagnosed with schizophrenia, with no known name. After months of treatment, he began speaking in Bengali. The team traced fragments of identity across phone calls and migrant networks, and three years later arranged a video call. His family in Malda district identified him by a missing toe.
Narasappa has been sober for more than 32 years. He never received formal training; everything he learned came from living alongside patients and listening. His son now runs a separate centre focused on psychiatric care. Many former patients have gone on to open their own facilities. He does not call his journey redemption — he calls it continuity. "If I could come out of it," he says, "others can too, if they are supported and willing to take that step."
Lakshminarayana Narasappa spent eleven years drinking away his family's stability. His wife, a garment factory worker, kept the household running while he demanded money for alcohol. The memory that still cuts deepest is not the fights at home but a single night at the police station—arrested after a drunk-driving accident that injured four people, unable to pay a Rs 1,200 fine until his mother brought the money. By the early 1990s, his life had collapsed entirely. He was alive but not living.
In 1994, his sister admitted him to the Freedom Foundation rehabilitation centre in Hennur, Bengaluru. He arrived resistant, telling his counsellor nothing could change him. What happened instead was not confrontation but sustained conversation—about family, about responsibility, about why he should want to live. Recovery came slowly, in layers. Structured routines and repeated counselling gradually shifted something in him. He began to understand that sobriety was not just for himself but for his children, for the family he had nearly destroyed.
After recovery, he stayed at the centre as a volunteer for four years, earning a small allowance while living on the premises with his family. He was given counselling responsibilities, including HIV care during a time of profound stigma. He performed last rites for abandoned patients. He watched people die. "It completely changed how I looked at life," he says now. When he refused an instruction to collect money from patients, the organisation dismissed him. He had once managed responsibilities for thousands. Afterward, he had no money at all.
He continued working in rehabilitation spaces anyway. In 1998, he joined a de-addiction centre and was sent to Rewari, Haryana, to build a new facility from nothing. He went door to door, counselled families, brought in patients himself. The centre grew and qualified for government support. Then he discovered that funds meant for food and medicines were being diverted. Disheartened, he returned to Bengaluru in 2000 with a conviction: rehabilitation should be built on accessibility, not profit.
The first centre began almost by accident. While doing HIV counselling work, a priest asked him to support patients at a hospital. He organised a free counselling camp. The response changed his trajectory. People told him he should start his own centre. With no infrastructure and limited money, he rented an old poultry shed for Rs 3,000 a month and converted it into a dormitory. Support came in fragments—a Rs 25,000 donation, help from a journalist, small individual contributions. He refused to name the centre after donors. "It had to remain about service," he says.
From the beginning, affordability defined everything. Charges range from Rs 0 to Rs 6,000 depending on what a person can afford. Nobody is turned away. Over the years, the centre grew into a recognised facility with separate units for men, women, and senior citizens. In 2011, a raid followed what Narasappa alleges was a demand for protection money he refused to pay. The centre was temporarily shut, then relocated and restarted under a new name. Today, Sumana Ellen Centre operates with around 30 beds and a small team of counsellors, treating addiction, mental health cases, and abandoned individuals referred by hospitals, police, and NIMHANS.
One case illustrates the depth of the work. A man was found unconscious on a Bengaluru street and diagnosed with schizophrenia. When he arrived at the centre, referred by NIMHANS, nobody knew his name. He could barely speak. After months of treatment, he began communicating in Bengali. The team pieced together fragments—"Babruwahana," then "Baburbona." They searched for the nearest police station to that place, made calls, followed leads. Migrant workers from West Bengal helped verify details. Three years later, a video call was arranged. The family identified him by a missing toe. He was reunited with his family in Malda district. He still keeps in touch.
Narasappa has now been sober for more than 32 years. He never had formal training in counselling or mental health. Everything he learned came from living with patients, listening to them, guiding them. His son now runs a separate rehabilitation centre on Mysore Road focusing on psychiatric care. Many former patients have gone on to establish their own centres, carrying forward the cycle of recovery. He does not describe his journey as redemption but as continuity—falling, recovering, then helping others do the same. "If I could come out of it," he says, "others can too, if they are supported and willing to take that step."
Citas Notables
Everything I learned came from being with patients, not from a classroom.— Lakshminarayana Narasappa
I didn't want ownership or branding. It had to remain about service.— Lakshminarayana Narasappa, on refusing to name the centre after donors
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
What made you stay in this work after being dismissed, after discovering the money was being misused? Most people would have walked away.
I had already lived the other side. I knew what it felt like to have nothing, to be nothing. Once you've been pulled back from that edge, you can't unsee it in other people's faces.
But you were building from nothing again—a poultry shed, Rs 3,000 a month. How did you convince yourself it would work?
I didn't convince myself of anything grand. I just knew that if someone like me could recover, then the model had to be simple enough that anyone could access it. No fancy building, no profit motive. Just people helping people.
The man from Malda district—three years to find his family. That's an enormous investment of time and resources. How do you justify that when you have limited beds and limited money?
How do you not? He was a human being. Someone's son. The work isn't about efficiency. It's about treating people like they matter, like their lives are worth the effort.
You say rehabilitation has become commercial now. Do you think your model can survive in that environment?
It survives because people still believe in it. My former patients are starting their own centres. That's not something money can buy. That's something lived experience creates—a chain of people who understand what recovery actually costs.