Raised in a financially weak household, Narasappa was introduced to drinking at a young age. By his early 20s, the habit had taken firm root. Working at his uncle’s glass shop after dropping out of school, he began earning regularly, but most of his income went towards alcohol. “I would earn thousands… but I never supported my parents. We were very poor, and yet I never helped them,” he says.His dependence deepened over time, reaching a point where alcohol became, in his words, “like a medicine” to sleep and function.By the early 1990s, his life had completely unravelled. Yet, he says, he was not suicidal – only trapped in a cycle of addiction he could not escape. What stands out in his account today is not just the depth of that struggle, but the transformation that followed: a man once consumed by alcohol now runs a rehabilitation centre in Bengaluru that has helped thousands recover and rebuild their lives, an initiative that continues to expand its reach across addiction recovery and mental health care.The challenge that changed his lifeMarried in 1983 and a father of two, Lakshminarayana Narasappa says his addiction severely strained his family life. For nearly 11 years, he was unable to provide for them, leaving his wife, a garment factory worker, to shoulder the household responsibilities alone. “I would fight with her for money to drink,” he recalls.One incident from that period remains deeply etched in his memory. After consuming alcohol, he was asked to transport materials for his uncle’s workshop. While driving, he met with an accident that injured four people. A case was registered, and he was taken into custody. Unable to immediately pay a Rs 1,200 fine, he spent a night at the police station until his mother arranged the money. “That was the situation I had put myself in,” he says.By the early 1990s, he says his life had completely collapsed. “All I wanted was to live. I didn’t want to die, but alcoholism had made my life miserable,” he recalls.The turning point came in 1994, when his elder sister admitted him to the Freedom Foundation rehabilitation centre, one of the earliest centres in Hennur, Bengaluru. Initially resistant, he openly challenged his counsellor, insisting nothing could change him.Story continues below this ad“I told him I would never change and that nothing could help me,” he says. But instead of confrontation, what followed was sustained counselling – conversations about family, responsibility, and purpose that gradually began to break through his resistance.Recovery, he says, was not immediate but layered and gradual. Structured routines, repeated counselling, and daily reflection slowly pushed him to rethink his life. “At first, I didn’t believe anything they said. Slowly, I began to understand that I had to live – not just for myself, but for my family and children,” he says.Even after recovery, stability did not come easily. With no formal education or skills, he had no clear direction. Instead of leaving, he stayed back at the rehabilitation centre as a volunteer for four years, earning a small allowance while continuing to live with his family on the premises.During this period, he was also entrusted with counselling responsibilities, including HIV care at a time of extreme stigma. He recalls performing last rites for abandoned patients and witnessing multiple deaths. “I have seen so many people die during that time. It completely changed how I looked at life,” he says.Story continues below this adEventually, institutional changes and disagreements over practices led to his exit. He recalls refusing instructions to collect money from patients, which led to his dismissal from the organisation. “At one point, I had handled responsibilities for thousands. After leaving, I didn’t even have Rs 10,” he says.From survival to purposeDespite setbacks, Narasappa continued working in rehabilitation spaces. In 1998, he joined a de-addiction centre in Bengaluru and was later sent to Rewari, Haryana, to establish a new facility. Starting from scratch, he built the centre through field outreach – visiting homes, speaking to families, and bringing in patients himself.“There were no patients initially. I went door to door, counselled families, and slowly built trust,” he says.He handled everything – from admissions to documentations – helping the centre qualify for government support. But disillusionment followed. He alleged that funds meant for patient care were misused. “Even after grants were sanctioned, money meant for food and medicines was not reaching patients,” he says.Story continues below this adDisheartened, he returned to Bengaluru in the year 2000, carrying experiences that would shape his own model of rehabilitation – one built on accessibility rather than profit.What followed began almost by accident. While working in HIV counselling, a priest asked him to support patients at a hospital. He agreed and helped organise a free counselling camp. The response, he says, changed his trajectory. “Many told me I should start a centre of my own. That idea stayed with me.”With no infrastructure and limited money, he started his first centre in an old poultry shed rented for Rs 3,000 a month. “We converted it into a dormitory. That was our first centre,” he says.Support came in fragments – a Rs 25,000 donation from a well-wisher, help from a journalist, and small individual contributions. He refused attempts to name the centre after donors. “I didn’t want ownership or branding. It had to remain about service,” he says.Story continues below this adFrom the beginning, affordability defined his approach. “We don’t fix charges. It ranges from Rs 0 to Rs 6,000, depending on what a person can afford. Nobody is turned away,” he says. Sumana Ellen Centre functions with around 30 beds and a small team of counsellors (Express photo).Building a centre from nothingOver the years, the centre slowly grew into a recognised rehabilitation facility, now running separate units for men, women, and senior citizens. But growth was not without disruption. In 2011, the centre faced a major crisis after a complaint triggered a raid by authorities. Narasappa alleges the complaint followed a demand for “hafta” that he refused to pay.At the time, conditions were basic, with over 100 patients housed in a single block and minimal sanitation facilities. “We had only three washroom for everyone,” he recalls.Following inspections, the centre was temporarily shut and later relocated. Within months, operations restarted under a new name and expanded the counsellor team. Today, Sumana Ellen Centre functions with around 30 beds and a small team of counsellors.Story continues below this adStories of recovery and going beyondBeyond addiction treatment, the centre also works with mental health cases and abandoned individuals referred by hospitals, police, and institutions like NIMHANS.He recalls one such case – a man found unconscious on a Bengaluru street and later diagnosed with schizophrenia. “When he came to us, referred by NIMHANS, we didn’t even know his name. He could not speak properly,” Narasappa says.After months of treatment, the man slowly began to communicate in Bengali. With the help of a local engineer who knew the language, the team tried to piece together his identity. “At first, he would say something like ‘Babruwahana’. We couldn’t find anything of that sort on Google when we tried to search if such a place exists, then slowly, it became ‘Baburbona’,” he says.Narasappa and his team began by repeatedly searching for “nearest police station to Baburbona” and making multiple calls to different stations. Gradually, the trail began to form. They were eventually informed that a missing person complaint had already been registered, and the key breakthrough came when migrant workers from West Bengal helped verify the details locally, which finally led them to identify the village in Malda district.Story continues below this adA video call was arranged, and the family identified him through a physical mark – a missing toe. “After three years, he was reunited with his family. It was like a miracle,” Narasappa says, adding that the man still keeps in touch.Such cases are not uncommon. Narasappa says police, including airport authorities, often refer individuals found in distress. “There were times when mentally unstable people would enter restricted areas. Police would call me, and we would take them in, provide treatment and try to send them back home,” he says. The National Institute of Mental Health and Neurosciences (NIMHANS) also continues to refer patients to his centre.Today, the work has become a family effort. His son runs a separate rehabilitation centre on Mysore Road, focusing on psychiatric care, while also supporting the main facility.25 years and ongoing: A quiet, unending commitmentReflecting on decades in the field, Narasappa says rehabilitation has changed significantly over time. “Today, it has become commercial. Only those who can afford it get access,” he says, pointing to widening gaps in mental health care.Despite financial strain and continuing debts, he says the work has continued because of its impact. Many former patients, he adds, have gone on to establish their own rehabilitation centres, carrying forward the cycle of recovery.Story continues below this adHe acknowledges that both emotional and systemic challenges remain. “Some cases are extremely difficult. Counselling alone is not enough anymore, and rules are stricter now,” he says. He recalled a difficult incident involving a critically ill patient. “His brother came to me and insisted on taking him back, saying their mother suspected him of harming his own brother. I agreed, but only after he promised to bring him back for weekly visits. Within days, I learnt the patient had gone missing again,” he says.Unlike many in the field today, he says his journey did not begin with formal training. “I never had a degree in counselling or mental health. Everything I learnt was here, by living with patients, listening to them, guiding them,” he says.Even after decades, he adds, the learning has never stopped, the purpose has remained unchanged. Having stayed sober for more than 32 years, he views his work as an extension of lived experience rather than formal training. “Everything I learned came from being with patients, not from a classroom,” he says.Looking back, Narasappa does not describe his journey as redemption, but as continuity – of falling, recovering, and then helping others do the same. “And if I could come out of it,” he says, “others can too, if they are supported and willing to take that step – a second chance.”