Chapter 2
LIFE IS IN A CONSTANT STATE OF FLUX
Like autumn leaves that fall so far,
Come winter the trees look bare and spar.
Seasons change and life also turns for better or worse,
Things remain in a constant churn.
The year was 1996.
As life moved on, I realised I had a real knack for extracurricular activities in school. I loved to participate in plays, and usually played the lead in the English ones. The first play I ever took part in was called April Dawn. It was a comical play about a husband and wife.
The director made it come to life through his vision and directorial skills. On the day of the school show, my performance was applauded by everyone, especially Dr Rana Gill, a young doctor who was a new friend of Mamma’s.
He was not only funny, but was also extremely intelligent, just like my Papa. They were both purveyors of knowledge. The difference was that Rana Uncle was intelligent in the same way Lord Krishna was: Cunning, smart, strategic, driven by logic and rationale. Of course, he had emotions, too, but they were guided by sense and reason. Papa was like Lord Shiva: Wise, playful, and with emotions driven by the deep rigidity of his love. They were both passionate but one was Bholenath: Meditating peacefully unless his wrath was awoken, which would then destroy everything in his path.
Rana Uncle and Mamma met when I was diagnosed with neurocysticercosis. I fainted one night, and Mamma rushed me to the hospital. Papa was out of town. Rana Uncle just happened to be there to meet a doctor friend of his, and he helped Mamma a lot, as she was panicking. I was admitted in hospital for eleven days, and Rana Uncle came each day to visit and cheer us up with his clever sense of humour. He brought so much happiness to me and Mamma and Sati. Soon, he became a regular visitor at our house as well. He and Papa also became good friends, and everything was getting back to being normal.
Rana Uncle did observe certain things in me that he pointed out to Mamma. He told her, ‘Neelkamal, I think Amrita needs more attention. She repeatedly touches the feet of the idols of Lord Shiva and Ram. You told me once that she watched a tragic love story over and over again a hundred times.’
‘Yes, she is like that; she is like her Papa. Both of them can be obsessive.’
‘Neelkamal, this is not such a good sign. Maybe she needs some counselling.’
‘I doubt that she or her Papa will agree. You know how Rishi is. He does not believe in doctors, and he does not believe in psychiatry. If he did, his sister would not be in the state she is in now.’
Papa wanted Sati and I to become doctors or engineers. I chose to become a doctor as I had a deep interest in biology. Sati liked maths and physics more.
Rana Uncle was a good friend of our school principal, Harold Carver. When I almost failed in class, he pleaded my case with him. He then made Sati and I study with him every day; he became our tutor. He was tall and had a small paunch, but the kindest eyes and most genuine smile. He was dark like me, but this complexion suited him.
Somehow, the crack in my parents’ relationship was cemented by Rana Uncle. I knew my mother was madly in love with him, and that he reciprocated her feelings despite being nine years younger than her.
Soon, he took the UPSC exams and got through to the coveted Indian Administrative Service (IAS). He went for training to Hyderabad. I assumed that despite his departure, the normalcy that had crept into our lives would remain. That Uncle would continue to be a part of our lives, and that my mother would never leave my father. I was my Papa’s daughter after all, and my loyalties were always with him, no matter how much I had begun to love Uncle.
One night, Mamma was talking to Rana Uncle on the phone and she got up and switched on the lights. ‘Sati and Amrita, I think Papa and I should separate,’ Mamma said in a decisive tone. Sati looked sad, but I went mad.
My heart began to pound. I had my first anxiety attack. I threw a fit, screaming that if she did separate from Papa, I would never speak to her again; that she would be dead to me. But she was a grown-up woman, and she had made her decision.
That was when all my problems truly began. I was so busy trying to absorb what I had learned that while trying to deal with it, my mind let its guard down and an illness crept in. Hatred and impatience were hovering in my subconscious, and these feelings began to manifest themselves in disturbing dreams. I always slept next to my Mamma and Sati, but lately, I could not sleep. My dreams were dark, and they haunt me still. I used to lie awake in bed, afraid that something bad was going to happen. The idea that my parents’ marriage might not be forever was truly a blow to my still developing consciousness.
***
For some years, there was love; for some years there was not.
When hatred began to spew, there was only venom
and then the lovers fought. How suddenly did the sun set on a
marriage that was besought?
Love will always perish then when the lovers are star crossed.
How can one live between two people,
Between places and spaces?
Papa was an honest, hardworking cop and the whole of Punjab knew that. He refused to do favours for politicians. He made them wait outside his office for hours. It was understood in Punjab that the nicer you are to the reigning government, the better your posting would get. That is why Papa was always posted in the worst departments: Because he never sucked up to politicians. He gave his seniors and politicians respect but he would not compromise on his ethics at any cost. This was a rarity in his profession. There were many a times when Papa’s honesty and unwillingness to bend made things difficult for him.
Papa got posted to Firozpur. While he moved there, we continued to live in Chandigarh. He was not just a cop; he was also a counter terrorism and intelligence expert. In London, I sometimes heard him being referred to as the ‘Birdwatcher’. At times, they used the code ‘7185es36715’ for him. ‘What a weird area code,’ I always used to think!
The Congress was ruling in Punjab, and the chief minister was assassinated in 1998. Since the incident took place in Chandigarh, where we were living, our schools were shut down for a few days. Also, Sati was not well, so we went to Firozpur to be with Papa.
At a party one night, I heard my Papa tell someone that he had refused a bribe and an offer to go on a three-month leave because he was not going to allow politicians to make a corrupt deal. The following day, Mamma, Sati and I went to the Hussianiwala border, where a flag retreat ceremony took place every evening. I enjoyed watching it, and as we were being escorted back to the car, I said I wanted to pee. I did not want any guards to come with me and I ran to a nearby field. While I was peeing behind the bushes, far away on the grounds I saw a hole. Curious, I pulled up my jeans and went to check it out. I don’t remember what happened after that, but I woke up with pain and someone gave me a glass of water.
October 26, evening
‘Sati, go check where Amrita is, and take some guards with you,’ Mamma told Sati. My sister ran to the fields and she and the guards searched everywhere, but I was nowhere to be found.
***
I could slowly remember what had happened to me. ‘Who are you?’ A man had asked me. ‘What is your name?’ He looked very serious and dangerous, his voice threatening and his attire dirty. He was wearing a kurta and pyjama of a Pakistani design. He spoke in Hindi and Urdu. He had a dirty shawl wrapped around his shoulders. His eyes were deep and his beard was pitch black, like his aura.
8.30 p.m.
Mamma was frantic. ‘Rishi! Do something! Find out where she is, what is going on?’ she shouted at Papa. Sati was sobbing; the maid took her to the other room which was heavily guarded.
‘You left her to wander in the fields; you did not go with her and you did not send a guard with her!’ Papa shouted back. By now there was panic in the whole of Firozpur. There were guards, cops, security and mayhem in the field from where I had disappeared.
10 p.m.
Papa went to t
he fields. He found an underground bunker where he saw a jacket that belonged to me.
***
‘Please, I beg you, let me go. Please Uncle, let me go.’ I was crying and begging this man; this man who had abducted me. He asked me again who I was and by now he had slapped me several times. His hands were hard as steel. I did not fight back.
10.30 p.m.
‘Mamma, please don’t cry, please, please,’ Sati begged Mamma and they hugged each other. There were so many people at our residence in Firozpur, all trying to console Mamma and Sati. Papa was elsewhere and Mamma and he were constantly in touch.
***
‘I am going to shoot you if you do not tell me your name.’ The man pulled out a gun and I looked around. I was in a small room; there was no paint on the walls, just brick after brick. ‘My name is Amr…’
‘What?’ he asked, resting his gun against my head. I had to think quickly. If I told him my real name, I knew there would be trouble. I had to do something to protect myself. I recalled that in London, I had known a Muslim girl named Amna Iqbal. Her father’s name was Mohammed Iqbal. ‘My name is Amna Iqbal Mohammed,’ I said, desperately trying to make him believe I was a Muslim.
‘You liar. I will give you two seconds to tell me your real name, otherwise I am going to kill you.’ I closed my eyes and prayed to God.
11 p.m.
‘RS, I have talked to them, but understand, you know the situation better than I do. We cannot go after them until she is back safe.’
‘I will go after them, you know I will. I will kill each one of them. I am not thinking like an officer right now, I am thinking like her father.’ Papa was calm, but Papa was also very angry.
***
Two seconds later, the man held me by my hair. Suddenly, two people rushed in and the man dropped me on the cold floor. He went outside and locked the door behind him. I got up and looked for a window, another door, but there was nothing. My face was pale and now I could feel pain, so much pain in my body. I checked myself to see if there were any marks, and if anything was wrong with me. Why couldn’t I remember anything? What had happened to me after I looked at that hole in the ground? Did they poison me? Was I going to die? Would they kill or torture me? My head was spinning.
The man came back into the room. He was accompanied by a very neat and well-dressed man. ‘I need you to cover your head with this,’ he said politely. I covered my head with the monkey cap he gave me. He asked me if I was hurt and I said I was fine. He took me with him and put me in a vehicle. I kept quiet and I had a feeling all was going to be okay. My Papa must have found me.
The vehicle stopped. I was asked to step out and wait. ‘Is anyone there? Are you there, Uncle?’ I shouted. I needed to provoke whoever was there to get a reaction from them. The dark feeling that I was going to die was coming back. Maybe this nice man was being nice to me so that I came with him in the vehicle without making a fuss. ‘Uncle, Uncle, anyone listening!’ My screams were answered by an eerie silence and I got angry. I started screaming ‘Jai Hind! Jai Hind! Jai Hind!’ I thought that if I was going to die, I might as well let them know that I was India’s daughter. Nothing seemed to be happening.
11.58 p.m.
‘Ready, take positions. Bird has been spotted.’
‘All clear.’
‘Affirmative.’
‘Timed.’
‘Sixty.’
‘Dead Drop Clean.’
‘Birdman.’
‘Freed.’
‘Sir, end.’
No one seemed to answer me, so I took off the monkey cap. Just as I was beginning to run, I saw my Papa coming towards me. ‘Papa, Papa, Papa!’ I was happy and crying at the same time. I leapt forward and jumped straight into my Papa’s arms.
Guards, cops and helicopters had surrounded the field, the location of which I still don’t know. I had never felt so secure as in the moment when my Papa held me and I wrapped my arms around him. There are many heroes in my life, but my Papa is the ultimate; I will always worship and belong to him. I was safe in the arms of my father, my one true love.
By 1 May 1999, things had gone back to normal. I was happy. People asked me many questions about what had happened when I was kidnapped, but I only told my family and Rana Uncle about it. The entire matter was hushed down; there was no fuss, no articles in any newspapers. My return was exchanged with a hostage’s return to his country. My freedom came at the cost of a criminal’s freedom, but that was a decision made by my Papa and his seniors.
I was protected. It was a big, yet unpleasant, event in my life that I wanted to forget. All I wanted was to be safe with Mamma, Sati and my hero: Papa. My soul just wanted to be safe and happy, but alas it was not to be.
On 2 May 1999, a widow of Papa’s batch mate, Mrs Bhati, came home to give us sweets for her daughter’s upcoming marriage. Papa took it upon himself to help her and her children. My mother had never really liked her.
On 3 May 1999, Papa came home from work with a friend, and he went straight up to Mamma’s room with his friend. All I could hear were loud screams and arguments. Sati and I were very scared.
The following morning, we all went to court drenched in sorrow. It was the last time the four of us were together: 4 May 1999.
The dissolution of a nineteen-year-old marriage took place that day. This was the end of an era, one that left me broken and divided between two people. Once again, I was on the border; my soul was cut up into two despairing halves: One part for Mamma, and the other for Papa.
The judge asked me and Sati privately, ‘Who would you like to stay with?’ We were crying and could barely whisper: ‘Papa’. Mamma had told us it would be best for us to stay with him for some time. I didn’t know what had happened. All I knew was that Rana Uncle had been accused of having an affair with Mamma and he had to go underground because Papa had put a charge of adultery against him. A vindictive and ruthless cop, Mr Sahni of the Punjab Police, had been instructed by Papa to get Rana Uncle picked up and tortured.
A few nights ago, unable to sleep, I had been hiding in the garden when I heard Papa and Sahni Uncle talking.
‘Sahni.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You know when good cops are forced to become bad cops?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘We do what we have to, to bring justice.’
‘Sir, we will find him.’
‘No mercy.’
‘Sir, I will make sure it is done.’
‘What will be done?’
‘Justice, sir.’
‘Yes, you know the cost of justice, Sahni. Who knows better than you!’ Saying this, Papa got up from the private section of the garden. Since Mamma was spending most of her time in Ludhiana, because of her sister’s wedding, the delicate touch of beauty and feminine energy around the house was gone. She was gone for a long time, and it puzzled me, but later I understood that it was a form of separation that my parents underwent before getting divorced. The house was empty, dry and distasteful, somewhat like my mind. The impact of the divorce and the image of the four of us sitting together for the last time in Mamma’s room still haunt’s me.
***
Like the veins of a leaf, one towards the east
and one towards the west,
The foundation was the same but infested with pests.
Where does this decay belong?
In the end there is only one thing left to do,
cut it and try to salvage the rest.
Mamma had two sisters. The youngest, who had recently gotten married, lived in Toronto, Canada. Her other sister, just two years younger than her, lived in Ludhiana with her husband and two children. Mamma was all alone; she was living in her father’s ancestral bungalow located in the heart of Ludhiana. Her mother had relocated to Mumbai.
Mamma never talked about Rana Uncle. I blamed him for breaking up my family. It may or may not have been true, but I was only a teenager and was desperately searching for some kind of an explanation.
Every weekend, Sati and I would drive down to Ludhiana to meet our mother. Though she did her best to shield us from it, we could see how much pain she was in. It used to break my heart when we left her on Sundays. I could never really concentrate on my studies after that. Papa never spoke to Mamma again after the divorce, and even when she called to speak to us, he would do no more than say ‘hello’ and pass the instrument along. He ended all communication with her and her family. To make matters worse, he returned to drinking after having given up alcohol for nearly two decades.
Mrs Bhati became a strong presence in his life. She would come over for a drink, or my father would go to the club with her and her children. I never enjoyed going out with them. I saw Mrs Bhati as one more reason for my parents’ divorce, and even though she became a good friend of his, I never saw any soulful connection between them. She would try to come between us. Whenever he spent time with us, she would intervene and call him on the phone, especially on holidays.
I spent my adolescence shuttling between my parents, trying to come to terms with their separate lives. I became sensitive, and this affected my emotions as well, making them irregular and hard to cope with. For instance, I would get angry very easily and cry, or I would become sad and cry. If the car came late to pick me up from school, I would threaten to break the window with my bare hands. I would yell at the driver, demanding to know why he was late. My biggest fear was that the car had been used by Mrs Bhati, and that was why it had come late. I was outraged that my Papa felt it was more important to give her the car, and felt neglected. I would often complain about this to my mother, and tell her again and again how much I wanted to live with her instead.
I couldn’t fall asleep until the early hours of the morning. It was also difficult to sleep alone; I had vivid nightmares from which I would wake up howling and screaming, wondering if it was just a dream or were my parents actually divorced? The death of my parents’ marriage made its way into my subconscious, and brought about dreams of death and despair. My genetic makeup, from the paternal side of my family, pointed me towards lunacy.
Borderline Page 3
