Borderline

by Shabri Prasad Singh

  30 December 2003

  Finally, the plane landed and I went straight through customs. Arrangements had been made for me to transit smoothly, and while I waited in the VIP lounge for a connecting flight from Mumbai to Delhi, I called my mother. I was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Haff, that guruji, Papa, Mamma … it was a lethal cocktail in my head.

  ‘Mamma, I have landed safely and I think I’m going to be in transit for a while in Mumbai!’

  ‘I wish I was there, I could have come and seen you but I’m in Patna. Do you have everything taken care of for you?’

  ‘Papa has turned the whole airport upside down to make me comfortable. But I am very restless, Mamma. I keep seeing that guruji’s face; the one who called himself God … that same weirdo who was Papa’s chela and Rana Uncle’s distant relative.’

  ‘Don’t bother yourself with such details. Try and relax in the lounge, beta, and call up your father.’

  ‘I will, but I have a sinking feeling like something terrible is about to happen.’

  Mamma consoled me and I put the phone down and waited for my connecting flight to New Delhi.

  30 December 2003, 5:04 p.m., New Delhi

  I landed in Delhi and saw my very handsome but very tired Papa waiting for me. I went straight into his arms.

  ‘Papa, Papa, look, your Bungua is here.’

  ‘Bunguasi … you look well, you look pretty …’ Papa said, and we went straight to Chandigarh.

  10:45 p.m., Chandigarh

  There was thick fog engulfing the city when I reached home. The first thing I did was to take a long, hot shower. Instead of feeling relaxed, I sat on the tiles of the bathroom floor and started crying.

  31 December 2003, 8:00 a.m.

  ‘Bungua, are you up? How did you sleep?’ Papa asked while climbing the stairs to my room. He was wearing a cream and brown kurta pyjama, and was carrying a cup of deep, dark, rich and creamy coffee in his hands. He knew just how I liked it! I woke up feeling relaxed, with all the anxiety of a bagful of mixed emotions and the tiring journey melting away in the presence of my Papa.

  ‘Thanks, Papa!’

  ‘Have your coffee and some breakfast, and come to office for lunch,’ Papa smiled while saying.

  ‘Papa, you look very tired. You work too much. Why don’t you take the day off today?’

  ‘No, I have some important meetings, but come to the office at one and we will have lunch together.’

  As he was saying all this, Papa collapsed ... just like that. His eyes closed and froth began to come out of his mouth.

  10:00 a.m.

  ‘Guards, get the car out. Aunty Pratibha, something has happened to Papa!’ I yelled at the top of my voice. I knew it was a heart attack, so I started giving him CPR, banging heavily on his chest. I panicked. Papa, Papa, Papa!

  We rushed him to Fortis hospital. There are no words to describe my state of mind during those moments. I felt as if I was living my worst nightmare. I was shaking and could barely breathe. I started pacing up and down the hospital corridor, and crying out loudly. The guards got me some water but I threw it on the floor. I called my mother, but my voice was so garbled that she could barely understand what I was saying. In an effort to calm me down, she said, ‘Nothing is going to happen to your father. I will take a flight and come to Chandigarh.’

  10:30 a.m.

  My neighbour, a Superintendent of Police, came to handle the situation. Soon after, the inauspicious Mrs Bhati arrived with her son. People were flocking to the hospital.

  ‘Are you Amrita Srivastava?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, my voice low, as my throat was choked with tears and my heart was beating fast.

  ‘I am the head of cardiology. It seems your father has had a cardiac stroke.’

  ‘Doctor, do anything … do a surgery if you have to … do anything you can to save him.’

  ‘In order to save him and operate upon him, we need to revive him, but he is not responding. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Go and check again. Revive him! Do it doctor, do it now! He cannot leave me. Do it now …’

  The doctor took me in the room and once again, he tried to revive my Papa.

  This is what I saw: A flat line and the buzzing sound of machinery. Nothing else. No flutter from his already dead heart.

  ‘Amrita, Amrita, Amrita! Wake up.’

  I remember being dizzy, and then I had collapsed when the doctor told me that my Papa was no more.

  When I came to, all I could see was the colour white, and many people gathered around me.

  My aunt was crying, but the storm inside me had suddenly stopped. My heart slowed in its pounding and I became numb and frozen. Death had come to claim my father and there was nothing I could do about it; nothing at all. Thus, on the unforgiving morning of 31 December 2003, at around 11 a.m., my father was no more. My savior, my protector, the man who truly loved me, the man to whom my soul belonged, had gone… And I could do nothing about it.

  Perish o human, for this is your only truth,

  life is immaterial but I am inevitable.

  You may be afraid of me in your youth,

  you may welcome me when you are old,

  You may want me when you are sick,

  you may choose me when you are miserable,

  But I will come, I will come for everyone.

  When I come unexpectedly or I come too soon,

  Whom am I killing?

  The one I take or the loved ones I leave behind?

  For their time has not come,

  as I perpetuate many losses not just one.

  For those who love you most, will also die,

  and their each sigh will make me cry,

  But I will come; I will come for everyone.

  I often wonder what the world has become?

  Fighting for money, spreading hatred amongst each one.

  Instead of building upon love and relationships of harmony,

  people feel happy by gathering wealth, property,

  desiring fame and power.

  When this is everyone’s fate, they go away with an empty plate,

  Why this madness for material possessions then?

  Why this sadness when one has gone?

  The only thing that matters in the end is love,

  If you have lived with love and known peace you have won,

  Rich or poor I never differentiate,

  but even I mourn the death of an enlightened one

  I am … the Angel of Death.

  Chapter 8

  TRADEGY BECAME ME

  Death has a way of torturing the soul, the pain will never go away;

  It doesn’t close it does not resolve;

  Tragedy is not when a loved one dies,

  Tragedy is when the living live like they have died.

  Lying dead in the hospital bed, my father looked so calm, and so much at peace. I wrapped my arms around him and started kissing his hands and touching his feet, and though his skin was cold, it turned warm wherever my tears fell.

  The next few hours went by in a complete haze. While Mamma was on her way to Chandigarh, Sati, who was in Toronto, was also asked to come to India. By now, her relationship with Eklavya was going very well. It was decided that they would be informed about Papa’s ill-health, and Mamma would break the news to them once they got home.

  While Papa’s body was being prepared to be sent home from the hospital, officers, politicians, friends of Papa’s—everyone started coming to the house to pay their respects. Mrs Bhati and her son, too, came over. In my eyes, somehow, each of these people who had gathered were responsible for his death.

  Then I saw a bald figure coming towards me, surrounded by guards and followers. Mrs Bhati laid her head at his feet and he grabbed her by her shoulders and lifted her up, consoling her. This black magic practitioner, fondly known as Guruji, was approaching me when I suddenly lost control, and started screaming. My relatives and the guards were shocked, and they asked Guruji to leave.


  Sati and I, along with Papa’s youngest brother, performed his last rites. He was given a 21-gun salute as the then Chief Minister of Punjab, from the Congress, came and put a garland and the Indian flag over Papa’s body. The pyre was lit, and after we had collected our father’s ashes, Sati and I went to Haridwar to immerse them in the Ganges. After which, sitting with our feet in the water, Sati and I were trying to get a hold over ourselves when suddenly I slipped and fell into the holy river. There, immersed in the freezing water, I had a vision of Papa. I saw him in a blue shirt, the colour of the sky, and black pants. His face appeared in the clouds, and he seemed sad but peaceful. ‘Amrita, are you okay?’ Sati panicked as she pulled me out of the ice cold water. I told her about my vision and I started to cry, ‘Let’s go home, Amrita, let’s go!’ Sati tried to wipe my tears as she held my arms. But I knew no matter what she said or no matter what anybody thought, home for me was now the Ganges, where my Papa was.

  I wanted to let go of all my pain and misery, but I didn’t know how to. Amidst all this, we had to pack up and leave the house since it was no longer ours after my father’s death. Papa had believed that he would live a long life; he often said he would die in a plane crash at the age of ninety. He had not made any plans to build a house for himself after retirement. He had invested all the money that he had in our education. So now, there was no house, no money and no Papa.

  Sati told me that I should not go back to America as there was no money to fund my degree. Mamma agreed with her and a bitter argument followed.

  I wanted to run away from it all, and decided to visit Papa’s office. The gunman’s eyes now said he did not respect me anymore. When the body turned to ash, all that once was, was no more—the power, the protection and above all, the respect—all of it had gone.

  In the office, I saw a paper with my father’s handwriting on it. I took it out from under the glass top. It read:

  Departure: JFK 27th December

  Arrival: Delhi 29th December

  Plan: Horse riding, archery, shooting range, lessons in physics and mathematics.

  Departure to New York: 20th January

  I read that piece of paper with its beautiful cursive handwriting and broke down uncontrollably. The guards came in and I rushed to the bathroom. In my hurry, I entered the men’s bathroom and came face to face with the mirror … the one that had seen it all.

  The mirror politely asked me to wash my face with cold water and take a few deep breaths. I did that, and in a matter of seconds, the mirror and I were transported elsewhere. The guards were knocking on the door but there was no answer as I was not there. I was with the mirror now … in another realm.

  ***

  ‘Mamma, look at this article that the newspaper is carrying about Papa. In the photograph, he is dressed in black pants and a sky blue shirt, and he is looking to the side. His chin dimple is so prominent. This is exactly how Amrita saw him in the vision she had when she fell into the river.’

  ‘Where has Amrita gone? Has she gone to meet some friends? We should not have fought with her. DGP Siddiqui is coming with some news about the Punjab Police helping us with your educational funding in America, Sati.’

  Sati and Mamma received Siddiqui Uncle and as promised, he handed over a cheque for ten lakh rupees. The Chief Minister of Punjab sent his secretary to say that an additional fifty lakhs would be given for my education as I had a long way to go. After tea, the officials left and Mamma and my aunts and relatives began packing up the house. Aunty Pratibha and Aunty Mira, Papa’s sisters who were living with us, were given quarters in Jalandhar as a courtesy towards my father’s brilliant service and record.

  ***

  ‘Bungua. That’s what he called you, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He visited the bathroom before he went to pick you up from the airport on 29 December. He was looking right into me. His soul looked into mine. He knew, and I knew …’

  ‘Knew what?’

  ‘That he was not well. He came in to splash water on his face and he collapsed for three minutes. He was alone, and only I saw what happened. He had a minor cardiac arrest that day ... I want to tell you about this so-called Guruji … He was a hairdresser before he became a tantric; your father promoted him, and therefore he became famous. He is also Rana Gill’s distant relative. Mrs Bhati met with this self-proclaimed guru and they wanted to control your Papa through black magic. Mrs Bhati wanted to marry your Papa but he refused. So in spite she wanted him to get under a spell. I don’t know whose idea it was to make your father sick—whether it was Mrs Bhati, or this guru. Your Papa helped your Rana Uncle a lot; even with his career. In return, your uncle had an affair with your mother.’

  ‘Tell me more, dear mirror ... Why did Papa not go to the hospital after collapsing for three minutes?’

  ‘Because Mrs Bhati and that Guruji told him he was in a bad planetary phase. If he could live beyond the midnight of 31 December, he would live to be a hundred. Instead of seeking medical help, your father was advised to do charity. In connivance with that guru, Mrs Bhati put a crushed golden object under your father’s bed; call it foul play … tantra … black magic … it is the speciality of this Guruji who claims to be an avatar of Lord Shiva.

  ‘Another side to your father’s stress was financial. He took on too much loan for yours and your sister’s education. And his honesty got in the way of his ambition. He was handling many posts as Inspector General of Police. He had Traffic, Information Technology and Vigilance under his direct control. His senior, ADGP Information Technology, made some corrupt deals and dragged your father’s name into the scam. Your Papa could not take the stress of his honesty and reputation being at stake.

  ‘Your Papa was made to bleed emotionally by your mother and Rana Gill, as also by Mrs Bhati. He was made to bleed financially because of your education. And finally, his reputation came under attack with this scam.’

  ‘Mirror … mirror … tell me more …’

  ***

  ‘Amrita, are you okay? We are breaking down the door ... Are you okay?’

  The guards rushed in and found me on the floor. I had fainted, and was talking to myself. ‘Mirror … mirror …’

  I was taken home. I told my mother and Sati about this encounter, but it was dismissed. I was made to stay silent. I was in a state of shock; I simply went with the flow. The promised money—fifty lakhs from the Punjab government—never found its way to us. Sati took the ten lakh rupees of compensation, and completed her education. I got some money, thanks to Rana Uncle.

  On 20 January, I took my flight to New York, as scheduled. I could not wait to get back to Hafez. I was going back to the only place that would give me some solace, some form of peace.

  I could not let go of all the information that had been revealed to me—Mrs Bhati, the Guruji, the corrupt ADGP—all these matters I had to set right.

  With Papa gone, my life was dark as I had lost interest in everything. Perhaps I needed another man’s love to support me, but no man can be that man; no man can ever be my Papa.

  Chapter 9

  FROM WINTER BORE SPRING

  Sparse trees that once bore fruit, meadows covered in snow.

  When seasons change flowers will be their truth.

  Can anyone deny this fact of life, that sorrow may remain;

  But it is happiness, in the end, that everyone wants to retain.

  Sadness and happiness go alongside. While we experience them both at very close quarters, it is up to us to keep one closer than the other. For years, I kept the parcel of sadness by my side.

  The spring semester had begun, and I registered for my classes. I was focusing on my studies rather than obsessing about my relationship. I had decided I would do my father proud by doing well in college. To increase the scope of my learning, I took a class in anthropology. To my surprise, I took a liking to the subject, mainly because of the professor, Dr Louis Flam. He was an inspiring and dedicated teacher, who had unearthed new
findings from the Indus Valley civilization. The fact that he was so enthused by the subject himself made it a pleasure to learn from him. It was fascinating to study about the ancient Indus and Harappan civilizations. As a result, I made it my major subject. My father had wanted me to study medicine, but studying in America had broadened my horizons and introduced me to so many different subjects like anthropology, psychology, theatre, theology, and more. During this period of exploration, I evolved as a person, thanks to the exposure to these diverse fields.

  I also decided to move out of my apartment in Queens’. The old lady with who I was living was not happy about it, but Hafez had asked me to live with him until the basement of their house was renovated. After which I could rent the basement for myself and share it with his adopted sister, Sheliza. It was very kind of his parents to put me up at their house rent-free until then.

  Another major move was that I transferred my credits from New York University to City University of New York, Lehman College. This was not only closer to Haff ’s parents’ house, but was also the same college that Haff went to. The academic fee was also lesser, which was a much needed relief at that point.