Borderline

by Shabri Prasad Singh

  For me, it was a childish impulse—an empty goal—that had no substance. I wanted to become popular in Delhi. I laugh about it now, but back then, after all that I had gone through in life, I had seriously lost all perspective. My purpose in 2007 was to party, wallow in self-pity, and, unknowingly cause self-destruction. In order to become popular, I became notorious.

  Ria thought of me as a wannabe, but she never really said it to my face. Instead, she had a habit of deprecating others on the sly. She did it so well that I never understood it until much later. The proof of her true nature could simply be understood by reading her book in which all she did was ‘bitch’ about other people.

  How could I not have seen it? Blinded by friendship, I gave her the most lethal weapon of them all—the story of my life. And she used it so cunningly against me. Ria was the kind of person who would do anything to get ahead in life. I, on the other hand, put everyone else before me.

  While in London, during my growing up years, I had a crush on Bhaarat Ohri, a rather good-looking guy, who had now started visiting the gym Ria and I used to frequent. By now, he was the most eligible political bachelor in the country. I never told Ria that I had a crush on him in school. Instead, I let her have a go at him. Bhaarat and I acknowledged each other; he remembered me, and I talked to him once in a while when we were at the gym at the same time. Ria, very clearly, wanted to marry him for his political status, and so she chased him. To get his attention, she even pretended to date another eligible political bachelor. Both the men saw through her, and after playing around with her for some time, they both dumped her. Hence, she changed her strategy. From wanting to marry a potential political big-wig, she now wanted to marry the richest bachelor available. In short, Ria was grandiose, vindictive and voyeuristic; an opportunist who knowingly ruined me.

  My honeymoon period with Ria lasted two years. She had joined a company whose owner was a foreign, handsome billionaire, whom she nick-named Juice. When things did not work out with Juice, she quit her job and began gold-digging again. I tried my best to understand her behaviour. In order to do so, I asked her questions about her past and her family and found out their most intimate secrets. Ria’s father was tall and handsome, and very well educated. Yet, he was one of the most crooked people I know. Ria’s mother, though not pretty, had a very strong political background. Ria’s parents always fought with each other, which made me wonder that while the family seemed happy from the outside, there was an ugly storm brewing inside. Once, an argument broke out between Ria’s parents while I was at her house. Embarrassed, she told me, ‘Let’s go to a bar. I need to drink!’

  After many lethal martinis, she finally broke down. ‘Amrita, what do I do?’

  ‘About what?’ I asked.

  ‘My parents do not get along; I cannot handle the pressure.’

  ‘Relax, Ria. My parents were divorced, too. Maybe yours should end this madness and amicably part ways.’

  Ria lost her temper and shouted at me. ‘Just because your parents divorced and your father died, that does not mean my family, too, should fall apart.’ I knew she was drunk, so I let her vent her emotions while she insulted me again and again.

  I took her home and made sure she was tucked safely in her bed. Two days later, I got a call from her and we talked all night. She apologised profusely for her behaviour. When I tried to comfort her saying that I, too, had gotten drunk on several occasions, she started insulting me once again. ‘But it’s different for you. Since you are not a writer, or a career woman, you have no standing in society like I do. And I think you are an alcoholic.’ I realised that she had gotten her insulting attitude from her mother. ‘Are you there, Ams?’

  ‘Go on,’ I said, fuming inside.

  ‘My father is having affairs with numerous women! He is always out late at night, and has been sleeping around with lots of different women.’

  ‘I know, Ria. Everyone knows about your father,’ I gave one back.

  Her father was a serial adulterer. Perhaps because her mother constantly nagged him, controlled the money, drove him away and made him corrupt. She really thought that was how she was going to keep him. Through my own relationships, I had realised that undermining a man never did a relationship any good.

  Only the people involved in the relationship can know what’s going on inside it. My mother made me realise that. When I asked her about the details of her divorce from my father, she simply replied, ‘Only your Papa and I know the real reasons, the rest is just what people think, what people speculate, what people gossip, what you and Sati think and how you judge us.’

  Ria poured her heart out to me, and I did the same. I clearly told her to let her parents be. Soon after, Ria’s father had a government inquiry lodged against him. He was charged with corruption and misuse of his position. The case went on and he was behind bars for a while. He retired early and her parents continued to fight.

  Months later, Ria and I went to Hyderabad for an air show. We met a lot of people there. On our last evening there, Ria went out for dinner with a friend of hers. I was enjoying a glass of wine at the hotel bar, and decided to step out into the garden to have a smoke. ‘May I borrow your lighter?’ I asked a girl standing in the garden, smoking her cigarette in a way that was so seductive. She looked at me, her eyes kind and warm, lit my cigarette, and then looked away. She was fair, with long flowing brown hair, and hazel eyes.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked, and she turned around and said, ‘My name is Zoha Khan, but everybody calls me Sabrina.’ I introduced myself, and noticed that she had many tattoos on her body. She was wearing a tank top, and a pashmina shawl covered her neck and flowed over her waist. Her jeans were torn, very trendy, and I could see that her belly button was pierced. ‘Does it hurt, Sabrina?’ I asked.

  ‘Does what hurt?’

  ‘Getting a tattoo? I have always wanted to get one.’

  ‘Then why don’t you?’

  ‘I am scared of the pain.’

  She smiled, as if she knew something I didn’t. Obviously, this girl had many secrets. She talked about pain as if she were addicted to it. It was not that I had never experienced pain. From emotional scars, to losing Papa, the man I worshipped, to my self-inflicted wounds, I was no stranger to pain.

  I asked for Sabrina’s phone number, and gave her mine. I told her, ‘Thanks for the light. If you ever find yourself in Delhi, please do call. The least I can do is take you out for a drink.’

  The following morning, Ria and I came back to Delhi. I told her about Sabrina and she asked me, ‘Are you talking about Zoha Khan?’

  ‘Yes, that’s her real name. Do you know her?’

  ‘Who does not know Sabrina Khan? She is married to a politician and lives in Banjara Hills. Her husband is so hard-working and charming, and she is this wild bohemian nut. Honestly, why did he ever marry her?’ I left the conversation at that and life moved on.

  ***

  It was just before Diwali, in 2009. I was at my friend Chris’s house and we were having coffee. He and I had become even closer, since I was trying to distance myself from Ria. I was tired of her inconsiderate behaviour and bizarre nature. What had happened to her father had made her even more bitter than before.

  I got a call from a friend from the gym. She said she had just picked up a book written by Ria, and it was all about me. ‘What do you mean, all about me?’ I asked. ‘Just go and read it,’ was the response I got.

  I got an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach, and my hands began to shake nervously. I went to the nearest bookstore and picked up the book. I came back to Chris’s house, and we both read the short book that Ria had written. I screamed after reading the filth and the lies that she had written about me and my family. ‘Ams, calm down and take a deep breath. Please, I beg you,’ Chris said, worried and shocked himself. I called Uncle and Mamma and they did not take me seriously. When Chris talked to them, they asked him to send me back home. I shouted at my parents and said, ‘No, I am never comin
g home, I am never leaving this apartment again. I have been betrayed, humiliated; I have been made to look like a whore, a druggie, and a crazy and fake person in this book. Forget about me, both of you have been made to look like murderers in this book. The worst thing is that what she has written about my darling Papa, my great Papa . . . none of it is true.’ I banged down the phone and collapsed. When I came about, I wept copiously.

  The following morning, Chris made me coffee and I hugged him and started crying. He reasoned with me and told me to let the book episode blow over. I called people I knew—all the people from the gym—and explained my side of the story. I wrote all sorts of messages to Ria, calling her many names. I told her she lacked imagination, and the lies she had written about me and my family were so disgusting that only a deeply insecure, unhappy person could come up with them. I had thought we were friends, but clearly, she had always hated me.

  I cannot describe my condition after reading that horrible book. I wanted to take revenge, I wanted to sue Ria but that would only bring more notoriety to me and publicity to the book. I was advised by my lawyers and my family to just weather the storm. All my friends were appalled by what she had done, and most of them cut off communication with her. A lot of people were on my side.

  People told me to go beat her up and I wanted to, but I was sinking into depression. I would stare at the walls and could not step out of Chris’s house. Sometimes, people would call me and tell me that they had heard there was a book out there about me, and I would have to explain that a lot of what it contained was fabrication. I should have just denied the fact that the book was about me, but I didn’t. Instead, I started to defend myself, and the book scarred me. My anxiety levels had hit the sky and I was a neurotic mess.

  Chris tried to divert my mind and asked me to go out with him to a Diwali party. It had been two weeks since the book had come out and I told him, ‘No, I am staying right here. I am never stepping out of your apartment.’ When Chris left for the party, I drank a bottle of vodka all by myself and cried. In the book, Ria had killed my character in the end. She had exploited my story and spiced it up with hideous lies. ‘Oh, my God, if Pink finds out about this book, he will never talk to me again!’ I shouted. I did not call Pink at all. Ashamed and embarrassed, I locked myself up. Yes, she also exposed my relationship with Pink in the book, making us look like two cheap, sleazy drug addicts having an affair. I thought to myself that if she had to write something about us, at least she could have written the truth as opposed to making us look like shallow, hollow and lustful cheaters. In a fit of rage, I ran to the bathroom and sat under the cold shower, weeping. Then I got out of the shower drenched and shivering, and got a bottle of wine. I drank most of it and then took it with me and sat down under the shower again. In three to four minutes, I had smashed the bottle and used its sharp edges to cut myself at various places. The broken glass, the burgundy wine and my scarlet blood were whirling around the drain. It looked like a whirlpool of red, plum, and crystal water. ‘Papa, where are you? Please protect me,’ I whispered.

  Chris came back from the party to find me passed out under the shower, a broken bottle of wine beside me, and blood oozing from my wrist. The following morning, I woke up with my head swirling and an aching pain booming through my entire body. I opened my eyes and saw that I was in my house on Kasturba Gandhi Marg. Mamma and Uncle were sitting right next to me on my bed. I told them to leave me alone, but they would not listen. I got out of bed and ran to the balcony, trying to jump. Dad grabbed me; Mamma was shocked, but she held my arm gently. When I took a look at myself, I saw that all the cuts on my body had been bandaged.

  ‘Where is Chris?’ I asked.

  ‘He has gone back home. He was here all night but he left early in the morning,’ my mother told me. I thought I had to call Chris and apologise for giving him so much grief for weeks, but I had no energy left.

  Ironically, I had read Ria’s book on 2 October—Gandhi Jayanti. Mahatma Gandhi was a preacher of love, and non-violence. What Ria did to me was emotional violence, mental abuse, and it had shattered me.

  No matter who tried to console me, things went from bad to worse. When I finally began to go out again, I started drinking to the point where I would misbehave and cause scenes. I never brought alcohol home, but I would drink at friends’ houses. I would not sleep; I would spend most nights researching various things instead—the 9/11 attacks, terrorists and terrorism in general. I began imagining things and seeing conspiracies everywhere. I noticed that when my phone was locked, no keys could be pressed except 9-1-1. This led to my becoming a maniac. I started believing in all the conspiracy theories I researched, and even discussed them with friends and family. I was on the verge of madness and I became psychotic. I didn’t sleep for three days straight. When Dad was in London for work, it became hard for my mother to handle me. I made up a theory that revealed how I was on the brink of uncovering the truth behind 9/11, the death of Lady Diana, Marilyn Monroe and various other mysteries. My theory on 9/11 was that essentials from within the labyrinth of the world’s most famous intelligence agencies had helped plan the attacks. My research on two iconic figures who inspired the world and were admired by billions made me come to realise a truth about these two exceptionally beautiful women. Both Marilyn Monroe and Princess Diana died horrible deaths. Their deaths caused panic, mayhem and mourning. When I read their stories, interviews and life history, I found it so ironic that they were seekers of love and validation. They were loved by everyone, but they themselves were chasing love. Their incongruous and tragic deaths were indicative of so many things. I wrote a poem about them.

  Loved and admired by the world,

  these two women were lonely birds.

  These candles in the wind blew out so fast,

  seeking love from the ones who had broken their hearts.

  No dearth of beauty within or out,

  let there comes a time when there is emotional drought,

  You two candles will be lit again from those who loved you not,

  For when they realise what they lost,

  you two angels will be sought.

  In my research, I found out that both the women had suffered a mental illness, something called borderline personality disorder.

  As a result of my stress and self-induced obsession with conspiracy theories, I had a nervous breakdown. I would howl and shout, and could not be controlled by my mother. Dad was now serving as the Private Secretary to the Prime Minister of India. He left everything after explaining the situation to the PM, and came back home to look after me.

  A psychiatrist from Max Hospital, New Delhi, was called. He saw my condition and prescribed antipsychotic medication for a week. After taking the medicines, I slept for nearly twenty-four hours, and my parents was relieved. But they were very concerned about my mental condition. Jerry, my baby brother who I loved so much, didn’t leave my room for hours, making sure I was sleeping, every once in a while checking to see if I was breathing. Everyone treated me very gently and tiptoed around me after this episode. The medicines made me very sleepy and fogged up my mind. They made me mellow and all my aggression was drained. I was so calm it felt like I had smoked pot. My body became weightless, and I felt like I was floating.

  Dad secured me an appointment with Delhi’s most well-known and learned psychiatrist, a pioneer in his field, Dr Sanjay Chugh. I knew that I was going insane, and I did not want to end up like my aunt, Mira Srivastava. I realised it was time for medical intervention, and willingly went to Dr Chugh’s clinic.

  Chapter 17

  THE MIND NEEDS CARE

  A pond that is so pretty, with floating flowers and fish beneath,

  If allowed to stagnate it will form many fungal layers underneath,

  The flowers will wither and the fish will die,

  the pond will turn too dry.

  The mind is similar . . . it needs constant care,

  And when looked after, the pond will no longer glare,
>
  Flowers will bloom and fish shall swim,

  then people will want to sit near its rim.

  Dr Chugh’s clinic was in a basement. As soon as I went down the stairs, there was a reception and a waiting area, with a television. There was a board on the wall, covered with articles on Dr Chugh and his latest treatments, techniques and procedures. There was also a sign stating that waiting patients could go to the billiards room and play, or order coffee or tea to their heart’s content. I thought it was cool that the doctor encouraged his visitors to keep themselves occupied while they waited for him.

  After a wait of ten minutes, a lady walked into the reception area. Her hair was tied neatly in a bun, and she was wearing jeans and a shirt. She looked nice, and had a soft face. She called my name and asked me to follow her. She led me to a small, cozy room in which there were two sofas facing each other. Next to them stood a table, with two glasses of water on it, a lamp, which gave the room a certain warmth, and a box of tissues.

  The lady asked me to sit down, and she herself sat on the sofa facing me. She introduced herself as Purnima, and said that she will be my counsellor. She asked me to talk about myself and as I spoke, she made notes. It was hard for me to compress everything, but I managed to, somehow, communicate all the major events in my life. After I was done, she went away for a while, leaving me feeling curious and also nervous as that same old anxiety started to kick in.

  When she returned, she asked me to come with her to see Dr Chugh. I went inside his office and met the famous man himself. He shook my hand and asked me to take a seat. He looked wise and his face seemed comforting; he had a trustworthy aura, which made me warm up to him at once.