Borderline

By Shabri Prasad Singh

With this true life narrative turned fictional, delve into the life and thoughts of Amrita Srivastava.

Harbouring an almost devotional love for her father, and unable to cope with the legal separation of her parents, this is the account of how she is subsequently diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder and the powerful story of how she eventually overcomes her demons.

Having shifted from Chandigarh to New York to study, Amrita has just about begun to adjust to the new city when her life is thrown into disarray by the death of her father. Acting as a trigger, this event leads to a series of abusive relationships. Forced by a breakdown to leave her studies in New York, she tries to make a new life for herself in Delhi. Unsettled by the continuous changes, Amrita descends into a hard partying lifestyle fuelled by alcohol and drugs. Written as part of her healing process, this is a searing confession about the challenges she faces before finally reaching to the process of rehab and therapy.

Calibrating itself to the turning of the mind's endlessly churning machinery, this novel gives one the rare opportunity to see it at work. Life affirming and inspiring, this is at the same time a journey that navigates through the loneliness, heartbreak and intensity of Amrita's approach to life.

Intimate, forceful and raw, Borderline is the catharsis we all need.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Oct 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9789386643070

Book preview

me.

Chapter 1

THE BEGINNING

When the miracle that is the mind begins,

It can carve a path towards beautiful springs;

Alter the flow of thought,

and the same mind on damage can binge;

The objective is not that of sin but does catharsis in the end win?

It all begins in the mind and ends in the mind. The human mind is truly an infinite realm. It has the power to create abstruse realities, and to destroy the same under the gentlest influence: Life, thought, memory, conditioning, learning, cognition, creation, imagination, insanity, abnormality, mental illness, addiction, dissociation . . . the list is endless. The question really is: What is normal, what is not? While we all know the answer—what is normal for someone may be abnormal for the other—these are things that are best understood when we simply let each other be! Albert Einstein once said, ‘Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.’ I now understand what went wrong in my life: I did the same things over and over again, expecting a different result.

What the mind creates each night in the drama of dreams, it liberates the same from the confines of everything when awake. Neither the dizzying speed of light nor the dark depths of history penetrate this labyrinth which can either be a magical or a haunted empire in itself.

However, such a wondrous thing like the human mind, which is its own cosmos, can also be cursed. While it bubbles with hope and promise, these can vanish in seconds if the mind allows the darker demons that lurk within to possess it.

And that is the tale of my mind; its destruction. A tale of how a malady possessed it to poison me and the lives of those around me. Where darkness engulfed both day and night, and the clouds had no silver lining.

The question now is: Can hope escape the darkness that has engulfed my mind, and resurrect itself to force me to fight another day? Will I emerge victorious over this malady? Or at least be aware of the destruction it causes? And will I battle it daily, step by step, making it vestigial?

I was born on the winter solstice of the year 1984, in Chandigarh, India. Being born on a date which has the shortest day and longest night of the year has an uncanny resonance with my life, as I have lived mostly in the dark. At present, though, I’m living the sunny part of my life after having managed to weather out a long night. Of course, a sunny day also means a cloudless day, without rain, but I have learnt to live with both the chill of the dark and the warmth of the day, sometimes with rain, sometimes without.

I was my parents’ second child. Their first, my sister, was a sickly baby who spent a lot of time in the hospital. She was saved with great difficulty by the doctors and by the efforts of my Papa and grandparents. When my mother found out that she was pregnant with me, a lot of people told her not to have the baby as my sister had just recovered and needed lots of care and attention. I wish she had heeded that advice and that I hadn’t been born at all. Didn’t someone once say: Never to have been born is the greatest boon of all! Alas, that was not to be, as my Papa said, ‘We have done so much to save one child that it would be a sin to be blessed with another and not have this blessing come to life.’

My father was an extraordinary man. He was five feet nine inches tall and partly bald, but he had beautifully chiseled features with a dimpled chin that accentuated his innocent-looking face. He had a moustache that was neatly trimmed, and it suited him well. What he lacked in appearance, he made up for with a sharp mind and acute intelligence. He was combative, and ready to engage on any topic picked from any subject or corner of the world. His mind was one of a genius, and he had his own eccentricities that people around him never fully comprehended. But I was fortunate to have had a father like him, and comprehend him enough.

My mother was a very beautiful, tall woman with radiant skin. She had long, dark hair and a fair complexion. Her features were so sharp.

My Papa, the genius who rose from a very humble background through education, made a career and life for himself. He was so fond of studying that he used to read under the streetlight. This landed him at the Indian Institute of Technology (IIT), India’s premier engineering institute, from which he emerged with graduate and postgraduate degrees, and gold medals. Thereafter, he worked briefly for the Tata group until someone bet him that he couldn’t crack the Union Public Service Commission (UPSC) exams. He took on the bet and cleared the exams in his first attempt, and got into the celebrated Indian Police Service (IPS). He was from Bihar and got his home cadre, but he did not want to serve there for reasons known only to him. He exchanged cadres with one of his batchmates, and that took him to Punjab.

When he was serving as Assistant Superintendent of Police (ASP) in Ludhiana, he saw my mother in her college. He had gone there to end a strike and immediately fell in love with her without even knowing her. Then and there, he made the decision to marry her. He tracked her down and persisted until her parents agreed. They were Punjabi Brahmins, and a huge cultural distance separated them from my Papa. Not just that, he even had to break off her engagement to someone else in order to win her hand from them.

My mother’s father was a politician. He was a Brahmin, and his grandmother was French. My maternal grandfather had blue eyes and was considered to be one of the most handsome politicians in Punjab. He was a member of the Indian National Congress (INC) and was a true freedom fighter. Sadly, when I was around five years old, my grandfather was assassinated. The death of the truly humble and wonderful Nanaji, who always acted like a child with me (those are the only memories I have of him), shattered my grandmother, my mother, and her two sisters.

My Papa was a Kayastha from Bihar. Neither I, nor he, ever adhered to the archaic caste system; I simply mention this to describe my family background—a mix of Punjabi Brahmin, Bihari Kayastha, and a little bit of the French.

My mother was only eighteen when she got married to Papa. The day after they were engaged, she attended her cousin’s wedding, to which my Papa hadn’t been invited. He got angry, and argued with her, insisting that she couldn’t go without him. She was furious; she took off the engagement ring and threw it at him. My mother went without him to the wedding. Either passionate or obsessed, my Papa dressed up as a bandwala—a liveried member of the musical party hired for weddings and plays—and sat outside the wedding premises just to stare at my mother. He probably felt bad about the argument and wanted to make up for it.

My father was an extremist, a trait that I have inherited from him. If he drank, he would drink a lot; when he smoked, he would smoke a lot. At the same time, he also had the will power to quit both these habits in an instant. I am not sure whether he stopped drinking and smoking in order to marry my mother, or for his own health. I was in awe of his will power. I was also mesmerized by his intelligence, his knowledge of myriad subjects, and his overall confidence in achieving his goals, come what may.

I was also afraid of Papa. His admonishments would send shivers down my spine. He would meditate and practice yoga before breakfast each day. He was so passionate about yoga that at times, I would wake up in the middle of the night and see him contorted in some yogic position on our dining table, looking peaceful and serene.

The brilliance of men lies not in their wealth, power or fame but in their character and their passion for the people they love. In the end, that’s all that matters: The amount one has loved and been loved. It is, however, difficult to judge love between one’s parents. In the case of my parents, my mother’s assessment of the whole experience is very different from mine, or my father’s, or my sister’s.

According to Papa, everything is fair in love and war. When I was a teenager, he told me that he would let me marry out of choice, the way he married my mother. Only time would tell what would happen but right then, I did not doubt for a minute that he would cheer me on as I walked into the orange sunset with the man of my dreams.

My mother was eleven years younger than him. They both had strong personalities and burning tempers. In time, my parents’ sweet disagreements would metamorphose into a marital crisis, sweeping away everything in its path.

Even mismatched relationships work for a brief while, when the participants find some common ground. For my parents, that fuzzy period flew past quickly; they never really understood each other. If there was love there, it was trampled over by ego. Like a gently plucked flower, it was beautiful, but not really alive. I sometimes ask myself which of the two was more hurt by their marriage, but like all domestic tragedies, both partners were equally mauled by their strained relationship.

A few years into his job, Papa took a deputation and began working for the Indian Intelligence, RAW. We moved from Punjab to New Delhi. His good work received notice quickly. After just a year at the desk, he was posted to the Indian High Commission in London. He was very happy.

My mother was a little unsure, but she did what she had to do and packed, and we all moved to London. I was only five and my sister, seven. My mother was, at this time, very distraught over her father’s wrongful killing. The drastic change that was about to come into our lives didn’t make the situation any better for her.

Our would-be house in London was not ready yet, so we stayed at a beautiful hotel for the first few weeks. It was there in the plush, ornate hotel room styled as a state room from the Buckingham Palace itself that Papa and Mamma sat me and my sister down. ‘From now on, Bungua (that’s what he called me), your name is Amrita Sinha and Sungua (my sister), your name is Sati Sinha.’ My sister and I laughed, and we asked Papa, ‘What is yours and Mamma’s name then?’

‘My name is Karna Sinha from now on and Mamma’s name is the same.’

‘Why is Mamma’s name the same?’ I asked. My mother never used either her father’s or Papa’s last name; she was always simply, Neelkamal.

Sati got a little serious and asked Papa, ‘Your name is R. S. Srivastava, my name is Sati Srivastava and her name is Amrita Srivastava.’ Clearly, Sati and I were confused.

‘Now the names have changed. Can you keep this secret?’

Thus challenged, I said ‘Yes, Papa.’ Sati nodded, too, and I realised this was happening because Papa was a spy.

Soon, we moved to an official house in Victoria, London. We were surrounded by other Indian diplomats, so familiarity beckoned in the midst of a new country and its strange culture.

Our first few days at school were very difficult. We were not accustomed to the language, the people, and the surroundings. On my first day, I found myself asking the boy in front of me questions in Hindi. He looked at me blankly and turned away. But like all children everywhere, we were sponges, and were speaking fluent English in no time, almost as if we were born English speakers. We even picked up a heavy accent within six months.

We had settled down and actually started liking the place. It felt as if we belonged there. My mother, too, became a part of it after doing a course in Montessori, and taking up a job as a teacher in a playschool. Relatives from India would visit us, and we would take them sightseeing. My father made some local friends, too.

The strange became familiar. The sights, sounds, smells and dampness of England seeped into my bones. Soon, we were desperate to travel. Papa wanted to see all of Europe. So at every opportunity we got, we would pack our things and take the hovercraft to Calais, from where we would drive around, seeing the magnificent sights of France, Italy, Switzerland and Germany. Every weekend and every long holiday was spent in Europe, imbibing new cultures. I don’t remember either the architectural details of the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre, nor the roads on which we drove to get there. All I remember is that we seemed the most perfect family on the planet, floating around in a dream world. Those journeys kindled a wanderlust in me that’s never been quite extinguished. I still crave to travel to distant lands, but am prevented from doing so by the tangled mass that I have become.

In Rome, we visited the Vatican and St Peter’s Basilica. We arrived completely unprepared, with no bookings or plans. My Papa had an unshakeable belief in solutions presenting themselves spontaneously. Sure enough, some nuns helped us and gave us Spartan but comfortable accommodation in a church near St Peter’s square, which also served as a bed and breakfast for tourists. I remember waking up and enjoying the delicious chocolate milk the nuns made for breakfast. We saw the Pope from his balcony, amidst a crowd of people who were exhilarated by the sight. I did not know then that this was a big deal.

I remember being mesmerised by the buildings and cathedrals I saw in these countries. In my mind, they are no longer separate journeys; they have fused into one long, meandering trek across Europe. Now I go back to those memories when I’m in a dark place, and feeling grateful for the wonderful times I’ve had, I immediately cheer up.

I was a very difficult and peculiar child. I realise this in retrospect, after years of counselling and reading up on psychology. My sister and I were very different. She was an obedient child, and, therefore, I felt she received more love than I did from my mother. But I was always my father’s favourite, no matter what! However, I did not value it so much as a child. I was determined to be my mother’s favourite as well.

Since childhood, I felt the need to prove myself. I would exaggerate stories in order to amuse people, and to become the centre of attention. At times, this habit of mine made things difficult for the family. For instance, when the rest of the family wanted to eat pizza, I would insist on eating Indian food. And after the Indian food was prepared for me, I would eat the pizza. I unintentionally made myself into a problem child. Papa never seemed to mind, but it definitely irritated my mother.

I was different: While on the surface, I was very friendly and bubbly, deep down, I struggled. When I saw children playing together in groups, I hesitated to join them as I felt out of place. I would rather play alone.

Though I was a happy child, I gradually became aggressive. I started getting into fights with my classmates on flimsy pretexts. Anger and envy became traits of my personality. I would compete with other girls by sneaking into my mother’s room and putting on her make-up.

My first crush, Alex the Cute, was a fair-skinned boy, who set the tone for my subsequent taste in men. He had blonde hair and blue eyes. Alex was actually a mix of Indian and British blood; while his father was Indian (the then High Commissioner of India in England), his mother was from the British royal family. His real name was Bhaarat Ohri.

Alex a.k.a. Bhaarat was interested in the best looking girl in class, Melissa. I was jealous of her, and craved for Alex’s attention. When we were going for a school picnic, I decided to wear a pair of denim shorts with black stockings so that Alex would notice me. However, when I was leaving the house, Papa said, ‘Bungua, you cannot wear this; go and change into something decent.’ I was miserable, yet I had no choice but to change. So I snuck the pair of stockings in my lunchbox and took them to the picnic, where I changed into those. However, Alex did not even glance at me. This was the first of my many wardrobe misadventures to ensnare the men I wanted. Now, of course, I laugh about it.

Alex’s rejection of me seemed to set a pattern. There were many men who I wanted to be with, but they had no interest in me. It was something of a curse.

I was fascinated by kissing. I had seen people do it on television. I used to make my Barbie dolls kiss the male doll, Ken. One day, my mother saw this and told Papa about it. Thankfully, he just laughed it off. I remember kissing a tree at school during breaks. Obviously, I was in my own world and assumed that no one would notice, but I was wrong. My games teacher asked: ‘Why are you kissing the tree?’ My answer was that I was practicing kissing. I had no answer for her next question: ‘Who are you practicing for?’

I was becoming sexually aware, and my expanding consciousness began to manifest itself. My classmates