Borderline Page 16

  In July 2014, I went to a small dinner party at a friend’s house. There, at the party, I saw Bhaarat Ohri and got aggressive. I said to him, ‘Why are you haunting me? Why do you want to marry me? Why are your guards following me?’ Saying this, I slapped him. I had become completely psychotic.

  The next thing I know is that a tall and smart looking man came with some people, including my parents, and told me to come with him. We all went to a farm house where two guys held me down and a nurse forcefully gave me an injection. I tried hard to fight and escape, and I kept on shouting ‘Papa, Papa, come and save me.’ Suddenly, there was oblivion.

  Chapter 21

  INCARCERATED INTO HELL

  From darkness, I came almost dead and I was blamed,

  For having a disease, I could not control, I was locked up and

  Ignored, incarcerated into hell I was and there I had to sit and

  Smell the madness, dwell in the sadness.

  I woke up in a strange room, in a strange place. It seemed I was being held captive in hell. My head was spinning, but I had no choice but to be there and dwell. There were four beds in the room, and they were all occupied. There was no air conditioner and it was very hot. However, I was cold. My hands were shaking, and my heart was pounding. I went to the door and tried to open it. Someone had obstructed the door from opening by placing a large sofa pressed against it from the outside. I knocked on the door heavily many times, and a young man came running and opened it. ‘Good morning, Madam,’ he said with a smile. I asked him where I was.

  ‘You are in Hope Springs Foundation. It is the best rehabilitation facility in the country. I will be your attendant. Would you like anything?’

  ‘Yes, I would like my phone and some cigarettes, please,’ I politely said to him, feeling that all the aggression had somehow been drained from me the night before.

  ‘Phones are not allowed here, and your parents have left you cigarettes and your suitcase. You can only smoke very little here. I suggest you have a shower, and I’ll get you your daily allowance of cigarettes.’

  The aggression came back with a vengeance, and I screamed at him. ‘No one tells me how many smokes I can have,’ I said to him. ‘Who is in-charge here, and by whose consent are you keeping me here?’

  ‘This is Dr Sunil Rukhja’s rehab, and Anju Madam is the director here. She will come at nine, so until then, please try to relax.’

  ‘Get me my cigarettes, and I need to make a call.’ He interrupted and said: ‘No calls, Madam.’

  That made me furious, and I ran to the room. I saw my suitcase and opened it. Everything was there: My clothes, toiletries, shoes . . . everything, except my cigarettes and phone.

  The attendant came running back with a cigarette in his hand. ‘Is that all? I need more,’ I shouted. He told me to wait until the doctor arrived.

  Uncertain of what was about to happen, I felt the need for another cigarette. I went downstairs where there was a small foyer, and to its left lay the main entrance. On the right was a big hall and a room. I peeped into the room and saw three women sleeping on single beds. I went further down the hall and entered the dining room, where I saw a woman drinking coffee. She was the only sane looking person there, so I talked to her. Her name was Ishita, and she was from Kolkata. She was married to a Punjabi. She was beautiful, and had a heavy Bengali accent. In a nutshell, she told me that this was a very bad clinic. It was the second time she was here. The first time she came, she stayed for three months. She said she had a problem with alcohol, and she seemed to imply that I was being welcomed to hell. ‘In the women’s rooms, downstairs,’ she said, ‘there are mostly non-addicts suffering from different kinds of mental illnesses. Most of them have been here for years.’ When I asked her what happened at the rehab, she said, ‘Nothing much. People are divided into addicts and non-addicts. The addicts take some bullshit classes twice a day and there is individual therapy which is also bullshit.’ She showed me an empty, dirty pool through the window and said, ‘They advertise saying that they have a pool, a game room and a gym for the patients, but all they do is lie. As you can see, the pool is full of dirt and there is no gym or game room.’

  I asked her about the doctor, and she called him a quack. She told me to be beware of Anju, the director. ‘She is a shrewd and a cold-hearted, vindictive woman. All I had was one drink yesterday, and she had me picked up despite my telling her that I would come myself in a couple of days.’

  ‘How can they just pick someone up without their consent?’ I asked. ‘Rehabs all over the world only take in a patient with a consent form that the patients themselves sign. This is the first time I’ve seen people being put in rehab against their will.’ She had no answer to that.

  The kitchen was extremely dirty, and I knew that with my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) traits, I would have a hard time living in this place. The rehab reeked of insincerity. I went to Sheeba, the caretaker, and said, ‘I need a pack of Marlboro lights, please.’ She said she would send someone to get them for me from the market. She suggested that in the meantime, I should take a bath and eat some breakfast. I went back to my room and into the bathroom, only to realise that there was no hot water. I freaked out and the maid came to my rescue and brought me an electric rod to heat water in a bucket. I yelled and got upset over it. But something told me that the rehab and its walls were immune to the screams and cries of its inmates.

  By the time I came back downstairs, I saw that a middle-aged woman had arrived. She had the look of a stern, strict, and arrogant person. She was dressed as if she was someone’s secretary. She greeted me with a very fake smile.

  ‘We need to talk,’ I said to her.

  ‘After you have your coffee,’ she smiled, and disappeared into another room. I realised that in the rehab, I would have to abide by its ridiculous rules, otherwise they would inject me to shut me up. Being submissive was not in my nature, and I needed answers. I needed instant gratification and an explanation as to why I was here.

  Fifteen minutes later, I went down to the basement. There was a small sitting area, and in front of it a large room with many beds, like a dormitory or a ward. All of the patients in this room were men. I began counting the rooms: There was a men’s ward in the basement, a room on the ground floor where I had seen two women sleeping, a private room upstairs where a woman was staying, and three other rooms. So, in all, there were six rooms in the building, including the wards. The room I had been placed in had four single beds. At the end of this basement was another room. The doors were all glass so I could see through them. There were two small desks and four chairs at one end of the room and at the other end, a big board with a big desk, and many chairs around it. I guessed that was where they held the classes.

  Finally, Anju called me into the room with the desks, her makeshift office. I sat down on the chair in front of her desk. I asked her why was I here and she tactfully replied: ‘Because your parents have put you in our care for treatment.’

  ‘I’m an adult,’ I said, ‘and I have been forcibly brought here against my will. You cannot keep me here.’

  Rather arrogantly, she told me that she could. She claimed to have received permission from my parents and Dr Chugh. ‘You are a threat to yourself and to others,’ she said, ‘and you have been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. We will treat you here.’

  ‘To hell with your treatment,’ I snarled. ‘I am already being treated by Dr Chugh.’ When she told me that rehabilitation was part of that treatment, I was incensed.

  That was when a young woman with a rather horsy looking but familiar face entered. She smiled at me and bid me good morning. When I didn’t reply, she said, ‘Amrita, when someone says “good morning”, you should answer them.’ Something stirred in my memory. ‘You were the one who picked me up yesterday, right?’ I asked. When she admitted to it, I asked her how she could have done it. She smiled and replied by saying. ‘You are here because you have a PD, and recently you have been in a psyc
hotic phase. The incident that took place yesterday forced everyone to put you in rehab. You are not well. My name is Asha, and I will be your therapist. Together, we will rebuild your personality and self-esteem, and make you better.’

  I wanted to whack her spotted face. ‘I need to talk to the doctor, and I need cigarettes,’ I said instead. Anju interrupted me. ‘We allow only ten cigarettes a day,’ she said, ‘and we encourage you to quit and do yoga and exercise as part of your treatment.’ When I protested, she said in a rather sinister manner that they would make sure I complied by giving me an incentive. She advised me to wear a bra always as there were men around. I stopped and closed my eyes for a second, and wondered if I was dreaming. Maybe I was, since the only other person who nagged me about wearing a bra was my mother. Maybe I was still in my house, and I was having a nightmare.

  ‘Amrita, are you listening? You need to wear a bra at all times.’ I opened my eyes to realise that unfortunately, I was not dreaming.

  I left the room and went upstairs, trying to control the whirlpool of emotions within. I went to the woman who had a private room. Her name was Mira, and she was diagnosed with schizophrenia. She was warm and welcoming and when I told her what had happened yesterday, she sweetly replied, ‘You did not have as much of a panic attack as Bhaarat Ohri did. Whatever happened, I think he still deserves to be slapped. I can imagine that even if you hallucinated that you were getting married to him, you still said “no”.’ Mira and I laughed at that, and I went back to my room.

  There I met Shalini and Lalitha, both diagnosed with schizophrenia. Shalini used to be a professor of English at a university in Delhi, but she started having illusions that she was the object of love of Salman Rushdie: A condition known as erotomania, where one believes a famous person is in love with them. There was another girl in the room: Bhumika, who did not get out of bed but she asked me many questions. She said, ‘I heard you are a Borderline and also an addict of alcohol. I am the same. However, I doubt it sometimes that I am a Borderline. I just want to chill and drink, that’s all.’

  My head started spinning again, and I went into the dirty bathroom and managed to take a bucket bath.

  Finally, the doctor arrived. He introduced himself as Dr Sunil Rukja. He was tall, fit and quite good looking. He asked me to sit down with him in the garden. He was the same psychiatrist whom Sabrina was consulting. I suddenly remembered that she thought of him to be a quack.

  It was August now, and there was soft sunlight diffusing through the air. If only my mind and confused emotions could match the warm weather, I would feel fine. But I was incarcerated in hell and its master was here in front of me. I knew by now that this was going to be a quid pro quo situation and I had to be smart about this.

  I told the doctor I had been brought here by force, and he put his hand on his chest and told me that it pained him to hear that. I doubted it, of course, but letting none of my suspicions show on my face, I promised him I would cooperate with him if he cooperated with me. I negotiated a deal of twenty cigarettes a day, my usual, in return for complete cooperation. I told him I would not share a room with anyone and he said that my parents had already asked that I to be put up in a private room. My anger towards my parents diluted a wee bit on hearing this. ‘How long will I be here?’ I asked him, to which he smiled and said, ‘We will talk about that some other day.’

  I knew it was not going to be easy here, but knowing how long I would have to remain here might ease my anxiety and pain, calm the anger and helplessness. I knew I had to leave as soon as possible, not get stuck in this place like some of those poor non-addicts, wasting away in bed.

  ‘Amrita, do you know what has been happening to you for the past two months? Are you aware as to what happened yesterday?’

  ‘I know,’ I said, with tears in my eyes. I was embarrassed that my behaviour had been psychotic, and maybe it still was. I was in the psychotic phase of Borderline Personality Disorder.

  ‘From today, you will be on different medication, and you will have a session with your therapist every day. I am putting you up in a private cottage, and you will have a female attendant at nights with you,’ Doctor Rukhja looked at me as he said this.

  ‘Don’t change my medication without Dr Chugh’s permission,’ I told him firmly.

  ‘No, of course, not!’ he smiled and said.

  But there was insincerity in the rehab and in this doctor’s eyes.

  The following day, I met the alcoholics: Ishita, Hardeep and Bhumika. Bhumika was also a Borderline case. I had already met the schizophrenics. I also met some more people: Rajesh, who believed he talked to God, a doctor named Ravi who was addicted to pills, and some more people suffering from different addictions. They all told me this place was hell. The classes were hell and the therapy was just plain bad. ‘How can we trust the therapists when they have planned our kidnapping?’ said Lokesh, a young artist addicted to heroin. ‘I agree,’ I said. ‘I don’t trust anyone here, I really don’t. I want my home and Dr Chugh.’ I was very upset.

  On the first night at rehab, I could not sleep. The doctor refused to tell me what kind of medication he had put me on. Amongst the staff, Mamul, the cook, was nice, as was the nurse, Azad. It was five in the morning, and I got out of bed and went for a walk in the garden. Then I went to the kitchen to make myself coffee and found that there was no milk or refrigerator. I asked my attendant to get me coffee. She apologetically told me that there was no milk anywhere. I knew that the cost of living in the cottage was INR 30,000 a night. And the fact that the facilities provided were so poor and Spartan made me very anxious. I had a shower, did some puja, and waited patiently for the doctor to arrive so that I could talk to him about this.

  It was 9 a.m. I skipped yoga, and was hanging out with Bhumika. She was older than I was, but she was in the early patterns of Borderline. She said to me, ‘All I want is a man and booze.’ I wanted to help her; I wanted to tell her not to get trapped in the Borderline patterns.

  At 10 a.m., the doctor arrived. He immediately called me downstairs for a meeting. ‘You are great. Since you are already adjusting, I will make you a deal: I will keep you here for three months. I never tell anyone how long I will keep them here for, but for you I will make an exception.’

  ‘You bring that time down by half and I will stay. Otherwise, you don’t know me. Your walls and barbed wires don’t scare me. I can run, and then I can write,’ I told him.

  The doctor was smart; he did not doubt my intentions. I also knew that he must have been told by my parents to let me decide how long I wanted to stay. We made a deal for me to stay for six weeks, and we shook hands.

  From then on, I decided I would change things around, and make life better for myself and for the inmates.

  ***

  Amidst madness each one of us dwelled,

  We could choose to be receptive or continue to

  let resentment be upheld,

  Adaptation was the key to survive,

  At the end, it is the fittest that thrive.

  Since the time I was at the rehab, two new patients had arrived; both were alcoholics, and both very aggressive. Since I was in the private cottage outside the building, I was spared the agony of staying in the building and hearing people talk to themselves and cry all night long. Every morning, one could only have coffee at 8 a.m. after the yoga session which was held by Gyandeep, who was no more than a spy of Anju. Not many were interested in yoga at 6 a.m., that too without coffee. However, they threatened us that if we didn’t do yoga, they wouldn’t give us our cigarettes.

  I usually did yoga on my own, in the garden in front of my cottage. I would barely sleep for an hour through the night, yet I had the energy to do the Surya Namaskar for half-an-hour each morning, to everyone’s amazement. I was even able to make my own arrangements with the night staff, and they would leave some milk and coffee powder in the kitchen for me. No one else was allowed cigarettes before yoga, but I was given some as I simply could not function befo
re my morning coffee and a few smokes.

  Bhumika stayed in the room in which I spent my first night in rehab; she was miserable. Dr Ravi, who was addicted to this pill called Zolfresh, which was a hallucinogenic sleeping pill, stayed with Hardeep, Lokesh, the new guy Chakarborty, and Mr Mathur, in the men’s room upstairs. Mr Mathur used to be a genius mathematician until he became a victim of schizophrenia. He believed that the rehab was his office and he would ask the staff for his paycheck every day. Then there was Khan, a good guy with selective amnesia and loss of reality. He believed he was the victim of a conspiracy as he was about to expose certain powerful people in India, and therefore they put him here. He believed this place was an island.

  I did my own form of therapy with Bhumika and Khan. I taught Bhumika everything about Borderline Personality Disorder and let her take a shower in my cottage, as it was the best place in the entire rehab. She would come back to me and say that she did not want to know about BPD; all she wanted was to run away and get drunk. With Khan, when he started rambling, I would shake him up and recite a verse from the Quran; I’d tell him his name was Khan and that he was in rehab, and this was not part of a conspiracy. For a few hours, he would come back to his senses but then he would regress; they would then have to inject him to sleep.

  Mira and I became close and we talked about politics, about her parents, and how she believed she was adopted and that she had been tortured by them. Dr Ravi was not handsome, but he flirted with me, and I returned the interest as I needed some distraction in this place where time actually came to a standstill. Every morning, at 10.30 a.m., there was a class for the addicts and a separate newspaper reading class for the non-addicts. In the former, they taught about different aspects of the personality of an addict. They also told us we could never drink or do drugs again.