Back from the Brink

It took only one deft cut with the knife. I could feel the warm blood oozing from my wrist. It hurt and in pain I closed my eyes. I repeated to myself, ‘I deserve the pain. I deserve to die’. And the pain relieved a bit.

I thought I heard someone! With difficulty I opened my eyes. Tushar was trying to wake me up. Tushar? Why would he be here? How can he be here?! I had met him only once, and I had behaved so badly with him.

I realized I was hallucinating. Death was near. I heard a question, ‘Why did you do this to yourself?’ I replied, repeating for the nth time. ‘I am a bad girl. I have been a failure. I could not live up to my father’s expectations; I could not take care of my mother. I even failed myself. I should die. I deserve death.’

‘But you were not like this always. Nobody is born bad’ The voice persisted.

‘I am. I was a troublemaker always, even as a kid. Most people have beautiful first memories, Granny telling a story; walking in a park with father holding the left hand and mother holding the right. But my first memory is that of an adamant child, a headstrong brute. I was bad even when I was three.’

I continued, ‘It was my first big party, my birthday party. I was wearing a new dress and had been allowed to invite all my friends. It was very grand, we had even arranged for a magician to perform live. Everyone was laughing, enjoying, but I was getting a little bored. It was gifts I was interested in. I knew my parents would not disappoint me. I was waiting for my bicycle.

The time came, cake was cut, gifts received and finally the most awaited gift arrived. With a big smile, my parents handed me a box. It was too big for me to hold, but it could surely not hold a bicycle. I got anxious, opened the cover. It was a beautiful toy which my dad had got from his recent trip to US. But it was not a bicycle. I threw it away and started crying.

My parents were confused at first, but soon guessed what all the fuss was about. My father tried explaining me that the gift was much more expensive than a bicycle. But I screamed. Chetan, the neighboring kid, had got a bicycle for his third birthday. I wanted one too. In anger I kicked the toy. Enraged, he picked me up, walked down the stairs and put me down hard on the bed. He warned me against repeating such behavior again, and locked me in.

I was adamant. I refused to cry, refused to see off the guests. Soon most of the guests had left, only a few close relatives remained to help clear off the mess. I was sitting in the dark room, angry at everyone. I heard my aunt was scolding dad. "Don't be too harsh on her. She is missing her parents. That’s why she is behaving this way. A bicycle is not very expensive for you. What’s the problem?"

That was true, all of it. I saw very less of my mother and even less of my father. I was being sent to a play home since the age of 2 as my mother worked. She came back home late in the evening and watched TV as the maid cooked. She was always too tired to play with me. I spent the evening watching TV too. As for my father, he too worked and even harder. He was an ambitious person since the beginning, and he had his priorities clear. Job always trumped family.

Next day, I got my bicycle. I could not stop smiling. My parents were relieved; I would not pester them for now. But something inside me had changed. I had found a switch, an invisible switch, to get my wish granted. Any wish.

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The voice in my head spoke again ‘But then your parents should have disciplined you, should have guided you on the right path.’

They did when they could. But it was rare, because my father was always busy. I hardly saw him once a week and then almost always he had plans to visit the mall or the movies or a picnic when he was there. He always tried to please us, me and mummy, to make up for the time he was not there.

And my mother was too tired by the end of the day. She never spoke a hard word. She was always busy at work or at house. Or rather I would think she was not interested in anything.

But I remember one occasion. It was 10 in the night. My father had just returned from office. My mother was serving dinner for him. Both of us had already finished the dinner, as usual. There was no point in waiting for him. He himself did not know when he would be returning home. I was still wide awake, of course. I was a grown up now, I was nine. I slept late.

I switched on the TV at full volume. The phone rang, somebody shouted to reduce the volume, I ignored. I was engrossed in the TV, when my name cropped up in the conversation. One moment mother was talking calmly, the other she had got red with anger. I was curious. 'I cannot believe Rashmi would do this.' I knew I was in trouble.

My mother talked for a couple of minutes with my father. Father called me. I ignored them hoping that the clouds will pass away by some miracle. It only infuriated them further. My mother rushed towards me, snatched the remote from my hand, banged it on the sofa and pulled me towards the dining room.

'What did you teach Monisha? How do you know that word?'

I was the leader of the class. Not in studies, I let others take that one. But in other things, I had a big following among the girls. I knew so much more than them, from make-up to dresses to movies. The maids kept by my mom were happy to let me watch TV. This let them carry on with whatever they were interested in. The current maid talked to her boyfriend all afternoon.

Monisha was my class mate. And she had goofed up. I knew Monisha had used the four letter word, in front of parents. And then she had squealed my name. How stupid! Of course it was me who had picked up this word, as many other ‘bad’ words. This one I had learnt from a senior in school. I had even told them the meaning, though I did not understand much from its definition.

Both my parents were shouting at me simultaneously. How do you know that word? ‘It was in the movie you took me to last week at the mall’ I answered slyly, deflecting the blame. The mood changed. It was clear that they themselves were to be blamed this. The anger evaporated. I promised not to use such words again. I was let-off easily. As I turned I instinctively said 'Go to hell'. It was supposed to be under my breath. But seems it was not. Father flew in rage. Nobody said go to hell to him, surely not a 9 year old, surely not his own daughter. He took an iron scale lying nearby and hit my hand.

I closed my eyes with pain. Tears rolled from my eyes, even though I tried not to cry. My mother escorted me into my room. Once into my bed, I looked at my hand. There were blood stains.

My father did not speak to me for a week. Rather he got busy with his work and he always returned after I had slept. I was not very eager to meet him either.

He tried making up by offering me an expensive doll. I smiled just to keep his heart. But our conversations were never the same again. I learnt that speaking less was always safe, and if forced, talking about irrelevant things was safer.

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My father had never visited me at school. Never, except once, when I was 15, my final year in the school. I later came to know that his visit was inspired by a prospective client, a very big one. The client picked up his daughter from the school at least once a week. My father decided to pick me up himself that day. He wanted to be 'similar'.

He reached few minutes before the closing time. He walked towards my class, in order to surprise me. But it was him who was to be surprised, for I was not in the class, not even in the school. I was in the park next door, with Gaurav, my boyfriend.

The bell rang. Everybody walked out. We heard it in the park. We waited for a few minutes for the crowd to clear. We turned round the school corner when Gaurav pulled me towards him. I was smiling, teasing him. We did not care who saw us, we were love birds, content in ourselves. But father thought otherwise. And he was walking towards us, his face expressionless.

I was stunned, so was Gaurav. My father dumped me into the car and drove away. Gaurav had not even moved by then. None of us spoke, both of us were deep in the thoughts. Upon reaching home, I expected a volcano eruption. But nothing happened.

My mother was not at home. I was asked to go in my room and change. When I came out he was still deep in thoughts. He was walking up and down the drawing room trying to make up his mind on something. He came to some decision. He turned decisively towards the door. He took the car keys and walked away.

He returned very late. My mother did not speak to me that day.

Next day very early in the morning it was my father who woke me up. He instructed me to quickly take bath, wear some decent dress. I quickly followed as he had instructed, there was no question of not to. I could see the determined expression in his face.

Within an hour we were in the car driving out of the city. Someway outside, the car quickly turned and I saw big signs of a religious guru ‘Guruji’ serenely smiling at us from a bigger than life cut outs. There were signs towards the Ashram everywhere. I knew that the ashram was to be our destination.

My father had gotten more and more religious in recent days. His religious tendencies seemed to grow with his success. It was vicious cycle, the more successful he got, the lesser time he had from his work. Life got stressful and he turned towards religion, which consumed some of his precious time, increasing the stress in the process. He had tried various techniques of Yoga, different mantras and plethora of gurus. A chance meeting with Guruji in a flight had ended his quest for ‘the guru’. I knew about Guruji, though had never personally seen him.

We were inside the gates of the lush green ashram. The ashram was full of busy devotees, today being weekend a lot of crowd was expected. But my father was apparently held in high esteem, he got a direct entry into a private parking right next to the temple. We were quickly ushered into the temple for a sermon conducted by the Guru himself for his close devotees. It was an honor to be admitted here, but I was bored. I soon fell asleep.

The sermon was followed by a decent lunch followed by a round of bhajans. I had not seen his holiness since the sermon. Father disappeared for a moment or two, and came back with an appointment to meet the Guruji himself. It was the first time he spoke to me since the time we entered the ashram. He told me that he was very disappointed with yesterday's misdemeanor. Luckily Guruji had agreed to personally look into the matter and possibly allow me to make amends. Guruji had seen my future, and he felt I was going through a bad patch. He would be teaching me some secret techniques and I would be fine once again. My father praised the Guruji's courtesy and warned me against mis-behaving in Guruji’s presence.

We were admitted into his chamber, where Guruji sat with his legs on a stool. My father quickly bent down and kissed his feet. He asked me to follow the suit, I hesitated. My father's silent nudge finally made me follow my father's actions. The serene face fitted on a very vast body and Guruji looked at peace. Except for his eyes, they were fidgety.

He made both of us sit near his feet. Looked down upon us and asked me to explain why I was there. I started explaining yesterday's incident but my father got angry at some detail and tried to interject. Guruji's temper rose, he did not like interruptions especially the angry ones. He ordered my father to go into the meditation center to meditate. Anger is not good for the spirit. I have never seen my father agree so meekly to another person. I could see the guilt on his face as he walked out. I knew he was determined to cool himself down, even if it took whole evening. The door closed behind me. Suddenly an unknown fear rose in me.

Guruji asked me to continue. He had taken my hands into his. He wanted more details. I had explained him every thing I had too, but soon I realized that he was more interested in the 'chemistry' part. I mumbled something. I was about to excuse myself on some reason when I felt his hand wander a bit too far. I pushed away his hand, tried to get up but he was agile for his body. He caught my shoulders, and forced me to sit down. I was crying. He was trying to calm me down. For the first time in my life I wished for my father.

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And the door opened, my father walked in. On seeing me, he got concerned. Guruji spoke. 'I have taught her all I knew. The knowledge is emotionally disturbing. But trick is in following it. And don't ask her about it. You or anybody else should never know what I have taught her. And don’t worry about her crying, she will be fine. She might need some more classes, get her here in a months time.' With this he got up. With this explanation, my father did not find any thing unnatural about my crying. I was aghast. I walked as if in trance. I did not sleep through the return journey, yet I do not remember how I reached back home.

My father did not ask me anything. My mother was also instructed by my father, and although she was worried, she did not let me explain anything. I soon realized the futility of explaining anything. He was blind to truth. But I also did not allow any threats from my father to let myself anywhere near the ashram ever.

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I was 21, still living with my parents. It was a year since I had graduated. A year since I had joined my first job. A year since I was dabbling in something more than just alcohol. But that night was different. It was not a regular Saturday night party, rather a special one where admission was only by invitation. And I had managed to get myself an invitation.

It was also the first time that night that I woke up not knowing where I was. The last thing I remembered clearly was snorting a white powder. It had hit me almost immediately. The rest of the party was a blur. My limited knowledge did not yet consist of the fact that I was used to the impure stuff, and the purer and more potent drugs hit me severely.

That night I woke up in a car next to a guy, who was also fast asleep. I didn’t know his name, don’t know it even now. And I don’t remember what went on that night. I don’t dare to ask anyone. Something tells me that what I would hear will not be good.

I gathered myself, feeling ashamed. I always thought such things happen to ‘other’ girls, lacking self control. I was sure I was not devoid of one. I hailed a taxi, it was almost dawn by then. On the way back I decided to keep away from drugs. I wanted to behave myself. I had learnt my lesson.

I reached home. Father was pacing up and down. He was angry, he was muttering. And he had guessed too much.

An argument ensued. Tempers flew. And father brought out a topic I had hoped was buried six years ago. The topic was of Guruji. ‘Guruji wants to complete the course. The bad energy has not left you. The course should be completed, the one you left half way through. He reminded me even last week.’

I was furious. I called Guruji names. I told him what he did to me. Father did not believe me, rather grew furious. He was almost ready to explode. ‘Your guruji is a paedophile’ I screamed, intending to hurt him. And it did. He hit me, on my cheek.

I was defiant. I packed up and left. I walked out of that house on that day never to go back.

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It was my birthday and I was high. The thing which I had promised myself was exactly the thing I had got mired into. Looking back, I was an addict but I did not realize it then. I still thought I could stop at my whim, but today was my birthday, the party had just begun and I was high.

Everybody in the room was a friend of mine, except one person. His name was Tushar. He was a friend of a friend and he was mysterious. He never revealed what he did for living, nor any of the personal details, yet he was charming. The mystery enhanced his charm. I was charming too in the beginning, but then the spirits took over.

All I remember now is the end of the party. I was being driven home. Tushar had offered to drop me. He lived near by. We reached; Tushar had to help me into the house.

I woke up next day with a big headache without much memory but only a dream, a bad dream. In my dream, I was being helped by Tushar up the stairs. He opened my purse took out the keys, opened the door and helped me inside. I fell down on the sofa and ordered him to take out my footwear. He did. I asked him to help me into the bedroom. He did. I reached the bed room. Once inside, I pulled Tushar by collar and did the unthinkable. I did not do it but I tried. I was drunk and he easily managed to let himself loose from my weak grip. He calmed me down, and asked me to lie on the bed. Once in the bed, he sat next to me, took my hand and said "You need not do this to yourself. You are a nice girl." Then a blank. Next thing I remember is waking up.

I am not sure whether it was just a dream. Whatever it was, it started me thinking into meaning of my life. I had an empty feeling. All the friendship’s were just mirage, I had no real friends, I had not real relations, I hated my father and he hated me. I didn’t even know my mother well. She was only in the background all my life. Now she was not even that.

I went to work, almost mechanically smiling the next day. The wheel in the head kept turning. Sometime during the day, thoughts clarified. I had come to a decision, Decision to lead a meaningful life, to make real friends, not these ‘dope’ ones. I had decided to mend my relation with my parents. I decided to meet them soon. On the way back from office I was almost smiling.

I proposed, but God had something else in his mind.

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It was almost dark when I walked into my room. I had packed dinner for myself on the way from office. I lived alone in this house. I opened the door switched on the light. There was a packet lying on the floor. It looked unusual, there was no stamp. There was no ‘from’ address

I opened the packet. A bunch of photographs fell out, uncontrollably scattering on the floor. I bent down to pick them up, picked up the first one and suddenly I lost all the energy. I had to sit down in shock. I watched the other photos with disbelief. The photos were grainy, but it was definitely me wearing almost nothing with a boy also in similar situation.

I recognized the photo of the guy. It was from a party almost six months ago, but I could not remember his name. The feeling slowly sunk in. I could not remember the names of anyone with whom I have had liaisons. I was horrified at the levels I had sunken to. It was a reminder. But why would anyone have these photographs and send it to me?

I wanted to know. I searched for the packet cover, turned it upside down, and found a small chit, ‘You will come to meet me. Your treatment is yet incomplete. If you don’t…’ I felt the chill pass through my heart. It was blackmail, a very cheap blackmail. I felt like crying, for the first time in many years. I despaired!

The resolution of reformed life was forgotten when I opened a bottle of the strongest spirit available in my stock. But the whole bottle failed to refresh me, to lift my spirits. I was going in a downward spiral and I desperately needed help. But I was in a quicksand. The more I struggled, the more I sunk. I was crying. I was fighting. Yet I was sinking.

The phone rang. It was my father, speaking to me for the first time in 3 years. My spirits rose. I wanted his support. But he would not listen to me. He spoke of Guruji wanting to meet me.

Guruji obviously had done his homework. My father pleaded with me, threatened me and when nothing else worked, ordered me to meet Guruji. He said he will pick me up tomorrow morning. I disconnected the call.

My mind had lost the fight, the fight to survive. I threw away the phone and made my way to the kitchen. I knew what I wanted. I had a Japanese knife, very sharp one. In that moment of hurry, I could not find it. The tears were obstructing my view. I was searching desperately when the phone rang again. It had to be my father. “Your problems will be over soon” I said. “Tomorrow you can come to collect my body.”

“Rashmi?” an unknown voice spoke at the other end. I froze, it was not my father. And I did not recognize the number. I quickly disconnected, found the knife I was searching for and walked peacefully into the bedroom. It took only one deft cut.

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Today, exactly 2 years since that fateful night, I am in a train on the way to meet my mother who has since separated with my father. She should have done it years ago, but that’s a different story.

Right now, Tushar is with me. He is more than a friend now. He is my fiancé.

An absent-minded act of pocketing the keys, saved my life. Both literally and metaphorically. It was a string of coincidences, he finding my keys while packing his windcheater, obtaining my number from his friend, calling me, I mistaking him for my father, and revealing my suicidal intentions. He quickly came over, opened the door with my own keys. It was him who was asking me questions, which I mistook for hallucinations. The question/answer session kept me awake and alive, while he bandaged me and took me to a nearby hospital.

Two days later he made me an offer I could not refuse. An offer which involved me leaving everything behind and accompanying him to his rehabilitation center in the middle of a tribal district. Pre-condition? No mobile, No newspaper till he approves. The payback: ‘I will take care of the Guruji. He will never trouble you again.’ I never believed the payback part, a tribal doctor was nothing more than a dust when compared to the mega-establishment of Guruji. Yet I followed my gut feeling. I followed him. It was the right decision. These were two depressing years, struggling against the drugs and struggling to get used to rural environment. But I did adjust to the serene beauty of nature and I also did recover from addiction. I am clean. For six months I have not shown any symptoms. And I am happy.

Tushar gave me a newspaper clipping. On it, the serene face of Guruji was smiling at me. I felt nauseated. Although I had not seen the photographs since that night, I realized that I had not gotten over the incident. I started reading the article. Somebody had marked the last paragraph.

‘The allegations sexual misconduct first started appearing in the “The Chosen Times’. Guruji denied it vehemently. But the damage was done. A flood of complaints were soon received, followed by examination of financial misconduct. Guruji was in jail for 2 months. He got out on bail. He was free from the police but not from the news. Allegations continued, his property confiscated and 2 weeks after his realize, it was announced that Guruji had attained Samadhi. Whether he killed himself, or was murdered nobody can know. But we can be sure that we have seen the last of the Guruji’.

I turned towards Tushar and asked him ‘How did you do it? I know it was you who did it. Do you have some influence at The Chosen? How did you manage it?’ He smiled, ‘I punched the initial hole in the fragile dam, and water did the rest. A little bit. The Chosen is owned by the Malpe Shetty Group of Industries and my name is M. Tushar Shetty. M stands for Malpe.

I was shocked; He had everything, inherited fortune, personal individual success. Why was he marrying me, a total failure, a nobody?

Tushar was calm, ‘You are not a failure. You fought and fought well given the circumstances. A person is nothing but a product of the environment and your parents surely are the most important environment. In your case I had guessed a lot even before I had heard your story. Now I know you are a victim of ignored childhood. But you had the courage to recover from it. Your father is ambitious, he rose from nothing. He fought all the way to the top. But he paid the price for it. You paid the price for it! It’s not your fault how you grew up.’

He continued ‘I trust you. I trusted you from the moment I met you. You only needed a little bit of guidance. And last 2 years have proved me correct. Its not a shame to have a dirty face, shame comes when you keep it dirty. And you are clean now. I am proud of you.’

I smiled, resting my head on his shoulder, I slept peacefully. For the first time in my life, I felt secure.