In continuation to:
In The Summer Of 2002 - [Part I]
The Call That Saved My Life - [Part II]
The Unholy Revealation - [Part III]
Meeting John Barleycorn - [Part IV]

I looked at the large heavy steel door in front of me. It was fixed to heavy steel shafts that made an invincible partition between the hallway where I stood and whatever was there on the other side. All I could see was a wall. On both sides of me were electronically padlocked cells. Each cell had six iron bunk beds fixed to the wall, three on either side. Everything I saw was painted pale green.

I could make out that I was inside a prison which was quite perplexing cause as far I remembered last I was in my house, drinking vodka, alone. On a weekday. At 10 in the morning. The day had started pretty well. A friend of mine had just returned from Kazakhstan, where they produced and consumed top-notch Vodka, and gifted me a bottle of Smirnoff. I don't know why, but on that particular day, I wanted to try out a new experiment. I knew that Vodka was difficult to smell on one's breath. So I hoped to sneak in a shot or two before going to work, and enjoy the day in its warm glow. Nothing more. I did just that. And went to work.

By the time I reached office, I didn't feel like working at all. I wanted to drink again. Funny thing is, it didn't take me a second to pretend headache and head back home, promising to be back post lunch. I can't explain why I said I will be back. I knew I was going to be too drunk in the next hour or so. Plus, nobody would have refused me a whole day's leave. But, I didn't. Without having any reason, excuse or pressing need for it, I gave a word that I wasn't going to keep. The part of me that provoked such self-defeating acts is still a mystery.

I went back home, and started to drink happily. I remember making long distance calls to many. I don't remember who I called or what I said though. I was feeling extremely agitated instead of joyous and carefree. Then I woke in a jail cell.

Someone shook me quite forcefully, waking me up from my drunken fugue. My immediate reaction was to lash back in fury, but I found myself too tired even to keep my eyes open for a straight second. My head was heavy and felt like a bag of wet sand. When I was shaken by my arms again, I raised my body slowly. As I sat, I felt dizzy, and wanted to throw up. I let the sensation of nausea pass, and then opened my eyes. I was sitting in a bunk bed. There was one above and one below me. Three more stood fixed, one above the other, on the facing wall. Six or seven of unshaven faces were staring at me with amusement.

A man in light green uniforms, who I identified as one of the prison guards, stood outside my cell with its door open. On seeing me get up, he gestured me to come out. I heard people snigger as I got down and walked the four or five steps steps from my bunk to the cell door. I felt my knees give in under my weight. The muscles in my legs twitched uncontrollably. I was going to fall now, and make an ass of myself in front of all these strangers, I thought to myself.

As I stepped out and stood in the corridor, I saw the large iron door before me. Five, maybe six, stood next to it, in a line, with their backs to the steel poles. Three guards stood at one side, alert and serious in their starched uniforms. They had guns, I noticed. I was always fascinated by guns. Especially the .75 magnum. The guard who escorted me said something. His voice was sharp and too loud on my ears. I had no idea what he wanted from me. I didn't speak Arabic. But I kind of assumed that he wanted me to fall in line with the others. So I went and stood on the left side of the line, just like everybody else, with my legs together, arms in the back, and head held erect. I took my place by the left because I didn't want to be the first one to be put through whatever it was that we were going to be put through now.

To say I was scared will not be true. Situations such as the one I found myself in cannot be described as scary. Because fear, even when the cause is irrational, is always a rational response. It is our survival instinct getting ready for a fight or flee reaction. What I felt at that moment was neither. I was terrified beyond reactions. I believe a large part of the vodka that I remember drinking was left in my blood. Cause I stood there without fainting.

After standing next to each other for about 5 minutes, I found the courage to glance at those next to me. I must have been insane because I actually remember nodding my head and smiling at them as if we were meeting at a social gathering and exchanging pleasantries. By the look of it, seemed like Indians, Pakistanis and Bangladeshis. Good. At least these guys must speak Hindi, I thought.

Soon the large steel door opened and we were all escorted into a small room. Another large steel door closed behind us. But this one was fixed to a concrete wall, and had a rather glass-covered hatch in the middle, about six feet from the ground. One of the guards barked something at us. I looked my fellow inmates in the hope having that foreign tongue translated. Someone did. We had been asked to stand in a circle. As the circle moved, and one by one, we reached the glass hatch we were to stop and look straight into it. Then we were to show the right and left of our face. I guess I walked that circled about three or for times. forward. It didn't take me long to figure out what was happening. I had seen enough Hollywood movies to know what an identification parade was like. What I didn't know was that I had just escaped being hung by my balls till death. Breaking in, attempted robbery and assault on a local woman with a deadly weapon was pretty serious offence in a Muslim country.

However, whoever it was was trying to identify didn't identify any one of us as the perpetrator of the crime that had been committed. We all were escorted back to our respective cells and once again, securely padlocked. As I sat on my bunk bed, I realised that my tongue was stuck to the inside of my mouth, and my lips were sealed shut. I needed to drink water, and I needed to drink water fast. I also wanted to know what time it is. Whether it was day or night. What I was doing there. And most importantly, I wanted to know if anyone was coming to get me out.

A scrawny looking fellow stood next to me. His fashion sense belonged to the 60s. I assumed he must be from a village. He smiled at me ingratiatingly. That was perplexing.

“Namaste, bhai. I'm Ravi.” He stood by my bed, and said softly, in chaste Hindi.

“Namaste.” I said, most coldly, just to avoid being rude. At that moment in time, I was feeling so hung-over, tired, weak, thirsty, hungry, sleepy, confused, feverish, angry, helpless and dangerously on-the-edge that making small talk was the last thing on my mind. Plus, I wasn't much of a people person.

“When is your lawyer coming?” He asked me most earnestly. My lawyer? He had my attention instantly. I have a lawyer. When did that happen?

However, in a few seconds I knew the truth. I must have mentioned something about having a lawyer to him in my 'black-out.' When drunk out of my senses, I had the habit of saying things which did not even having a passing semblance to the world I lived in or the life that was mine.

“I'll call him in a while.” I heard myself say, in a voice that reflected someone who was in jail but was either rich enough or powerful enough to have a personal lawyer. I could see myself split into two people inside right away. The scared, lonely, terrified man was going to sit back and watch the cool, suave, smooth, hardened criminal that Ravi was going to see. With an audience, I was helpless. Like in a trance, I stepped into the limelight immediately. The real me, or what I thought was the real me, stood aside and watched me play the part that I felt was most apt for the moment. When people patted me on the back and said what a good guy I was, they didn't realise that they were actually applauding a performance.

“Why are you in? Drugs?” The conspiratorial look in his eyes did not escape me.

Did he mean I was caught using drugs or trafficking it? Saying yes to either was only going to make cooking up stories imperative. I would have loved to. I always loved to tell stories. I have been a smuggler, undercover cop, boy-band manager, divorcee, rich playboy, and many other interesting people in bars. Who I was or what I wanted to be on a particular day depended on how drunk I was and who I was talking to. But inside those prison walls, without alcohol, I simply did not have the energy to spin a yarn. So I just looked straight into Ravi's eyes for a minute silently and then smiled a smile that implied, 'you know better than to ask me stuff like that.' I knew that tricked worked. He can now imagine whatever he wants. I had given him the silent permission.

“They pulled me in for selling moonshine.” He stated, in a low voice, glancing around him furtively. There were plenty of those who sold liquor illegally in that part of the world. In fact, they were a thriving majority. The liquor was cheap and door-delivered. I myself had been their customer many times. I didn't feel much sympathy for him inside the jail. Outside it, I would have been glad to get his mobile number.

“I've been here for a week only. Can you get me out?” Ravi turned out to be a smart cookie. In one week, he was selling contraband and inside the jail too. He sure was going to go a long way in his line of business. He had guts. It was either that or desperation. Both can make a man look like a cowboy any day.

I didn't know what to say. A normal person would have said, “Sorry but right now I don't know how to save myself. You better find somebody else” But not me. For reasons I don't know I was being what Ravi wanted me to be. Or what I assumed Ravi wanted me to be. I couldn't say 'no' to such silly requests. All I had to do was make some phone calls and Ravi would be out of this prison in no time. That is how it happens in movies. Or the books I've read.

“I need a cigarette. Do you have one?” I felt nicotine would steady my nerves a bit.

“Oh! We are not allowed to bring our own cigarettes inside. Every morning, they give us two per person. That is our ration. But you have to pay for it.”

If there was a dampener this was it, I thought! No cigarettes. Damn. Cigarettes always gave me a sense being comforted. It was friend. When I held it between my fingers, I wasn't alone anymore. With enough of them in my pocket, I could walk through any situation without going red in my face. The moment I took one and kept it between my lips, I was transformed from being a helpless spectator to a calm, scheming man with the nerve of steel.

“I don't seem to have any money in my pocket. Do you have any?” I asked Ravi.

“No. But you can ask the guards. They may have taken it for safekeeping while sending you in.” That information was a relief. I got up and walked to the steel door. I knocked gently and the small slot opened. A pair of disinterested eyes peered at me. “I need some money to buy cigarettes.” I said.

He barked back. I didn't understand it. I raised my right enough for him to see, then rubbed my thumb, index and middle finger together, repeating, “money...filoos..filoos” very slowly. Filos was arabic for money.

“AH!” He exclaimed, smiling. Friendly people, I thought. I heard the door before me open. I stepped into a small closed room. There were four or five guards in there. The oldest of them sat behind a small table. He waved me closer. I couldn't understand why it looked like they were all ready to burst out laughing. I was going red in the face.

“You want cigarettes?” He spoke, looking at me, in heavily accented English.

“Yes.” I said hesitantly, not sure if that was going to be held against me.

He took a thick, bound book from under the table and opened it in front of me. I stood watching as he thumbed through through the pages, stopped, and finally ran his thick finger over a column. A pen was extended towards me. I figured I was supposed to sign somewhere. Of course, this book just looked like some storekeepers stock list, so I signed. I didn't want to be signing any legal looking papers without knowing what was written in there.

He got up, opened a locker on the wall, and brought out my watch, wallet, and glasses. Ah! So this is where they were. I felt relieved. Without my glasses I couldn't see much. To avoid embarrassment, I kept my eyes on the ground all the time. That was only adding to my suffering inside till then.

“Count.” The old man was pointing at my wallet. I checked it. Not that I knew what was there before I came in here. I counted simply because I was asked to do so.

“All OK?” He asked me. I nodded my head, and put my glasses on. All this while I was painfully aware of being watched. I felt the 10 or 12 pair of eyes bore into me with great intensity.

“Cigerattes?” I mumbled.

“6:30 only.” Someone from behind me said. I looked at my watch. It was five in the morning. I had spent a whole night, and possible a large part of the previous day in this jail. With absolutely no idea as to why.

I turned around to go back when the old cop asked me, “Do you remember anything from yesterday?”

I froze in my tracks. I knew it was coming. The dreadful feeling that I was now familiar with since the very first time I 'blacked-out' when 14-years old, was back again. Anxiety, and fear coupled with curiosity and shame. I didn't want to know what I did yesterday. Yet I wanted to know what I did. The thought paralysed me.

I looked at them blankly, waiting, expecting to hear the worse. Instead, they just burst out laughing. I just wanted to disintegrate and vanish into thin air right then. Death was welcome but not public humiliation. I just couldn't take it.

“You remember showing us your penis?” One of the younger cops asked me while trying hard to control his laughter. He was holding his stomach, and bent over from the sensation.

“C'mon, brother, give us a look see. Show it again!!” Someone else said. The laughter just grew louder and louder. I heard some Arabic words being spoken. More laughter ensued. It felt like the every drop of blood in my body was now rushing to my head and ready to burst out through my eyes. And ears. And nose. And mouth. I was sure my otherwise pale face and ears had gone red as a ripe tomatoes. I felt sweat trickle down my brows, and the back of my neck. My heart was throbbing so insanely that I could hear it echo inside my brain.

Yet, I couldn't walkaway from that scene without showing them how tough I was. I had to show them I was not some punk they picked up. I was a cowboy, a crazy cowboy. I stood there for a minute or two, forced a smile on my face that almost tore my face muscles, pretended to be looking at them and replied, “Ya Allah! You really don't really want to turned on while on duty, do you?” I let out a sound that I hoped resembled a laughter.

Then with a slight swagger I slowly walked towards the steel door that would take me back to the cells. The laughter continued. But I had shown them that I was not flustered. That I was macho. A tough nut. They would know I was cool. And that was what was important. Inside, I felt like a piece of turd. But as long as no one knew it, I was fine with that.

Once again, I stepped inside the prison ward and the door closed behind me. The cells were all open now. It was like a fish market, heavy with the stink of human sweat. I walked towards my cell without looking at anyone. I couldn't. I just wanted all this to disappear and be back in room, in my bed, under the blankets. I wanted to cry.

Ravi was waiting, but this time four or five others stood surrounding him. The look on their face was enough to convince me that he had told them who I was. Whoever it was that I was according to him, I figured, had to be a cool guy cause those people made way the instant I stepped inside the cell.

“I got you a cigarette.” Ravi extended a lighter and cigarette, smiling most pleased. I took it from him and lighted it immediately.

“Excuse me now. I need to lie down and think for a while. I will talk to you later.” I said, blowing smoke towards the ceiling. I sure had a lot think about.

At 5:30, we were all called to a large hall, which I later realised was the dining hall, and served soup, bread and butter. That's what I remember. I could eat nothing. I drank a lot of ice cold water that was available, and tried my best to drink a little bit of soup. The smell of butter made me want to puke.

Later I was given the 'one phone call' to contact a friend/relative who would bail me out. I called up my friend. He was also my boss. He was already aware of my situation. Expatriate communities anywhere are a close knit group, I assume. News such as this travel like wild fire. He was fuming and refused to do anything at all. He went on calling me names, and all the other things people do in such situations. I felt so humiliated that if I had another call left, I would have banged the phone on him immediately. But that was the only lifeline I had. So I hung on to it with dear life. Finally, after falling on his feet two dozen times, he said he will see what he could do. However, he also said, 'don't count on it.'

This was real police business. And quite unlike in India, these guys are said to take their jobs seriously. Corruption is said to be non-existent among the law enforcement and legal department. I didn't have much to go on except my friend's half-hearted, 'let me see what I can do.' So I gave in to my destiny. I stopped struggling for a while. Instead I contemplated what it would like to be jailed for a considerable period of time in a land where I was a foreigner from a third-world country. Plus, where the cops, by now, in all probability thought I had some interesting sexual fantasies. The possibilities made me want to grab a cigarette instantly.

[... to be continued.]