In continuation to:
In The Summer Of 2002 - [Part 1]
The Call That Saved My Life - [Part II]
The Unholy Revealtion - [Part III]
Meeting John Barleycorn - [Part IV]
At The Gates Of Hell - [Part V]

As I sat on the bunk bed inside my prison cell, pretending to be brave without feeling so at all, I repeated to myself, 'Never drink again. Never ever.'

I was 24 and in serious trouble because of my drinking. Yet again.

If somebody had told me that I might have a drinking problem, I would not have given it a second thought. After all, I was a cowboy. A crazy cowboy. Quirkiness of character was my birth right. An average day in my life went something like this – wake up all groggy and hung-over from previous night's binge, skip breakfast, reach office late and smelling of alcohol, drink as much coffee as possible, usually skip lunch because the smell of food was still making me sick, wait restlessly for the work to get over, head straight to my favorite watering hole, drink till about 2 or 3 in the morning or till they closed or threw me out (whichever happened first), head home on an auto pilot, sift through dinner, and comatose, hit the bed. To start the whole process again the next day.

At 24, when young people dream of buying cars or exotic adventures, I was chasing money for my next drink. I didn't realize that I worked only to feed my habit. Requests for salary advances from me were a regular thing at the accounts department. I always had an excuse or other to justify it. Not that anyone believed it, I am sure. But no one cared enough to refuse either. I couldn't borrow from friends cause I didn't have any. So whenever I found myself short of cash, I tagged along with my boss who was socially very active and kind of drank everyday. Free booze was good, but I hated drinking with other people. They drank too slow. In between the drinks, I was expected to make polite conversation too. I just wanted to open the bottle, and start drinking till I felt peaceful inside and oblivious to be pressure of being me. Drinking in company also made sure that I had to control and limit myself, something that required an herculean effort on my part. I would rather not drink at all, than control my drinks. There was no buzz in that. On the other hand, if I did drink the way I wanted to, it meant risking another 'blackout incident' that I would regret later. That was sure. My experiences had proved that. Not once. Not twice. But over and over again.

Drinking wasn't a pleasure anymore. It was a pain I couldn't avoid. The obsessive compulsion that I could not explain. Even when I most sincerely tried to stay away, I found myself drawn back to it. My struggle for abstinence would last one or two days. I tried different ways of not drinking. Since insomnia became part of my life during those periods, I rented movies and watched them back-to-back through the night. I joined a lending library and bought home books. They were returned without being read. I could hardly go beyond a page or two. It was too difficult to concentrate. I even tried not going home on many occasions. I was trying to break the pattern. So I became an uninvited guest at the homes of those that I knew. But no matter what I did, I was back to where I was – right before a beer mug, alone and hoping like hell that this time it was going to be different.

I had the vaguest feeling that something was terribly wrong inside of me. But I didn't know what. As far as others were concerned, I looked fine. Outside, there was no change to see. I hadn't suddenly grown horn or tails one day. They just saw someone who drank mercilessly, and didn't seem to care a damn. Because if I did, I would either stop or control myself. I was getting in trouble all the time. I was getting into humiliating and embarrassing situations. I wasn't feeling exactly normal within. That was the only time in my life when I wished I had someone to speak with. Someone who was going to hear me out before jumping to conclusions. Family was never present in my life. My friends were those that discussed esoteric things over drinks. They disappeared just as soon as the alcoholic haze did. Anyway, I was sure no one would have understood my insanity or believed me. How difficult is it not to drink, they would have asked. I know. Well-meaning acquaintances had already asked me that question many times by now.

Many years later, I would read an alcoholic share about his life, “I didn't end up in trouble every time I drank, but every time I was in trouble alcohol was at the bottom of it.” He could as well be talking about the last two years of my life. They were living hell. A hell that I carried inside of me.

The fact that I had lost control over my drinking was so absurd a notion that I couldn't even explain or justify it to myself. I didn't know why I drank. Nor when I will drink, or how much I will drink. It was as tough as trying to explain that one has no control over, say, one's arms. How can you convince someone that your right arm had a mind of its own? That it slapped you when you tried to eat, choked you when you tried to sleep, slashed you with a knife when you least expected it? How could you explain to strangers that it wasn't you but your hand that grabbed their bottom while walking on the street? How the hell will you explain away playing with your private parts while in a public place? Will anyone believe that it was not you but your hand that was doing it? That's you can't helpt it. You can't. It's too bizarre. If I said I was possessed, people would have looked at me strangely and thought I sure was drinking too much.

And now, I had to explain why I was inside a prison to a lot of people who would look at me incredulously the moment I stepped out. The most perplexing part was, sitting inside my cell, wondering if I will be bailed out or not, I too was as clueless as they were.

While I did hope that my boss would be kind this one time, I also contemplated the possibility of him not being so. Which would mean I was stuck inside the prison for a few months, at the least. The more my thoughts progressed in that direction, the more appealing they looked to me. For I knew that as long as I was behind bars, I had no way of drinking. Since I had failed to stay away from alcohol on my own, maybe, this was a good idea. Being forced to stay away from drinks may actually help me get rid of the obsession. But that was not all. I also was very tired. Waking up each day wondering what disaster was waiting to befall upon me wasn't exactly the life I hoped to live. Fighting an enemy I couldn't see day in, and day out was draining. My mind wanted to go on a long holiday for while. I guess, at that moment, I must have been the only prisoner there who wanted to stay inside to escape his life outside.

At around 11a.m., a prison guard came to announce that I was free to leave. Ravi got up before me. He held my hands and looked pleadingly into my eyes, “Bhai, please get your lawyer to bail me out. I have nobody outside to ask for help. Please.” I assured him that that was exactly what I was going to do and followed the prison guard. I felt really stupid and small. The hope in Ravi's eyes was real. I was playing a part. He wasn't. I didn't have to yet I did. The iron door of the cell closed behind me with a loud clang. The sound sliced through the space the I and Ravi had shared for a while, like a sharp knife, separating it. By the time I had reached the warden's cabin outside, and saw my boss standing there with the most ominous look on his face, I was no longer the man that I assumed Ravi wanted me to be – a tough baddie with the right connections. I was just a regular guy, afraid, embarrassed, unsure of his present or future, and feeling slightly dizzy. I knew Ravi was never going to hear from the baddie he befriended inside the cell. Maybe when he gets out, he would brag about it secretly to his friends. About how he shared a cell with this real world don who had his own lawyer even in a foreign country, and got out on bail faster than anyone else. That thought brought a smile to my face. I don't know why. I guess I loved to live in other people's minds.

Getting out of the jail was only the beginning of my troubles. I was fired from my job. The chairman of my company was very well-known in the country and he couldn't afford to ruin his reputation by having fools like me work for him. My sister's marriage was coming up and I had promised my father money. I didn't have any but if at all there were chances of borrowing it they had just gone up in flames with my new unemployed status. I didn't know what to tell my father. I was told to leave the country within a weeks time. I felt that was generous on the part of my company only to realize that as a foreigner I could not leave the country till I had presented myself before a judge at the local courthouse. It was for him to decide what my punishment will be. For all purposes, my blood froze on hearing this.

Two days I sat without stepping out of the room I stayed in, alone, not knowing what to do. I was asked to stay put by my boss till further instructions. You know what is really bad about anticipating trouble. You kill yourself long before trouble gets to you. That's what was happening to me. I could not eat, sleep, let alone sit at one place for five minutes at a stretch. My heart raced continuously throughout. I badly wanted to drink but was too afraid of what would happen if someone came to know about it. I wanted to be seen as repenting my 'mistake.' It would look insane to be committing the same mistake the very next day of bail. Meanwhile, I had spoken to another higher-up in the company and begged for my job back. Again, not because I sincerely wanted another chance. No. If it was any other time in my life, I would have moved on without a second glance. I was too proud to show regret. Or admit my losses. But right then, I was desperate. I came from a poor family, my dad didn't work, my sister was about to get married, I was broke and, as far as I could see, the 'employed' status was my only hope at finding a way out. Though I really didn't know what I was going to do.

Usually during a calamity everybody you know and their uncles drop by offering help, even if it is only to be seen as socially correct. But in my case, the exact opposite happened. First of all, there weren't many I knew. And those that I did, stayed behind an invisible wall of silence. No one dropped by or even called as I sat and pondered on all the possible shapes my future could take. Though being treated as an outcast was nothing new, the awful situation I was in sure made me want some company even if only to ward off the loneliness I was feeling. Growing up, I have on many occasions been the poor kid rich parents in the neighbourhood tell their children not to mingle with. While offering fake, polite and uncomfortable plastic smiles on seeing me. I knew what it felt to be avoided. It hurt, but I was good at hiding it.

The date for my court appearance was finalized. It was a Thursday, I remember. The very thought of going to a court, where I could neither understand nor speak the language, to defend myself was soul-sapping to say the least. I was told that the punishment could be either a fine and a jail sentence, or a fine which if not paid will become a jail sentence. The latter was, obviously, more appealing.

I didn't have much money with me. If I had to pay a fine I needed a decent amount. Once again, the begging spree started. I spoke to everyone I knew and vaguely remembered of. Except of one innocent soul, suddenly everyone was short of cash. Now I had a little more money but not enough to walk into a courthouse sure of walking out scot-free. I also asked people to at least come with me for moral support. No one did. I should have seen then that alcohol could make indifferent strangers out of casual accquaintances pretty fast. Without enough money and not enough courage to go into the court alone, at one point I even considered not going there at all.

Then my company's legal advisor was requested to tidy up the mess. He was an elderly lawyer and scholar from Egypt. A pious and good man at heart, I believe. The day before I was to make my court appearance, he called me into his cabin and comforted me. I told him all about my background and sister's forthcoming marriage. I told him how badly I needed that job. He asked me if I was aware of my mistake. I was. I didn't want to drink and go to jail. That was a mistake. I just wanted to drink. But I didn't say that. I guess he took pity on me. Because he promised to speak with the Chairman and try to get my job back. He wanted to discuss some last minute things with me before taking me to court the next day morning, and requested me to drop by his house at 6 that evening. I promised I would. I did. An hour late. And stinking of beer.

I want you to know that I most sincerely did not want to drink. I tried not to too. My future was at stake. Yes, I was elated by the fact that a situation that seemed hopeless has changed for the better. I have a very respected legal advisor accompanying me to wrap up the case, and the possibility of getting my job back. Money was still an issue. But then, two out of three ain't bad, I felt. I had to just make it through one more night and then I could be free to do what I wanted. I had to act adequately regretful, be sober and things could just end up fine. I had to act because I didn't feel regret or remorse. I didn't feel anything at all. Except fear and frustration. I promised myself that I will get through this ordeal without adding more problems to it. Yet, that afternoon I found myself accepting an invitation from an accquaintance to discuss another job prospects. He was waiting in a bar. So when I walked into our company lawyer's house later at 7p.m., I was blind drunk. I cannot explain why.

I don't know what he made out of my behaviour. But I believe, it isn't too hard to assume. Though all he did was get me to write my residence address and give it to him. He was going to come and pick me up in the morning.

The next day, just a little past 7:30 in the morning I was in the courthouse. A little before 8, I was handed over to a cop. My lawyer took leave, saying everything was arranged and wished me good luck! My heart sank to the bottom of the Atlantic. I was all alone in that colossal building infested with law abiding citizens and law enforcers, who only spoke Arabic. For once, I felt like a real criminal. A third-rate citizen.

The cop lead me to the large cell, situated next to the judge's chamber. I had a hundred different questions in my mind but was so terrified that none came out of my mouth. There were about 50 odd people inside the detention room. I slunk towards the middle of the crowd and felt the 50 odd pair of eyes stare right at me. Like in any given situation that provides me with an audience, instantly I was tranformed into something I was not. A cool, casual, law-breaker who was more at ease in the judge's chamber than the outside world.

The judge arrived and proceedings seemed pretty fast. Quite unlike what I had seen in movies, it took less than 2 minutes to do away with most guys. The judge would ask a question, the defendant would say something, the judge would pass the sentence, and a cop would bring back the defendant to the detention room. I couldn't see any lawyers around. Then, my name was called. I stepped out and stood in front of the judge. My heart pounded like a sledgehammer against my rib cage threatening to dislocate it in a while. I felt my face flush. He asked me something, and as I was briefed, I nodded my head in agreement immediately. It seemed to have irked the judge. He repeated the question, this time more loudly, and with a tinge of anger and impatience. The cop came to me and said, “Speak.” Then I remembered that I was asked to say a single word when the judge spoke to me. I didn't know what it meant, but said it all the same. The judge looked releived. He sentenced me. Again, I had no idea what he said. I was escorted back to the detention room.

Finally, after 90 minutes or so, the judge left. Post which, all of us in the detention chamber were lead downstairs into a very large bunker with iron gates.

It felt like I had walked into a bee's nest. The place buzzed with whispered conversation, and the sound of shuffling feet on concrete. The stink of human sweat made the air heavy. The place was packed with people of varying nationalities, ages, and skin colors. Maybe 200, I thought to myself. There wasn't enough space, many stood huddled up to each other, making visibly closed groups. A few were squatted on floor. I wasn't sure what I was doing there. Was I going to be jailed? I had seen trucks that carry convicts on my way here.

Feeling helpless and abandoned, I found myself a place by the gate. Every time the thud thud of a cop's boot was heard coming down, I watched to see the look of anticipation rise in the eyes of those around me. The cop would stop before the large iron gate, which was locked from outside, and read out aloud a list of names from a notebook. Those who were called would make their way towards the gate, and start paying up the policeman! I was surprised. I would have been shocked but a stronger response like that required energy I did not possess at that moment. I wasn't able to eat anything for the last couple of days. I hadn't had breakfast on that day either and it was well past 2p.m. The fury of the dessert sun invaded us from the ground beneath our feet, it seemed. It was turning that bunker into a microwave, slowly cooking us, maybe angry for having been blocked with concrete above our heads.

I watch the cop taking money, most unashamedly and in the open. He then opened the gate for those who had paid. I was considering the possibilities of bribing my way out, when I heard the fellow next to me tell someone else that the cop was collecting the fine imposed by the judge earlier in the day.

At 4p.m., I was still sitting inside the bunker. Eight long hours had passed since I walked into the courthouse. Since I had nothing much to think about except my fate, and there were only so many possibilities than can be imagined when a policeman held the key to it, I tried to while away time by thinking of other things. And instantly, I remembered something really important.

Back home my sister was getting married that day.

They must have just finished the grand lunch, I thought painfully. By nature, I ate frugally. But that day, I wished I was part of the feast. I could see myself devouring everything in sight hungrily. I felt tears well up in my eyes. I imagined the whole of my family together, congratulating each other on that wonderful day, celebrating. I sat hunched, with my back to a wall, among strangers, with an empty stomach. No breakfast, no lunch. Not even a glass of water. Sitting there, for once I wished that I was with my family. That I could hug my mother and cry like a baby. I felt terribly alone and non-existant in the world.

Then I heard my name being called out. I rushed to the gate, only to realize with a shock that I wasn't going out that day.

I was exactly five bucks short of the fine amount. My heart raced, so did my mind. I had to find a way out because I knew no one, absolutely no one was going to come and save me if I got stuck inside. If I didn't pay the fine, that was what was going to happen. A jail sentence. A minimum of three months ran through my head. The survival instinct kicked in, I guess. In the crowd that was almost falling over each other to pay up, I picked up a sympathetic face and explained to him my predicament. After a quick sob story and a promise to return the money back, he loaned me the 5 bucks that stood between me and my freedom. I don't remember paying him back. Maybe I did. My memory is worse than it used to be.

To this day, I don't have all the details of my arrest. Except that around three in the afternoon, a local woman called the police saying a mad man was at her door. I had been banging on her door and shouting. She stayed next to my building. I hadn't noticed that building before. Nor do I know who that lady is, or what what I was screaming my head off for. Police took me away and charged me with public nuisance while drunk. Thankfully, that's all they did. The whole of the neighbourhood was there to witness my arrest, which itself was something to see. I had ran up and down the stairs of that poor lady's building quite a few times, before the cops could grab me. Like a snapshot, I remember sitting on the stairs and looking out through a hollow brick wall. Down below, there was a police car with its red and blue lights on. I must have been on the first or second floor. There was a huge crowd looking at the building with uncontrollable curiosity. I remember thinking of how the 'anti-hero' always dies in the end. I don't know why.

The Chairman was kind enough to give my job back. The family that sublet their extra bedroom to me were kind beyond all understanding. They let me continue to stay there. But I was so embarrassed stepping out of my room, or on to the road that I considered moving to different locality. Which I did. And my fate followed me.

In the next couple of months, I was going to be thrown out of that country, be Iqbal Mirchi's right-hand man, meet my brother-in-law for the first time while being held captive in a hotel, almost get arrested, become a model coordinator, pimp, shylock and just about lose my mind.

To be continued in, ' Out Of My Mind, And Out In The World – [Part VII]'