In continuation to:
In The Summer Of 2002 - [Part I],
The Call That Saved My Life - [Part II],
The Unholy Revealtion - [Part III]





“I'll buy you a helicopter, mama.”

That now-famous-in-the-family line springboard-ed my descend into a personal hell. I don't remember saying it. I don't remember most of anything before or after that either. But both my sister and mother insist that I spoke those words with great sincerity. In between throwing up in my bed and groaning like a sea-sick, old man. My very first meeting with John Barelycorn a.k.a. Alcohol, as it turned out to be, was a complete disaster.

That night was a harbinger of the catastrophes waiting to happen in my life. It was a sign of what my life was soon to become. I had no inkling about it. Or else I would have never, ever touched it again. That night made sure that 14 years later I would end up an outcast in the society, completely broke, going crazy and ready to slash my wrists. It also ensured that most part of the 14 years that lay ahead of me were going to be an encore of what my mother and sister saw in my room that day - insanity too stark to be denied and too bizarre to be explained. My first drink had resulted in a 'blackout,' a term that even the most seasoned drinkers don't like to associate themselves with. I was only 14-years old.

I was told later that at the bottom of all my difficulties was my need for approval. I agreed. Though I am not sure that was the complete truth. But I agreed with people all the same. Hence I avoided confrontations of all kinds.

I was in 10^th grade and in love with a girl from my school. Even today I like to believe that she reciprocated my feelings. I believe so because I am a naïve optimist and also because I never knew what she thought for sure. I never spoke to her for the entire 4 years we studied together. Yes, that was me. Psychoanalysis would ascribe my behavior to 'fear of rejection' without any further evidence. A good psychologist, if given a chance, would also have defined me as an asocial but otherwise fine personality in less than 5 minutes. All he had to do was give a name to what people around me knew already.

I was a loner. My attempts at being social were never quite successful. I spent most of my time with books, or inside my room. I was always the odd one out in a crowd. I didn't believe in God or visit temples. I avoided weddings, get-togethers' and such family gatherings like plague. I minded my own business, was soft spoken and very sensitive by nature. I cared for dogs and cats. I was sympathetic to old people. I even joked with some.

However, underneath the surface there were things that no one saw or even suspected. I never let them. Everything I did was to cover up what I really felt. Partly because I couldn't articulate or explain what I felt. As long as I remember, I had felt a simmering uneasiness around people. In the company of more than one person, I felt nervous and constantly standing under a microscope. A strange sense of emptiness followed me where ever I went. I knew there was an invisible void inside of me that nothing ever filled. I was aware of it every second I was awake. Among friends and family, I felt like a stranger. I could never share their joy or happiness. Never relate with their sorrows either. I was sure I did not belong amidst those people. Absolutely dis-connected from the world in which I lived, I walked among them without a soul.

People always wondered what made me so sad. My mind and soul were too young to be corrupted by the realities of life. I was only fourteen. Yet I carried a sorrow, that was too old for my age, and could not find a reason for. To me, from the very beginning itself, life was playing a part for the world to see. I was whatever you wanted me to be. The living, breathing separateness in me screamed. To be heard, understood, helped. But the silent screams went unheard till I decided to kill myself at the age of 28.

In the village that I was growing up, we did not know what psychology was. So there were no psychologists. About two and a half hours drive away from my village, there was a psychiatrist though. His name was mentioned in whispers and behind closed doors. People who ran naked on the roads or thought they were reincarnated divine beings were taken to him most promptly. As a child, what I could never understand was how those who, while being taken to him, had to be held down by four or five big men, usually came back lying limply on a stretcher like new born babies. The one I went to see was foaming at the end of his mouth, and speaking gibberish as if his tongue was too heavy for him. His head rolled from side to side without any control like that of an old doll. I was too young to know that electric shocks were still considered a civilised and legal way of treating insanity. But there was something so terribly anti-life about that sight that I never went to see another man or woman returning from 'that' doctor.

The intervention of a qualified psychologist in my life at that point in time may have helped me. I may have had a different story to tell you today. No one can say for sure. But fate had it that instead of a medical professional, I met John Barelycorn a.k.a. Alcohol.

Strange thing is, alcohol did exactly what a psychologist would have done. Relieve me off my anxieties, my feelings of strangeness, erase feelings of melancholy, separateness. He filled the gaping invisible void I felt in my soul. As the first drink went down my mouth, and hit my stomach, a warm glow spread throughout my body. I could feel myself coming alive for the first time in my life. I smiled the most genuine smile I ever had, and thinking, “This must be how other people feel. Complete, happy and alive.”

That was the first sign that, as far as alcohol was concerned, I was in BIG trouble.

Many years later, while trying to put together the pieces of my shattered life, an alcoholic who was now sober for a very long time told me that what I felt that day was a clear sign that I was an alcoholic. He said 'what alcohol does to you is not what makes you an alcoholic. My friend, what marks your fate is what it does for you!'

It sounded very neat but I was not sure what it really meant. I guess the look on my face gave away my real feeling.

He elaborated, “You see, a lot many people think that drinking too much is alcoholism. Or drinking and getting into brawls or losing money or having accidents or going to jail or beating up wife is alcoholism. Those are things that alcohol does TO you. Drink too much and anyone can end up doing such stupid things. Yet not all of them are alcoholics.”

Of course, I was puzzled. If drinking and getting into trouble was not alcoholism, then I guess I have no problems whatsoever. He seemed to have read my mind. So he continued, “People like you and me, we may never go to jail, beat up our wives, lose our jobs, dance naked in the bar or cause an accident, but we still are and will be alcoholics. You know why? Because once people like you and I have had our first drink, no matter what, we cannot stop ourselves. And that is what is so impossible to understand about us. This insane, insatiable urge that seems to take over our body, mind and soul to drink. It does not exist in a habitual or heavy drinker.”

“What do you really mean when you say alcohol does things FOR people like you and me?” I asked, wide-eyed, overwhelmed by the information being made available to my curious mind.

“It fills up the emptiness you feel inside. It makes you feel one with yourself. It takes away feelings of separateness that you have felt all your life. You are no longer so painfully aware of your insecurities that you can't breath in a crowd. It did all that to me. If it didn't do any of that to you, may be you are not an alcoholic. Only you can decide if you are one or not.”

Of course, it did all that to me too. Right from the very first drink. But still, I was not sure I can be an alcoholic even then. A real alcoholic and me? Not really.

“Usually when some alcohol related tragedy happens in the life of those who drink heavily, they give up. A drunken accident resulting in their loved ones death, or being fired from their job or partner threatening divorce, all or any can cause a heavy drinker to quit. He stops drinking and his life comes back to normal. No alcohol, no problem! Happy ending. But that is not the case with an alcoholic.”

“Then?” I was not sure I was getting the drift here.

“ His problems start when he stops drinking!” He grinned at me like a Cheshire cat.

His statement had the desired effect on me, I assume. Cause he looked quite pleased. I probed, “What do you mean?”

“When an alcoholic stops drinking the veneer of normalcy that he maintains start to fall off. Like old whitewash. His inadequacies start to surface. He once again starts to become painfully aware of them. The glaring imperfections in him start to make him feel depressed. His insecurities override his rational thought process. He starts to feel nervous, afraid and alone all at the same time. Yet he cannot explain why he feels the way does. And that drives him crazy. We all have an innate need to understand and explain ourselves, and our lives, you know. It gives us a sense of control. And control is essential to lead a normal life. If you knew you had no control over yourself, you would go up in flames in no time! People will call you insane, isn't it?.”

“Yes.” I whispered, definitely impressed by the man's understanding of the subject.

“Without alcohol in his body, an alcoholic is like a ticking time-bomb. Ready to blow any minute. Imagine a coiled-spring getting tightened inside of you. Every second of every day of every year. Do you know what it is to live like that? Highly strung and tensed beyond all understanding, round-the-clock, day after day after day after day? And not knowing WHY you feel that way? My friend, no one can stay like that for a long time. Under such pressure, they mind will give way, and so will your nerves. You will either go insane or kill yourself. And that is what happens when an alcoholic stops drinking.”

I nodded in understanding, trying to see if my decision to kill myself can now be explained away. But his voice broke my train of thought.

“Then he takes his first drink, and voila! The spring within seems to unwind gradually. First, the tension starts to leave his body, and then his mind. He starts to feel relaxed, feel normal, feel sane. Now he can think straight. He can relate. Belong. Feel at ease in your presence. He can...well, laugh and mean it. You see, that is what alcohol does FOR people like you and me. It makes us feel normal enough to be able to live.”

“So you mean to say, most other people don't feel the way we feel after drinking?”

“No. Most people drink to celebrate. To be happy. We drink to survive. To feel normal. They drink because they enjoy drinking. We drink because we can't stop it.”

Many of his answers only helped raise more questions in my mind. But once again, my need for approval won over. I did not want to offend the gentleman by asking any of them. What if he thought I was questioning his credibility. I couldn't risk that. I always worried what would people think. I wanted them to like me. So I never said or did anything that would make them think ill of me. For a long time that was my only mission in life. In fact, I guess I stayed alive just to make people like me. Or so it seems now. Anyhow, it lead me to my first drink. Of course, a little bit of innocent curiosity was also to blame. But the way I gulped down glass after glass of that hideously unsavory liquid had nothing to do with curiosity. I know that now.

I had competition in love. From a big, dumb, body-builder of a student who also happened to be from my neighbourhood. In a physical fight, I was no match to him. I also lacked the courage to stand up if challenged. Since I was not sure if he did or did not have any, I reasoned the best way to diffuse any possible show-down between us, which was rumored to be likely, was to befriend him. Being embarrassed publicly was worse than death itself to me.

So I befriended him. My new friend had failed many times over in many different grades. He was kept on the rolls because he was a good sportsman and won couple of points for the school at the annual district level competitions. On the second day of our friendship, he took me home and showed me half a bottle of rum. I forget which brand it was. Not that I would know cause I had never seen any half-bottles before. My father being an ex-airforce personnel, would occasionally bring full-bottles of 'defense rum' in my house, and they all had large 'XXX' printed on them.

He invited me to raise a toast to our new friendship, and I, not one to show my lack of experience or fear to another living soul, walked right in, with a puffed up chest, and grinning from ear to ear. We were being men at 14 and I was not going to act any other way. Not in front of him. He assured me that he drank often. I assured him that I did the same. Two seasoned drinkers, we told ourselves to be. I gulped down the first 'glass' and in the next few seconds became everything I wanted to be.

I laughed. I joked. I spoke with conviction. I was brave. I was gregarious. Charming. Eloquent. I felt absolute alive and in control. Most importantly, I felt at ease. Life had a new meaning. A new color. I was so engrossed with the wonderful sensations being born in my body that I forgot all about him.

He stopped with his second round. Three fourth of the 'stuff' was still in the bottle. I wanted it. I can tell you today, I had no idea why, but I wanted it most unashamedly. He was more than happy to oblige his new drinking partner and graciously gifted me the bottle. I cycled back home, feeling euphoric. I smiled as I past by the paddy fields. I hummed a song. I was feeling carefree, and light. This was life. This was life as it was supposed to be, I thought to myself. I forgot to keep my eyes on the road, hit a large stone and feel, chipping my front tooth and scraping both my knees.

I reached home and headed for the bathroom first. I switched on the shower and sat on the floor. I vaguely remember pouring the contents of the bottle into a large plastic mug, mixing it with tap water and gulping it down like a thirsty cow. Without taking time to breath in between. Once or twice, whatever was going down threatened to come back up. I felt the rum come out of my nostrils. I struggled but made sure that it all went right back in. Rest is a blur in my memory.

I woke the next day in my bed, with a heavy head and an unbearable burning sensation in the chest. I felt feverish and terribly weak. My mother sat on the bed, looking at me with disgust, disbelief and relief. My sister chuckled as I tried to sit up but failed, and fell back into the bed. Thankfully, these two women had hid the whole event from my dad, and saved me from a serious predicament. I don't know now if what they did was right. Or as they wanted, did actually help me.

I was too baffled and embarrassed to open my mouth. My mother didn't want to speak about it at all. My sister told me the essence of what happened. I had bathed, changed and went straight to bed, which seemed most unusual and curious to both my mom and sister. Thankfully, dad wasn't around. Later at night, I started vomiting. And blabbering things. That included my 'helicopter' line. After a struggle that lasted for almost two long hours, in which my mom and sister were simultaneously trying to hold me down, clean me up and getting me to keep my mouth shout, I finally fell asleep. Before dad got in.

I was not a bad boy. I told my mother everything that happened. She couldn't believe that I was stupid enough to accept an offer to drink! When she said it I found it stupid too. Then why I did it, is another unexplainable mystery of my life. Like the many that happened before and were to happen after it. My mom cried. It broke my heart. I never wanted to hurt anyone. That is how I was. I would hurt silently if that would save someone else from suffering. That day, I promised my mother that I will never touch alcohol again. I shouldn't have.

Plausibility and predictability were about to disappear from my life forever.

While I pretended to have put that episode behind me, like a bad dream, and never mentioned it again, I secretly wanted to know what really transpired when I was 'blacked-out.' At the same time, I also sensed a fear growing in me that refused to encourage such a notion. It was like I wanted to face me and not face me at the same time. That was a mind-bending, soul-wrenching contradiction that was to follow me for as long as I drank. 'To be or not to be' was a complex, yet win-lose situation. But 'to want to be and to want not to be' together was insanity being born in my mind.

[Continued in 'At The Gates Of Hell - [Part V]' .]