In continutation to 'In The Summer of 2002 - [Part 1]'


In the face of mortal danger, you'd think, a man would fight with every thing he has to keep himself alive. You're right. But he does not always do it out of unwavering faith and courage. It is not always the heroic in us that rules us in such moments. When our life is threatened, more often than not, it is oour instinct for survival that kicks in. We can be rats but yet fight like wounded tigers when cornered. Life gives us larger-than-life powers for emergencies. That's the truth about the majority of us.

But what if you no longer have the strength to fight and your life is still threatened?

What happens to the man who finds himself marooned in deep sea, has spent hours swimming in a desperate desire to keep himself alive but is now too tired and cannot even move his limbs? What happens to him? In the summer of 2002, I was that drowning man, drained of all strength, ready to go under any moment, floating through life with absolute indifference to my impending death. Indifferent, not because I was brave but because I had no other choice left. The only overwhelming emotion I had at any given point in time was 'self pity.' I felt terribly sorry for myself. Not because I had to die but because I had to die without a struggle. It is like allowing someone to rape you while you lie there without protesting. My living soul was being violated and I was standing helplessly watching it.

As I walked through that humid night, feeling less intoxicated and more lost, I didn't want too many options either. I didn't have anything to look forward to. Nothing to look at. My past was a hazy alcoholic blur I could hardly remember. If I stayed alive, I had to drink. But I had no money except for the two one rupee coins in my trouser pocket. If I had to have money, I had to work. But nobody in their right mind would give me work cause I was drinking all the time. I had even turned up for a job interview drunk. At 10:30 in the morning. On a weekday.

Advertising is a close-knit, small community. News like that travels faster than flu virus. I was a pariah in the industry even before I left that office premises. The only other way to drink was to borrow. I had already done that from all and any place that I know. So much so that people had stopped picking up my phone calls. The ones that did, refused. Some politely, others less so.

I knew what 'dead end' meant now. It was the point where you are too paralysed to even save yourself. I knew there was a railway track somewhere nearby. I could go and lie down on on it. Death at 80mph would be impossible to escape. I imagined it would be quick. I also realised that I would need a lot more alcohol to go through with that idea. I had seen a body hit by a local train couple of years back. The term 'bone dry' had hit me instantly. It looked like some strange thing has sucked all bodily fluids from the man while he was still alive. The skin stretched tightly over his cracked bones, and there was not a single drop of blood to be seen anywhere. It was a sight from X-files. I had felt dizzy for a while and vomited by the tracks. Contrary to what most people had come to believe, and what I occasionally fantasized to be, I was not a fearless cowboy. I was a coward at heart. And right now, taking that final step towards those railway tracks, there was no escaping that truth.

I remembered I could walk to the beach instead and drown myself. It was a kilometer or two from where I stood. I'd heard that alcohol in one's body makes the process quicker. But I was very, very afraid of the sea. In fact, I was so terrified of it that I have promised myself never to travel by ship. I was fine with the idea of dying in an air crash. But sea, no, not while there was still some life left in me.

In my opinion, a bottle a sleeping pills was the best way out. But that cost money. I just had two rupees. I couldn't even buy a cup of tea with that.

Then it sudddenly hit me that I was not ready to kill myself. Not that night. Because I was feeling very unsatisfied. I was not feeling drunk enough. I was not feeling happy. I wanted more alcohol. I thought to myself, 'I am going to die I might as well die happy and content.' I wanted one last grand celebration before I left earth forever. I needed to sit down with one or two full bottles of whiskey, a dozen packs of cigarettes, write a profound parting note for the world to remember me by, and then die.

Since at the time of the night, I could not possibly get my hands on more booze, I decided I had to find a place to sleep. There was only one place on earth that had even the remotest possibility of opening its door for me. So I went to the nearest telephone booth and dialled my friend's number. It was 9 or 9:30pm. Just two hours after he had thrown me out of his house that night. After a couple of rings, he picked up the phone.

“I need a place. Just for this night only. Please.” I don't think I was begging. I guess one begs when there is some hope of getting whatever it is that one begs for.

“I promise I will never set foot....” Immediately I heard a 'click' in my earpiece, “in your house ever again.” the words came out all the same. I had practised that line at least a dozen times before calling him up. The dial tone kept buzzing in my head like an alarm that couldn't be switched off. I had one more rupee left with me. One last option before my mind abandoned me completely.

The next call I placed made sure that I lived.

[read further in 'The UnHoly Revealtion! - [Part III]']