In continuation to:
'In The Summer Of 2002 - [Part I] &
'The Call That Saved My Life - [Part II]

“Do you drink too much?” The old man sitting across the table enquired. I was focusing on his bald pate and trying to gauge his age. Must be in his late 50s. Looked like a Muslim to me. A devout one at that, I should day. Not that it mattered in any way but my mind was always busy with trivia these days. That helped me not think of things that really mattered. Cause If I did think about my life, and the most urgent, monstrous predicaments that faced me, which there were plenty, I knew I would burst an artery in no time. Since I was totally helpless and had no solution to any of those things that badly needed a solution, I let my mind wander, taking in the inanities around me. That was the closest I came to practising 'detachment' in my life.

“Yes.” I said, matter of fact, offering him a most charming smile. While I thought, 'What a moron! If I did not do that, I wouldn't be sitting here before you, isn't it? Geez! What kind of idiots do they employ here?'

“Daily?” He was getting into specifics. I had no problems with that. I was a willing participant here. I came in voluntarily and I was proud of that. Most are dragged in by the scuff of their collars by family members or tied and hauled in ambulances by paramedics. I had walked in on my own two feet. It gave immense pleasure to know that I was not one of 'them.' So, as an intelligent and sane man, I was ready to divulge any information that he deemed necessary, and I found appropriate, to complete my admission process.

Of course, I wouldn't be sitting here if it hadn't been for that very last one rupee coin in my pocket. I am almost sure that if I had spend it on anything other than that fated phone call, I would be dead and long gone by now.

Standing at a 'dead end' in life, broken and beaten down by a curse that wouldn't let me live nor die, I had prayed for a way out. Crawling on all fours through life, physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually, I had wanted out. Hurt, angry and confused, I had blindly followed the ways that opened before me. Never having the time to see if it lead anywhere at all. Late in the night, when the whole world slept peacefully, I would wake up from my drunken stupor, shivering and weep holding my head between my knees. I was afraid to die but more afraid to live the way I did.

While I am a man of logic and reason, you will see that a lot of things you read here cannot be explained by either of them. And that is exactly what is funny and aberrant about a mind such as mine. It can be heartbreakingly tragic at one moment and ticklishly hilarious in the next making you wonder if the earlier was a mime.

People like me can walk away from suicide just to have another swig at the bottle.We don't see anything wrong in killing ourselves but we find it absolutely wrong in dying sober. Normal people don't do things like that. It is incongruent. And that is what makes them normal. Their responses to life can be explained. They are believable.

Never mine. My life was always a question mark or exclamation. I didn't see it then. I didn't see that there was something absolutely wrong with me wanting to get drunk, have a mother of all binges, before committing suicide. It was my last wish. And I was entitled to it. Since I was broke, I needed to buy time till I could find the money needed to fulfil my last wish. Then I could die. Happy and content.

If you think that is a response to life that can be explained, help me explain this too. For the last couple of years, my true world had shrunk to just me, money and the next drink. And I never realized something could be wrong with me.

So on that fateful night, in the summer of 2002, a shining one rupee coin, the last of my earthly possession was spent to call the only person who would atleast hear me out before banging the phone on me - my uncle. The last time I had called him, a few months ago, I was fully drunk and hell bent on driving half way across the city to his house in the middle of the night. I didn't make it. En-route an over-speeding Ford Ikon had crashed into me while I was taking a U turn. Right in the middle of road. On a highway. A one-way to boot. Yes, not explainable.

The car was totalled and beyond repair. I was so drunk that I didn't know of anything till about 3 in the morning and found myself sitting on a bench in a police station. The accident had occurred at around 12 midnight. I had no memory of the accident. I still don't. I only remember the picture of the car the insurance company showed me, plus meeting the other party involved three days later to apologize and compensate them for putting their lives at risk with my reckless driving.

I started drinking as soon as I could. I could see that I had to drink to keep forgetting. I did things that I didn't want to do when I was drunk. Then I drank to forget about them. Once drunk, again I ended up doing the things that I didn't want to remember. Again I drank. The vicious circle just grew more vicious with each passing day. If you are a normal person, you will say, 'Excuse me, but is there not a simpler plan? Like stop drinking?' Yes, for you it is a plan. For me that was not even as a workable possibility.

So the accident on the highway too became one of those things that I pushed back into some dark corner of my mind and never ever looked at again. The black eye and terrible body pain could keep the memory alive only for a few days. I was back to my happy-go-lucky ways again. Since I still was making enough money to drink everyday, the huge financial loss of that accident wasn't counted. I didn't have the time. Today was for drinking. Everything else could be dealt with tomorrow. Somehow, the tomorrows never came.

I don't think my uncle was surprised to hear from me. He would have expected that call a long time ago. He knew. That's the good thing about him. A lot of other people would have felt sympathy and taken me in for a night. Some might even have given me money and told me not to drink so much. Or to leave it for while. But no one would have had the wisdom to tell me, “You seem to have a serious drinking problem. Let's get you to a rehab immediately.”

I didn't know what a drinking problem was. Or could be. But I didn't care. That night I just wanted to hit the bed and rest my head. I was tired inside out. For once I wanted someone else to take the responsibility of my life. I had screwed up pretty bad doing it myself.

It almost 4 weeks before the rehab took me in. They had a long waiting list, so I was told. I didn't know there were so many of problem-drinkers out in the world. It made me feel a bit relieved. Afterall I was not alone.

So here I was, thanks to that one rupee coin. Answering questions about what I like to drink, how I drank and what not. I felt a lot better now than I was a month ago. I had not drank at all for the last four weeks, had regular food, was relaxed and funny thing is, even slept wonderfully well. At that point, I was seriously wondering if all this was a mistake. Maybe I was just stressed out a bit before. I really don't need to be here among drunks. I didn't give voice to my thought afraid what my uncle will have to say. And usually, he was a man who said it without hesitation.

“Yes. I drank daily.” I answered the old man, trying to emphasize on the past tense. I wanted him to realise that I was clean. Even if I had a problem, it had to be a minor one. After all, I wasn't drinking for a month or so now.

“What's your poison?” Was he trying to get pally with me? What's with the colloquialism? After all, this was a reputed institution. Not some bar I was sitting in.

“Whisky. I prefer whisky.” I said.

“How much do you drink?” He kept playing with the pen in his hand. I looked at the forms lying in front of him. I presumed they had to be filled up with my personal preferences. It was going to be all about me. I felt good to have his undivided attention. I didn't really know why. I have not been given so much importance in a very long while. Off late, no one even seemed to acknowledge my presence.

“About three, or four pegs.”

“Never more than that?”

“Sometimes, half a bottle.”

“Do you drink during the day?” Alcohol was my lunch mostly. But I was not going to let him think bad of me. I mean, not THAT bad of me. I drank a little too much. And that was what I needed help with. Period.

So I said, “Occasionally.”

“mmm...have you ever taken a drink in the morning?” God Lord, this guy was relentless, I thought. What is he trying to do here? Make me look like an idiot in front of ME!

“Sometimes.” I murmured. Actually it meant, whenever I could.

“Have you had any withdrawal symptoms?”

“Sorry?” I queried.

“Have you ever hallucinated? Felt itching all over your body? Uncontrollable shivering?”

Wow! He was speaking about me all right. But then, it could be a worst case scenario he was talking about. I cannot be a worst case. I am a good guy gone bad. Who's voluntarily come to seek help. So I really cannot be that bad.

“I have felt itching in my body while recovering from a binge. Especially in my hands and legs. And there has been times when my hands have shivered making it difficult to sign or write.” That was more than the information I was willing to part with. I had a reputation to maintain.

“Have you ever vomited blood?”

“No!” I replied immediately. See, I knew I wasn't a 'worse case scenario.'

“Have you been arrested because of your drinking?” mmm... touchy subject. But telling the truth can also be seen as a sign of my 'earnestness' to get well, I calculated. A risk I had to take. Don't know if they are going to hold police records against me.

“I have been jailed. Briefly. In a foreign country.” I said.

“What about locally? In India? Any skirmishes with the law?”

“Twice. I was arrested and remanded for a night for misbehaving while drunk. The second time, I caused a major accident while taking a U turn in the middle of a busy highway. Though I don't remember what I was doing there or how I got there.”

He looked at me, I felt, mighty pleased with what he heard.

“Ah! So you have experienced 'blackouts?” He pursed , while biting his pen.

“I am not sure what you mean.”

“Well, during any of your binges have you lost track of time? Like you remember get out of a hotel and then what you remember is waking up in your bed? You have no recollection of driving back or changing your clothes or getting into bed. It feels like a certain part of your life is blocked out from your memory. Have you ever felt anything like that. Apart from your highway incident?

'Oh! That is most of my life you are talking about here. I don't remember a large part of it, my friend. In fact, the was why I was inside the jail where I couldn't even speak the local language. It was one of those bloody  'blackouts' as you call them. I still have no idea what I was arrested for.' I didn't say any of this. I didn't find it necessary. He knows I have a problem. And that was more than enough. So I concluded.

Hence I sat there, staring at him blankly.

“At any time, has alcohol been a reason for problems at work?”

What kind of question is that? If it wasn't a problem, I would be earning a five-digit salary, shooting semi-nude models and jet-setting through half the Asian countries, isn't it? I am a hot shot advertising guy, my friend. Maybe you don't understand me that well. I should talk to someone a little more intelligent here.

“I have had a beer or two for lunch. Right from the beginning. But now that I drink vodka instead, people don't seem to like it so much. They also don't like the idea that I drink and sleep at office at night while I don't turn up for work in the day.”

“Good. We'll take you in. But first let me tell you three things that you need to remember.” He smiled at me, mischievously. I didn't quite understand what his smile implied.

“One, you are volunteering to be admitted here. You choose to seek our help. If you sign on your admission papers, you agree not to leave this premise for the next 28 day and do as you have been told. Do you agree?”

“Yes.” I said, smiling, more to convince him my good intentions than out of any real conviction on my part. Somehow, with each passing second, I felt less and less in need of help. Not logical or explainable, I know. But then, that's how it happened.

“Two, Honesty, with a capital H, is at the bottom of your recovery. So please try not to play mind games while you are here. We know you lie and we want you to know that we know that you lie. Clear?”

If I didn't stand up and slap that son of a bitch right across the table, it is only because I was worried what that will do to my reputation. I was a nice guy. And nice guys don't beat up people. They don't get flustered when provoked. They remain calm and talk things out peacefully. Yet I found it hard to control my face from turning red along with my ears. No one had insulted me like that. I am not a liar. I never was. Maybe a white lie here or one there but not anything serious.

For a while, I also thought that it could be a trick. These guys were just provoking me to observe my reactions. If I was violent, maybe they would put me a straightjacket. Or that is how they decided the dosage of sedatives to be given. The more aggressive the fellow is, the heavier duty tranquilizers for him. I had all kinds of ideas running through my mind. I was sure I was not going to fall for their trick. I was sane and I was going to react sanely.

“Yes.” I swallowed my pride and meekly whispered, this time not looking at him.

“And three, believe that God will save you from your troubles.”

That was a real bummer! Why would I be paying good money if it was God I had to trust to save me? Somebody please tell me we live in the 21^st century. Am I not in a institution of modern medicine? Not a place of worship!

“I don't believe in God.” There was a limit to how much even I could tolerate. These guys better be serious about what they are doing or else I'm packing my bags and going home.

“Don't worry. Your counsellor will help you understand Him.” He smiled benignly. “Most of those who come here do not believe in anything initially. But the change you see when they leave is amazing. I promise you that.”

Please don't sell me this place. I am already sold, that is why I am here. I guess I should just look for the real information with someone else. Maybe, I should check with the counsellor he mentioned.

“Any other questions?” He asked my smiling all the while.

“How fast can I get back to work? You know, I have to make up for lost time.”

“Well, my friend. Let's just say that you did not have a career in advertising. You just worked to make enough money so that you could drink. You have a disease called Alcoholism. And when people have alcoholism, they do anything they can to feed their habit. So it is better that you walk out of here complete free of your desire to drink. Are we clear?”

I was clear all right but I can't say I liked it a bit. Not at all, in fact. I was not an alcoholic. Alcoholics are bums. They can be found on the streets, in rags, with spit foaming at the corner of their mouths, oblivious to anything around them, waiting by the liquor shops at 5 in the morning. They stink. They beat up their wives. They can be seen passed out in their own vomit on footpaths. I was not THAT. I drink a little too much, I know. But that was all. And I was here, willingly and voluntarily, to seek help. SO I CANNOT BE AN ALCOHOLIC, YOU MORON!

Instead of saying all that, I just shook my head, albeit a bit hesitantly.

“Very good. Welcome to a new life, young man. You have taken the first right step in a very long time. I want you to know that you will be very proud of yourself one day for being so brave today.”

Brave? Did he just say 'brave?' I hate it when people try to patronize me. I know that there is nothing brave about me being here today. I know that he knows there is nothing brave about what I am doing here. In fact, I believe he knows I am chicken inside. Then why this pretension? If I have any other option, I wouldn't step anywhere inside this place. I was stymied between death by drinking and death by hunger or else why would I want voluntarily come and sit before a man who gives me God to save myself while I give him hard earned money in return?

I had a sinking feeling that this wasn't going to work. Not simply because of the God thing. That was an absolute blow to my reasoning mind. But these people here were also proving to be just like the people outside of here. Dumb and full of shit. I mean, I expected people I could relate with. People who spoke about existential angst, alienation, darkness of the mind, and restlessness of the soul. I drank because I was too intelligent and over sensitive. I drank to deaden the pain of existing in a stupid, mindless, indifferent world. Not because I was an Alcoholic!

The truth is I was 'gifted' beyond this old man's understanding. Maybe I was even born way ahead of my time. That was my problem. If only I could handle all the kinetic energy my mind generates, my life would be alright. I knew so many fundamental truths of life that it was necessary for me to calm myself down with alcohol. I was not an alcoholic. I was a genius who was yet to find his feet on the ground. Dostoyvesky used to drink himself to oblivion all the time. Hemingway drank like a fish. Tennesse Williams, Dylan Thomas, O.Henry, Edgar Allen Poe, Truman Capote, William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, James Joyce... they all drank excessively. Exceptional artistic minds have always took refuge in alcohol. But at that moment I couldn't tell him all that. I never told anyone what I thought about myself. That would have sounded like bragging. And I was not one to brag. Plus, by the looks of it, I had an inkling that he would turn around, give me a look that is the birth right of dead fish and ask, “James who?”

But no matter what, I knew, deep down in my mind that I was not an Alcoholic.

The next 28 days proved me right. Then they proved me wrong. Then they proved that I can never be too sure.

[To read further, click on the link: Meeting John Barelycorn - [Part IV]