Chapter 4

The first of them had happened four days back. It involved a half full bottle of Royal Challenge ‘half’ I had managed to scavenge from a stopgap birthday party we had thrown last Sunday.

Our rented home in Chennai included four other occupants apart from me, and none of us were well-off enough to arrange for a booze treat on a whim. It was the birthday of a mutual friend of ours in this case. On this particular day, our hall was filled to capacity with a rumbustious mob of friends and acquaintances. The birthday baby was an affluent, spoiled college mate of a couple of my roommates, and his frequent visits to our place to shack up for a night or so had brought all of us on good terms. Right after the ritual cake-cutting and the follow-up mutilation of the cake, opaque plastic bags of liquor were passed around and the whole gang settled helter-skelter on the floor strewn with flecks of cake and cream. With no visible attempt at decorum, we feasted on the cheap alcohol, - hollering and cackling over repeated jokes, drooling and hiccupping - allowed the profanity pent-up for social reasons a free rein, and barfed up a good measure of what we had devoured. There was this last bottle I felt too spent to finish off just then. It was a queer dilemma. The retching felt like it would recur at any moment, but my temptation for more had not subsided yet. I pocketed the modest bottle with only a little of its content left. Before going to sleep that night, I stowed the bottle under the mess of my clothes in my closet.

The second event followed two days later. I was rummaging through the tangle of clothes in my closet to pick out a set of tshirts and jeans decent enough to not launch my mother into her usual complaining spree. It was another of those rushing-for-train sessions like what transpired a few hours back today. Guruvayur Express had been the target this time. The reason for the delay, though, was not my lethargy then. It was my grouchy manager who had dumped enough load for me to waddle in till my night shift was overdue by an hour. It was all I could do to hustle back home and pack up my belongings for the train that was to leave in another hour. I finished loading up my backpack and almost exited the room when the afterthought struck me. I fumbled beneath the pile of my clothes, found the bottle of whiskey, felt a brief pang of disappointment to find only a little of the content left there, and stuffed it into the front compartment of my bag. For a nice, day-long sleep, I told myself. But I was already groggy by the time I reached the station and went out like a light once I hit the berth.

The third one had happened not too long ago. It was a muffled clink of shattering glass when I hurled my backpack on the platform floor, prepping for the climb. A detached part of my mind did acknowledge the sound just then, but I was too jittery to ponder over it and make logical associations. The Royal Challenge had travelled miles with me for the scarce amount of alcohol it held  and survived the snooping eyes of my mother, only to be cracked open at the worst moment imaginable. The fateful journey had not run out of surprises yet.

I held on to what I believed was a poker face as my fingers inspected the damage on the base of the backpack. I must have underestimated the amount of whiskey; the tough fabric of the bag felt squishy and the damage seemed to have spread out north, too. For a brief moment, I went out of context of the troubles the accidental spill was apt to cost me, and chided myself for wasting the booze. I drew my hand back surreptitiously and found it glistening with liquid. I swallowed, wondering how striking a stain had bloomed on my lap already. I dabbed the wetness on my hand against my pants and took a sneaky glance around at the others. 

The elderly couple was still engaged in their loud chatter, the pair of women were laughing at some private joke, the lanky man and the booby girl were gazing out the window from their corners. I rose slowly from my seat, holding my backpack carefully so as not to let out a clatter, turned around and hurried out of the compartment without sparing any of the others even a glance. I felt curious eyes in my wake but it was the least of my problems now.

I hurried along the aisle, feeling �" or imagining �" the faint touch of wetness on my thighs and hoping the dark fabric of my pants managed to blend the spill in with their dense blue colour. I was worried the bathroom might be occupied, but it was not, and I slipped in. I had to push and flex and strain myself against the door to latch it.