Chasing Blue Skies: My Stint in Rehab

First Person

Chasing Blue Skies: My Stint in Rehab

Illustration: Namaah/ Arré

O

n July 1, 2012, the night after I crashed my Gypsy into a wall after blacking out, I decided to give up drinking. Again.

In my 22-year tryst with vodka, I had done the rounds of rehab. I’d been inside several depressing, windowless rooms and spent hours lying on many hard iron cots, behind locked tin doors through which the sounds of violent clashes between desperate inmates and ruthless staff would come at me. The last centre I was admitted to at Neb Sarai had a window with iron bars. It overlooked squat buildings, electric wires strung from pole to pole on which pigeons sat sagely. I have spent days staring at those birds, hoping one of them would get electrocuted and die.

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