CIGARETTES AND ALCOHOL

This is a little short story i wrote when i was just hanging around with nothing better in life to do!!! a few lines of doodling resulted in this...hope u guys enjoy reading it as much as i did writing it!!!sorry if it's a little depressing!!!!

CIGARETTES AND ALCOHOL

Things were not looking up for Rahul Chatterjee. He sat in his usual dark, smoke filled corner at the Ballygunje Club, along with his four closest friends, sipping ever so slowly on his favorite brand of rum, Old Monk. He took a long drag of his trusted Filter Wills cigarette and blew out a slow yet steady stream of smoke and sighed.

 Just four days back he was informed by his doctor that his liver was nothing but a lumpy, stiff mass dangling around somewhere deep inside his body completely destroyed by cirrhosis and that his lungs, well, in his doctors words, “could be squeezed to tar out your road before the next elections.” Somehow, Rahul knew that this day was inevitable ever since he took to smoking and drinking way back when he was still a school going kid as a way of escape from his drug addicted, abusive father. He was secretly glad his mother never lived to see her husband turn into a monster.

I guess, I haven’t turned out much different either.

Rahul knew now that his singing days were officially over, with his band, The Bong Quintet not releasing an album ever since he had coughed blood and collapsed on stage during their last live concert at St. Xavier’s College. That was over two years back.

Rahul reached for the bottle of rum, which lay out of his reach, kept aside strategically by his friends, Noel Banerji, Dipanjan Sen, Sukanto Dutta and Alex Bradford, who also formed the remaining members of the band.

“Don’t even think about it, man,” Dipanjan said, moving the bottle farther out of Rahul’s reach. “Be grateful for getting that one peg.”

 Looking up at the rest of the gang, he shook his head in dejection and threw his hand of playing cards face down on the table. “I fold.”

Rahul frowned. He had not even bothered taking part in the game of poker his buddies were indulging themselves in. He just sat, staring at the empty glass in his hand pondering on how and where his life had finally culminated.

He threw his head back, tilted his glass upside down over his mouth and stuck his tongue out to catch the last available drop of rum. It was pathetic and he knew it. He knew he was pathetic.

“Even though you don’t give a damn about your life, we still do,” Noel said, appalled at the scene unfolding in front of him. “I mean for your sake, Rahul, I haven’t held a guitar in over two years.”

“And me my drum sticks,” Dipanjan added.

“Oh man, I could give anything to get back there on stage with you guys, belt out ‘Kolkata Rock’ again and drive our fans insane,” a very somber looking and sounding Rahul said. “Deep, I need just one little peg, man. Please.”

“No, you aren’t getting any,” Dipanjan snapped. “Quit asking for stuff you ain’t gonna get.”

“I’ve already handed over my keyboards to my son,” Sukanto said, joining in. “I’d rather have someone look after my precious little princess than have it rot somewhere deep inside my closet.”

“Well, at least Alex decided to go on,” Rahul sighed. “Good for you, man!” He exclaimed, looking at his friend.

Alex smiled a smile of anguish as he dropped two ice cubes into his glass of rum. He decided to remain mum.

“Well, I really appreciate all your help,” Rahul said, scratching his scruffy grey beard. “And since you guys have been such wonderful hosts, I think I’m gonna call it a day.”

Rahul stood up to leave.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Alex asked sternly, grabbing Rahul’s wrist.

“He’s not going home alone,” Sukanto said, pushing his chair back and getting up.

By then everyone had dropped their cards on the table and stood up.

Dipanjan walked up to Rahul and put his arm around his shoulder. “Let’s get you home.”

Half an hour later, their car pulled up to Rahul’s Prince Anwar Shah Road apartment.

“Do you want us to come up?” Dipanjan said, turning off the engine.

“I’m fine guys,” Rahul replied, waving his friends aside. “Thanks to you all, I’m not even drunk.”

“Hey, quit the sarcasm, man,” Noel snapped. “We’re in this together, remember?”

“Sure,” Rahul mumbled, scowled and headed through the gate waving the security guard a friendly salaam. It was almost eleven and they had been in the club for close to six hours and Rahul barely managed to get a decent peg of rum. He was furious and was craving for his closest aide, Old Monk XXX rum to flow down his throat and soothe his nerves.

The moment he stepped into his two bedroom apartment on the fourth floor, he was suddenly engulfed by an overwhelming feeling of loneliness. He looked around, hoping to see someone he loved, someone he cared for.

Perhaps his deceased wife, Chand, was in the kitchen, making something especially for him, something hot and relaxing. He dashed into the kitchen. There wasn’t a soul.

Maybe his eight year old son, Neel, was in his room, lost in his homework. Rahul barged into what used to be his son’s room. Yet again, there wasn’t a soul. Rahul crept slowly up to his son’s little study table and gingerly ran his fingers across the dust laden surface and collapsed on to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. He missed his family.

It was over ten years ago when the love of his life, Chandni along with his little champion, Neel had walked out of his life, killed in a brutal car crash as a repercussion of his own incessant drinking. It was as though God was teaching Rahul a lesson by having him live through the harrowing ordeal of having survived a crash so vicious while his family perished right in front of him. Where’s God when I need him!

Rahul never got over himself for what had happened, a kind of depression he never really got out of. His drinking increased and his smoking went out of control as he shrank further and further into a shell of self loathe. His friends tried everything they could to help him. But nothing worked.

“Baby, please come back,” Rahul sobbed as he sat squatting against the wall in his son’s room.

He gathered himself up and walked into the drawing room and lit a cigarette. He headed towards his enormous music library and took out his The Bong Quintet’s second and first platinum selling album, Phire Elam. He put the cd into the music system and let Noel’s insane solos and riffs, Dipanjan’s breathtaking beats and Alex’s and Sukanto easy rhythms fill the apartment.

Ah, the good old days, Rahul thought, exhaling a thin, long stream of smoke. No seat ever went unoccupied and no ticket ever went unsold as the boys from the La Martinaire School for Boys rocked the people of Calcutta and Bengal. Albums flew off the shelves, radio stations were peppered with requests for The Bong Quintet and fans always thronged and flocked around them every time they went out together or even alone.

But those were the days of yore. There was no going back now for Rahul and the feeling burned a grave hole deep within, throwing him into further wretchedness.

He needed his drink.

The moment he stepped into his room searching for his trusted bottle, he began coughing ferociously. He clutched his chest as he coughed and coughed, the pain ripping through his chest all the way up to his throat, like a million hot needles ravaging through his breathing tract. It was unbearable.

Yet his cigarette lay dangling from his lips, having survived a massive pounding.

Rahul stumbled into the bathroom still coughing sporadically. He took the cigarette between his fingers and coughed into the sink.

There was blood and a lot of it. He still needed his drink and no amount of blood in his sputum was going to deter him.

He washed his face, cleaned himself up and looked in the mirror as he wiped his face. There were a few patches of silver hair above his ears on an otherwise bald head. His skin had shriveled and his eyes were held in its sockets in a perpetual state of droopiness. He looked the wrong side of 80, not a mere 57. He took another long puff of smoke.

Who am I?

He sighed.

“Now where’s my darned bottle?” he cussed, as he darted from room to room, opening cabinet after cabinet searching for the rum bottles his friends had long cleaned out.

He was getting delirious as every cabinet was bare, every drawer, empty and every cupboard, abandoned, save for his clothes which were stacked up neatly by his maid.

“Bastards,” he cursed.

Rahul was now a mad, raging bull, tearing his house down. The delusion had taken over his entire body and unless he found his drink, God only knew what would become of him.

Within minutes crockery lay smashed on the floor, shattered into a million pieces, chairs lay in hideous positions on the ground and there was cloth and paper all over the place as Rahul marauded through his apartment. There were footsteps of blood all over the floors as Rahul stepped over the shards of glass mechanically in his state of trance.

Half an hour later, Rahul collapsed on his bed exhausted, yet still delusional. Staring at the ceiling, he could not help but feel deprived.

Suddenly he smiled.

He clambered out of bed and limped to the cupboard. He opened it and brushed aside all his clothes and dug deep inside until he found what he was looking for. A wooden box, not too tiny nor too big, but just big enough to keep a quarter of his Old Monk and maybe a few other paraphernalia.

He took the box out, kept it on his bed and sat down beside it, staring deeply and distantly into it. He gently brushed the light layer of dust off the surface and reached for his wallet, where he had the key to the box. The key shook violently in his trembling hands as he tried getting it into his lock.

Three agonizing attempts later, the lock snapped open.

Rahul’s smile broadened as his gaze fell on the contents of the box; a sealed quarter of Old Monk and a black Webley .32 revolver.

He picked up the bottle of rum, hobbled to the kitchen and poured himself a peg. He dropped three cubes of ice into his glass and walked back to his room.

He was on a mission.

He took a sip of rum as he sat back on his bed. As the alcohol flowed through his throat into the rest of his body, his nerves became scarily calm as he was swamped by a new found peace. He threw his head back, against the wall and closed his eyes.

The mood in the apartment took a very serene turn as The Bong Quintet sang Chandni, a slow love ballad, written and composed as a tribute to Rahul’s late wife.

Rahul chuckled, suddenly amused at his own voice.

He reached forward absent mindedly and picked up the revolver from the box, his mind completely engrossed in the very heartfelt lyrics the song possessed.

With the revolver nestled gently in his hands, he chuckled and laughed again.

He flipped the barrel open and smiled. It was a loaded gun.

His mind was now playing tricks on him and he had lost all control over his central nervous system. It was as though his brain had a completely different set of ideas than his conscience.

Rahul soon found himself sitting up in bed, holding the glass of rum in one hand and the gun aimed at his temple with the other. He gulped down the drink in one swift move, smiled and closed his eyes.

With a prayer on his lips, Rahul pulled the trigger….