Posted in Journal

A Drunken Ramble

I am starting to like being drunk. I feel the psychological need popping in from time to time; the doctor in me is getting just a teensy bit concerned, and the daughter in me not being able to help wondering if I’m gonna go down my father’s path, but damn, it feels good.

I also wonder if it’s getting clubbed with emotions. I find myself craving a drink when I’m sad, and I’m worried about being conditioned to link the emotion with the act.

It was on a recent trip to Goa that I really got down to business. Other than a few occasional cocktails, and perhaps an odd beer with friends, I had never really drunk on purpose before. Goa was all about cleansing myself – losing some bits, gaining some, forgetting an old canvas and creating a new one. I drank four nights in a row; sang, danced, preached, shared, laughed, sighed. And came back home a new person.

Something of a trigger had me reaching for the penultimate bottle of port wine that I managed to have smuggled out of Goa. It helped me let things out – all the pent up thoughts that I wouldn’t share with MB. I cried a bit. And then tried calling up three of my best friends. One answered, and she made me laugh. Things fell into place again. It was alright. I have successfully tiptoed around the shattered glass pieces without bleeding.

One bottle of wine left. A trillion little pieces of glass still left to pick out. I wonder when I might need the next bout of cleansing.

I wouldn’t want to attach wine to depression. The former isn’t easy to come by, and the latter falls too easily into my lap.

I need to seek balance, one way or the other.


A wayward thinker hiding behind the facade of necessary courtesies

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