Life doesn’t exactly go the way we wish it to. Sometimes, we get what we don’t desire and sometimes we desire what we don’t get. It’s complicated. But, all the same that can’t be helped. Unfortunately…


I always had wanted to be a doctor. But, now, all I know about doctors and medicines is what my memory has recorded form daily observations, when they come to treat me. No, I’m not admitted in a hospital, nor am I ill. Not infected by any sort of micro-organism at least. No, it’s not mental illness either. But enough about my health now. I wanted to tell you about my ambitions.

Yes, so I wanted to be a doctor; a surgeon to be more precise. You know, since childhood, when I was eight or so, these “operation” things used to fascinate me a lot. I was always intrigued by the various assortment of instruments used, the green costumes and how an aura of suspense got created when an operation was going to take place; and when it was over, the red light was extinguished, I liked it when the doctor used to come out and make the people either thank God and him a thousand times, or start crying as if they had never cried before. The thing is I liked it when people thanked me. So, I had decided that this profession would best suit me and I would strive to make all the operations successful so that I can earn as much gratitude as possible. And, yeah, the most important thing was that I wasn’t scared of blood at all like most of the children of my age.

So, that was it and everything was going well. Until, one day, years later, when I was eighteen years old and about to get enrolled in a good college, one late night I woke up to loud noises to find some people sitting on the wall in front of my house, drinking and cheering. I knew one of them – he was a school mate. But, curious about what they were doing there at that time of the night, I went out to see.

That was the first time I tasted drugs.

It was tasteless, but strong. I can’t describe what my body and mind was going through then. There was nausea, utopia, hallucinations, feeling faint and goodness knows what else… After I came to my senses, I found myself sprawled on the ground. My head was feeling heavy and thoughts were muddled. The people were gone and dawn was starting to peep through the fog. I got up, with difficulty waked to my bedroom and slept till late morning. Even though I cursed those guys and sweared not to see anything white and powdery ever again, when the evening advanced into night, I was aware of a strange sensation in me. How much ever I tried, sleep wouldn’t come. I was restless. At around midnight, those guys came again and sat on the wall. Unable to avoid the urge any longer, for urge it was of a strange kind, I walked to them again and took a second helping.

The stuff was strong. I became an addict only in seven days. And that was when my life was ruined. I quit college, became a loafer, to be found in all the dark alleys that the town of Woolwhich could spare. I soon came ot be known as a drugee, stole from my house umpteen times, parents disowned me in a few months and my girlfriend dumped me.

One fine day the gang which supplied us drugs was arrested and we were put into the rehabilitation centre. I was in a pathetic state. It’s improved now – much better I should say. The doctors’ still attend to me everyday, but I’ve quit drugs now. They give me the news that I’ll soon be discharged and would be able to start a new life.

But I’m confused. My life is already wasted, although I’m just twenty two. I don’t know what to do or where to go. I can’t go back to my parents. I can’t show my face to anyone else ever again, I think. I can’t study medicines now- it’s too late. And even if I join a college, I’ll always be ill at ease, for now all I would hope to gain would be everyone’s stares and gossip. No, I can’t endure that. I also can’t hope for a decent job anymore.

So all I can think of is suicide. But yesterday, when I tried explaining this thing to the motherly figure of the nurse who attends to me (because I couldn’t keep it within me any longer), she created a scene out of it and took three hours to explain me that I shouldn’t do a thing like that.

She also taught me a good amount of philosophy, like why it was important not to lose hope, how to move on and so on. By the end of it, I found myself exhausted.

Today morning the doctor told me that after discharge, I’d have to take sessions with a psychiatrist. I don’t know if that’s necessary or if it would work out for someone like me, but anyway, I’ll give it a try, more so because I don’t have any other option to seek or any other thing to do.

I am trying not to think about the future anymore. All of that I’ll keep for later. But, whatever it may be, the first thing I’ll do after getting out of here would be go to my house (no, not inside, because I’m not brave enough to do that as I’ve already told you) but, to the outside of it. To the wall; the whitewashed wall in front of my house. The wretched wall from where it had begun. I shall go to this wall, take all my anger out on it. How? I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll take a can of black paint and smear black on its white surface…


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