Raza is a journalist, not just any kind of journalist, but an accomplished journalist, the sort that knows his tenses, his voice, his structure, his subject and his alcohol. I first met Raza in his small cubicle in his office where he sat typing fervently with a smoldering cigarette dangling dangerously from the corner of his mouth. Exhaling in the general direction of the no smoking sign above him, he looked up ignoring the incessant coughs that emanated from cubicles near him.
“Have a seat,” he said, as he pulled up a chair and extended his hand, his grip strong for a man of his stature. Short and wiry, his long, tangled and unwashed Charles Manson chic hair brought out his gaunt, crossed and wrinkled face. At the first he will seem brilliant, even charming, but a short while later his addiction kicks in and he loses self-control.
His favorite drink is the triple distilled vodka mixed with an ounce of nothing, sipped first thing in the morning to help with the ablutions, during and after breakfast to kick-start the day, a little before lunch to keep up with the pace of work, a little after lunch to slow things down, and in intervals of fifteen minutes throughout the day.
A spirited soul, Raza doesn’t discriminate and despises classifications. He reaches out to the every kind of spirit, good or bad, cheap or the cheapest, and even the kind that pretends to be pretentious. Rum, whiskey, gin and vodka are all same to him, but he does a true friend. He is rarely seen without the company of his best friend “Georgi” usually found in his left coat pocket and on important occasions in his hip flask.
In his office, Raza broke into a smile, reminiscent of an indulgent grandfather. “So tell where from you from,” he said. I murmured something and politely inquired where he was from. “From Hind,” he replied, referring to India’s name before the partition.
I thought to myself, what a loony, convinced whatever he was smoking had addled his brains, but later realized that his answer supplied an insight into his political beliefs which no doubt were ludicrous and emotional. Raza was stuck in the past, a past that he didn’t even witness and certainly had no control over.
Lost in my thoughts, I had failed to notice that Raza was now reciting poetry in his native Urdu. It was evident he was from Pakistan, but he refuses to acknowledge it. He beckoned me closer. I leaned forward and instantly smelled the stale and heavy stench of alcohol though “Georgi” was nowhere to be seen and even a furtive look under his desk didn’t reveal anything.
On his screen, Raza recapitulated his recent stories. His knowledge was broad and he tackled many topics including gender issues, disarmament, sustainability and global policy. His articles quoted sources high-up in the food chain and you wonder how he managed to meet them or even speak with them. No one in their right mind would take him seriously, yet here he was, working, typing, and drinking.
To show your published work to others is hard work, and Raza needed to recharge. He opened his drawers, and took out a plastic Pepsi bottle with water inside. But water it was not; it was his vodka going through an identity crisis or perhaps hiding from a reprimand. He offered the bottle to me. I declined. He seemed agitated but checked himself.
He took a long swig and wiped his lips. With a smile, he moved on to other things. I asked him politely, carefully, cautiously why he drank so much; big mistake, he rambled on and on and on and on.
From what was audible and intelligible, I figured a woman was involved. Who, where, how, I did not know, but I pressed on to find out. Is it possible for a woman to drive a man to such a state? I think not.
“Never trust women,” was Raza’s philosophy and he seemed quite content with it. I was not, it was something beyond me so I soon left his office.
Others had warned me not to get too close to him. He was not dangerous but frequently in a jumbled state, he would offend others which often resulted in a black eye. If you wanted to avoid such a fate, it was best to leave when he was around.
Following our first meeting, I met Raza on numerous occasions. He never once failed to leave an impression. Sometimes we shared a drink in a bar and being impoverished at the time I often mooched cigarettes off him. Always generous, he never said no. We would run into each other at parties, and he, sometimes accompanied by a girl would be in high spirits. We drank, smiled, and smoked but when it came to jokes, I chickened out.
Raza’s laughter was loud like a banshee in a haunted house unleashed after years of captivity. Heads would turn, and those around him would put on sheepish smiles. However, he seemed to enjoy the attention, unperturbed by the reaction of those around him. He laughed quite a lot.
Once at a fundraising event I was bartending, the cash bar was cheap and loaded and Raza approached. He bought no tickets, came straight to me and demanded vodka. I whispered, “You should pay first.”
“I don’t need to pay, you’re my brother,” said Raza in a loud booming voice. Not wanting to create a scene, I poured a generous amount in a plastic cup and added a bit of seltzer. He picked it up, tasted it, and slammed the cup on the counter.
“What is this?” he said angrily. “I don’t need you to dilute this.”
I poured fresh vodka into a new cup and passed it on to it to him. He took it, gulped down the contents in seconds, and placed the cup back on the counter and asked for another. I refilled his cup and told him to take it easy. He took a long clean swig and walked away.
A few minutes after I had finished my bartending shift, I saw him walk up to another bartender and repeat the same routine. Hours later, I found him cursing another journalist in Urdu. The journalist at the receiving end didn’t understand what Raza was saying and was very clam; it was as if he was quite used to the verbal assaults.
At another party, I was engaged in a conversation with two young pretty interns. Raza walked by, saw me and started screaming hysterically. This time the assault was aimed at me. In Urdu, he started to curse, and almost violently asked me to stop talking to the girls who were now cowering.
“If you’re my brother, you will stop talking to these whores,” he said.
“ But I not talking to them,” I said, lying and hoping that he take my word for it even though he had seen me.
“You have to swear, that you won’t talk to them at all,” he said, screaming as much as his tainted lungs would allow him.
“But I am not talking to them. I am talking to you now,” I replied, half-embarrassed and half amused. It seemed that within those few seconds a large crowd had gathered around us. Thankfully no in the immediate vicinity understood the language, but they all sensed something was wrong.
“Is he talking about us,” the two interns chipped in.
“No, he is not,” I replied, which made Raza angrier.
“I am telling you this is it, this is it, you and I are finished,” shouted Raza.
I somehow pacified him and asked him to get another drink, assuring him that I would indeed no longer talk to the two girls. As soon he left the girls came closer.
“He was talking about us, wasn’t he?” said one of the girls. “No,” I replied and walked away aware that if he came back the situation would be out of control.
It seems that Raza had earlier shown an interest in the two girls who understandably had spurned his advances. To make matters worse they were now friends with one of his rivals.
In situations like these, one cannot help sympathizing, but it was clear sympathy would do no good; only rehabilitation could help him. I soon forgot all about him until a friend called and mentioned that he had invited Raza to be a panelist at an event at Columbia University.
Not to inform him of Raza’s problem would have been unfair as it could potentially ruin his career and have consequences for Raza himself. I told my friend everything. The friend was upset, so he called Raza and the following is what he took place.
The friend told him that after an internal discussion his name was dropped as it was generally felt that his remarks might prove to be controversial.
“ I don’t care what other people think. If they like what I say, they will, if they don’t, then they don’t,” replied Raza. Unable to dissuade him from attending the session, the friend gave up and hoped that he would not show up.
The next day the event started on schedule. Raza was nowhere to be found and it seemed after all he was not going to make it. Not one to be discouraged, Raza did turn up. Late and reeking of alcohol, he entered the auditorium and loudly greeted my friend. Heads turned and Raza walked to the stage and sat down at the speaker table. Within a few minutes, he lit a cigarette and jumped right into the discussion.
The discussion was on governance, security and development in Afghanistan and Pakistan, and a few of the panelists were Washington policymakers. A young panelist put forward his case and in depth discussed the economic conditions of the region. He quoted numbers and figures from “The Economist.”
Raza interjected, “Why are you quoting numbers from ‘The Economist,’ do you believe them?”
The young panelist replied, “They are a reputable publication.”
Raza retorted, “Then ************, you don’t have a brain.”
Stunned, the crowd looked at each other as Raza continued to interject, forcing his opinions as he chain-smoked.
Soon after booing ensued and the event ended. Raza got up and in full view took out his vodka bottle and took a long deep swig and left.
I laughed hard when I first heard the story. It was typical of the attention-seeking Raza I knew, but what still bothered me was the question how an Ivy League-educated man, who was once very cultured and moved around in the right circles, could end up like this. No one seems to know the answer.
I have heard Raza has asked friends for money. He was broke and was about to be kicked out of his apartment but one helped him. It was not for lack of sympathy but more the fact that you wonder what your money is being used for. I suspect he would have used it for alcohol.
I ran into Raza at a bus stop. He saw me waiting with others and came over. There were no changes. The old bloodshot eyes, the serial-killer hair, alcohol breath and the same aggressive demeanor. He smiled and asked me how I was doing. I replied I was well.
As a custom, since I first met him, every time we would meet he would ask me if I was dating or if I were with someone and my answer would always be the same, “No.”
I realized I said more ‘no’ to Raza with a few ‘yeses’ scarcely in between, and most of the time it would be a lie. This was not because I was a compulsive liar but because I didn’t want to prolong the conversation. I was embarrassed, appalled and even hated myself for not trying to help this man, but he was beyond help.
“ So who are you with,” he asked again at the bus stop. “No one,” I lied again. “ Damn your youth,” shouted Raza, animatedly.
He took out his vodka bottle took a few sips and started staring at the girl standing next to him. “What do you think about this one,” he asked me, pointing in the general direction of the girl.
Embarrassed and angry, I told him I needed to find a cab and walked in the other direction. I was worried if I took the cab in the general direction of where he was headed, he might hop in for a ride.
Avoiding Raza was not hard. We now frequented different bars, and I quit smoking. Moreover, I had moved offices and was far away from him, which suited me fine, until the day I bumped into him outside a library.
Raza was holding a Chinese daily in English. Proudly he raised the newspaper and pointed to the main headlines and the article that he had written. Smiling he asked me to read it. A few superficial glances later, I handed him the newspaper back and congratulated him.
With a serious face, he said: “What is it that is happening to me? Here I am with an article on the front page of the top newspaper in China and I have nothing to eat, I am homeless.”
I expressed surprise and asked him if he really was homeless. He didn’t look like one, he had a suit on.
“I have no home,” he replied.
“You have so much talent, why don’t you stop drinking?” I said, hoping maybe he would listen to me this time, but I was wrong. He got angry again.
“A man shouldn’t drink now too,” he shouted, and a few heads inside the library turned towards us.
I gave up. There was no way he was going to listen to me. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough, or maybe Raza had a world of his own that he didn’t want to leave, whatever the reasons, I knew here was a man with immense talent, knowledge and skill and all that would one day go away, lost to a cheap bottle $10 bottle of vodka.
“I’ll write a book someday with my experiences,” said Raza, as he walked away further into oblivion.
Note: The name of the subject has been changed.
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