In Muzaffarpur, Bihar—a state that’s supposed to be dry under the law—a shocking discovery unfolded. An ambulance, meant to save lives, was found carrying 40 cartons of liquor. Not medicine. Not patients. Just bottles of alcohol, sealed tight and hidden away. This incident hits deeper than just a mistake. It’s a question of how something like this can happen without anyone noticing. Is it weak enforcement? Corruption? The cracks in the system seem too wide to ignore now. If this can slip through in broad daylight, what else is getting past us? What stings the most is the fact that it was an ambulance—something we trust during our most vulnerable moments. It's supposed to symbolize hope, safety, and care. But here it was, used to smuggle drugs- poison, betraying the very idea it stands for. It’s not just illegal; it’s a complete violation of trust.

To understand the magnitude of this, let’s break it down. A dry state is where alcohol is banned by law. No selling, drinking, or carrying it. The aim is to protect families and curb the damage of addiction. Bihar, since 2016, has been a dry state, with other examples like Gujarat, Nagaland, and Lakshadweep. But even in these states, alcohol still manages to seep through the cracks, finding its way through illegal sales and smuggling. Then, there’s the issue of drug addiction, especially in Punjab—an entire state consumed by it. Afghanistan and Myanmar are the biggest culprits, flooding India with drugs like heroin and methamphetamine. These illegal substances ravage communities, particularly in states like Punjab, where addiction is devastating families and lives. According to the World Health Organization, alcohol consumption contributes to over 5% of the global burden of disease, leading to an estimated 3 million deaths each year. In India, the statistics are equally alarming. A 2020 study revealed that nearly 14% of the adult population engages in hazardous drinking, with a significant portion of this group facing addiction. In India alone, the economic cost of alcohol addiction is estimated to be in the billions annually, factoring in healthcare expenses, lost productivity, and the burden on social services. Families bear the emotional and financial brunt, but society at large suffers from the breakdown of social order and the depletion of resources meant for education, healthcare, and welfare. What’s worse is how this smuggling connects to larger threats. Terrorist organizations often fund their operations through the illegal drug trade. This doesn’t just finance violence and instability—it leads to chaos and lawlessness, weakening economies and corrupting entire systems. The spread of addiction, coupled with smuggling, erodes public health, distorts social systems, and ultimately threatens national security. It’s not just about illegal trade—it’s about a ripple effect that damages everything it touches. It’s a quiet kind of war, one that creeps in without sirens or guns, but leaves destruction in its wake. I can’t pretend this is just news. This is personal.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve seen alcohol destroy not just the drinker, but the entire family. So yes, I believe I’m the right person to write this. Addiction, to me, is often an escape. A form of cowardice. Life gets tough, and instead of facing it, people hide behind bottles. What frustrates me more is how films romanticize this, turning addicts into misunderstood heroes. As if drinking is somehow justified when love fails or pain overwhelms. I know that pain is real. But using alcohol to cope? That’s not a strength. That’s surrender. And the circle doesn’t stop there. Friends laugh it off, encourage it, and push the cycle forward, masking destruction as bonding. I don’t like to think of anyone as inferior. But I’ll say this plainly: people who repeatedly hurt their own family don’t deserve the respect they demand. That might sound harsh, but it’s my truth. My father is that person in my life. And this isn’t just his story—it’s mine too. I can’t rely on him to protect me. When we go out, I look after him. He doesn’t take responsibility. Sometimes, he doesn’t even hand over his salary. It’s my educated, hardworking mother who holds this family together. Without her, I don’t know where I’d be. His priorities? Upside down. Alcohol first. Family last. My mother comes home every day, exhausted from work, only to be greeted by a drunk husband, lying unaware of anything around him. He doesn’t even go to work anymore. Worse, he takes my mother’s hard-earned salary just to drink more. I feel so sorry for her—for the weight she carries. And in her exhaustion and pain, she sometimes lashes out at me over small things.

I know it’s not really about me— it’s the burden she carries. But it still hurts. And it makes me hate him even more. I’m sure of this: whether it’s my wedding or even my funeral, he’ll show up drunk. Still stumbling. Still shaming us. I never wanted a perfect father. Just a sober one. One who could show up—not angry, not reeking of liquor—just present. What I want to say is this: even the ‘nicest’ person, if addicted, ends up hurting the people around them. Every time they damage their health, they’re also shattering someone’s trust, someone’s peace, someone’s love. We watch them kill themselves slowly, and we bleed silently with them. If we wanted to destroy someone, getting them addicted is one of the most effective ways to do it. Addiction doesn’t just ruin health. It steals potential, clear thinking, and sometimes a person’s entire identity. I recently saw a video that shattered me. A child was trying to wake their parents, both unconscious from drugs, slumped on a public train. Their belongings were wide open. Their child, calling out with confusion and fear, getting no response. No child should be that alone. I felt my situation was a thousand times better than that child's. I wanted to hug that child. No child deserves that. Children are deprived of healthy role models, spouses lose trust and hope, and even close friends feel the strain. As a kid, I had a plan. I used to think, “If I ever become Chief Minister, I’ll jail every drunkard—starting with my father.” I believed that would save my family. Save my mother’s tears. Stop pretending that everything is fine when it is not. But now I’ve grown. And I know it’s not that simple. But if I had the power, I’d ensure strict enforcement of existing laws and stop public services from being misused. I’d launch honest awareness programs for the youth before addiction finds them. Build more rehab centers. And insist media must stop dressing up addiction as romance—it’s not healing; it’s harm. And here’s the truth: change has to come from within. You can’t force someone to quit. But if you’re reading this, and you drink, please—stop. Not for me. For the people you love. For the ones you’re hurting. If you still don’t understand the gravity of addiction, watch it unfold. Sometimes words aren’t enough—but films can open eyes. Watch Sanju (2018).

It’s more than a biopic—it’s a story of second chances. Sanjay Dutt battled addiction, faced disgrace, and still found his way back. It doesn’t glorify his mistakes—it shows that recovery is possible, that strength is in choosing change. It emphasizes a point that addiction is rarely an isolated issue; it is deeply intertwined with mental health struggles like depression, anxiety, and trauma. Then, watch Requiem for a Dream. But only if you’re ready for the truth in its ugliest form. It shows four people whose dreams crumble under addiction—until nothing’s left. A mother lost in hallucinations. A girl who trades her body for drugs. A young man whose future rots before his eyes. No glamour, no forgiveness—just pain. It’s a nightmare that doesn’t end when the screen goes black. A brutal reminder that addiction doesn’t just take lives—it empties them. The first film encourages us to give up drugs and believe in recovery. The second one makes us fear even going near them. Addiction steals more than health—it steals lives, trust, and love. Don’t even try it once. Addiction doesn’t knock—it invades. What begins as curiosity can end in ruin. But it’s never too late to fight back. Choose recovery. Choose your loved ones. Choose life—before the bottle chooses everything for you.

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