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This is my story – a story of drug addiction and the beginning of recovery. It would have turned out very differently if God had not intervened. You have only to scan the papers to see how a drug addict’s story usually turns out – in jail, a mental institution or the graveyard.

This is not a spiritual rags–to–riches story. I am blessed to be alive to write it, and that is by God’s grace alone. In every other way, I am still as raw and perplexed as ever.

I was born in a small, forgettable sector of –––––––––––––. My father is a dyed–in–the–wool Hindu Brahman, and my mother a Protestant Christian. When conscious memory began for me, my father was abroad. He was struggling to set up his business, and visited us only sporadically in the eight years of my childhood in ––––––. My mother worked a day job at an air filter company to keep the family provided for.

Read more: Grateful Recovering Addict