Puff (,) the magic dragon

This post is about smoking. Or not. I mean, not smoking.

I promise not to make this preachy, not even an objective health bulletin. In fact let’s do the intro again.

This post is about smoking.

I recently went to a book fair. I want to tell you about the man who was responsible for it (I mean, this post). The organizer was a ‘mannish’ man dressed in a two-piece suit with a smoker’s voice, smoker’s teeth, smoker’s fingertips who sat about staring into vacant space and chain-smoking like a fish (?).
I’ve never actually seen a chain smoker in action -I watched him light six cigs in half an hour using the burning end of his dying cigarette to light a new one.

Confession: as a literary and a film noir device I find the man with the cigarette irresistible. But in real life when you see a ghost of a man going up in smoke, it gets you thinking.

About that article for instance- the top cash crop of the US is (fading drums) marijuana
(trivia: marijuana has more than a 100 street names)

The article went on to basically say, “Look, I’m not saying legalize pot. But it is being explored for its medicinal value and is probably driving the US economy and if you had to have a bad drug contest brother, nicotine would win hands down. So don’t go self-righteous on my pot (!), we know about the cigarette lobbies, maan.”
(my ghetto version of the article … I know, pathetic)

(trivia: somewhere on a desk in the F Block of my school is scrawled “A friend in need is a friend with weed”)

My point of mentioning the article is that we (I) easily accept the chain smoker, morally and legally. Imagine the chaos if he would have been rolling a joint instead.

Though, not everybody accepts smokers. Not my buddy (ladette?) Apu at least.

The two of us were sitting in that open air ground in Ansal Plaza (the best place for coffee and conversation) drinking coffee and conversing. There was a couple on our right and the guy was smoking.

Now I have nothing against couples. What I do not like is the PDA (public displays of affection) couples where the girl is nestling into the guy and the guy is openly checking out All The Girls on the planet. To top it, he was smoking.

Now me being crippled by courtesy and all, I might have just coughed and even, wrinkled my nose. But Apu, thank God, has no such hang ups.

Apu: “Excuse me, but you can’t smoke in public places.”

The smoker was taken aback because, I suspect, we’d hurt his “cool dude” self image. His girlfriend was still leaning on him and had nothing to contribute in terms of speech or expression.

Smoker: “Yes I can”

Apu: (giving him a prize dirt) “It’s the law.”

Smoker: “Oh yeah? I don’t see a ‘No Smoking’ sign anywhere.”

Apu: “Is it my fault you have bad GK? Do you want me to speak to the manager?”

Apu got up to leave. I guess the guy just wanted to save his face.

Me: “I’m allergic to cigarette smoke, if you could just please not …”

Smoker: “Sure”
He butted out his cigarette and dragged his dopey girlfriend to some other place.

Apu: @#!!

Come to think of it, the girlfriend didn’t look dopey, she looked drugged. So much for the “I’m watchin’ your back, sistah!”

Hmmm.

Where was I?

Yeah, in the book fair, watching the chain smoker.
I walked up to him and said “Look, don’t smoke. Get drunk - on Life!”

I walked away, glowing, feeling good about the world and all. I heard hurried footsteps behind me.
A smoker’s cough.
“You forgot your books.”

It's late. It's such a lovely winter's night. Somewhere in the distance I see a lit window. I'd like to imagine someone in there reading a book, perhaps writing, or smoking that rare cigarette and possibly contemplating the light from my window.
It feels nice to share solitude.

Finals ended three days ago. We were sitting about in the college cafe, giggling with nervous energy and swapping those 'my viva worst' stories when we said hello to a professor who proceeded to give us friendly advice. She said something about these next three weeks being the last carefree days of our lives.

"Boy, you thought this was tough? Wait till you become an intern, then you have to balance work with studies. Then you have to put yourself through the nightmarish hell of post graduation. Then you get a job where you have to balance patient care, office politics and tax returns. Then you get married and you have kids and then your life is officially over."

Of course, she put it less dramatically, but that was really the gist of it.

I came back home and decided to forget that warning by pigging out on food. Not a good idea, because I woke up the next day with a really bad case of viral gastroenteritis.

Oh I had such great plans for these holidays ... for Life. Trekking across the Lower Himalayas, scuba diving in the Andamans or just swimming lazy laps in some warm pool in a beach resort, catching up on reading and writing and traveling. But they've all disappeared at the slightest hint of myalgia.

And the cortisol that had kept me from just about burning out with exhaustion, seems to have abandoned me in my moment of triumph, and has left me with this desolate sense of anti-climax.

Am I already in the middle of the end?

Oh I don't mean to sound so morbid. Not on a night as achingly beautiful as this one. Not when it can still hold promise of adventure, of a Life But Ordinary.