Small town blues

As I sit alone in my hotel room smoking, what seems to me as an endless succession of cigarettes, my mind inevitably drifts back to the sepia toned picture of my first smoke.

It was 1992 and I was in my 10th standard. It was the cricket season in Port Blair and the crowd was out in force to see “Nawaz” take on “Forest” for the “Jumpin Juicy Cup”, arguably the most prestigious of the club competitions back then. Even in those days we had floodlights, white balls and colored clothing. It was a carnival atmosphere with people looking to have a good time and I was there with couple of my mates from school. During a drinks break my friend suggested that we should do something. That something, as it was decided by consensus, was to have a smoke. Now I had stolen a few puffs here and there, but this was serious stuff. We were talking about a whole bloody cigarette. So after counting the money we had (my pocket money amounted to 5 rupees a week), with winged objects drawing lazy shapes in my stomach, we stole furtively to the nearest cigarette shop and bought 3 Benson & Hedges. The choice was simple B & H was the most “prestigious” brands we knew of and we were at a cricket match and B & H sponsored the only other day and night cricket we knew of.

With the most dangerous part of our mission completed we went behind the stadium hid in an obscure corner by the ladies toilet and puffed furiously. Occasionally I would add my two bits on how Anil was wasting the cigarette by not taking the smoke in etc. Soon we were back in our seats, triumphant and a little high; little did we realize that the shit had already hit the fan.

At the innings break, another classmate of ours, popularly known as “girgit” (chameleon for the uninitiated), passed by us with a smirky smile. He always had one, it was much later that we realized that it wasn’t smirky at all, but of the knowing variety. By the drinks break of the second innings we saw a group of our schoolmates chattering away excitedly, throwing the more than occasional glance at us. The next day at school people I barely knew came up to me and asked how the first smoke felt. I know that fame or infamy at school had certain benefits but that that moment my only thought was “shit, I am in big trouble”. The trouble, you see, was threefold. One, my sister studied in the same school, couple of classes my senior. Two, notoriety traveled faster than wild fire. Three, she was a squeal, who never passed by an opportunity to get into my dad’s ear about me. That evening I waited for my dad to arrive with great trepidation. Needless to say what transpired afterward is a painful memory. I am not sure what happened at Samit’s and Anil’s households but an icy chill set onto mine for the next couple of days.

As it turns out, I haven’t quite managed to kick the habit yet.