The software engineer parks his bike, and heads towards the little shop as the sun glints blood-red off his helmet. He buys a pack of cigarettes, steps out, appraises the surroundings, and pulls out a cigarette. He lights it up, then takes a huge drag. An expression of content crosses his face, and he exhales. He takes another massive drag. He is, what you would call, the stress smoker. He smokes because he thinks this is the last gesture left to him, as a means of taking a break from his life. Over by the beach, an aged man, probably around seventy, lays his cane by his side, achingly slowly. One look at him, and you would think his battery would run dry, and he would freeze there, immobile, and rusted in the joints. He pulls a long, brown cigarette, and lights it, after many fumbled attempts. He takes a long drag, and simultaneously, a long drawn out whine is heard. It takes one a second's pause to realize that it is the man's abused lungs, eking every last gasp of air out, through gaps in blackened masses of sticky tar in his lungs. He is a chain smoker, clinging onto the one thing that has been his sole companion in every little detail of his life, including the incident when he had been stuck in a well for two whole weeks. Letting go is unimaginable, and so, he shall stubbornly go down with his habit, lung cancer or no, pipes from his throat or none. As one strolls along, one can see several different kinds of smokers, each telling his story by the way his hands are cupped around the thin, fragile roll of paper, by the way he pulls it away from his lips.
But.
Pay attention to that man leaning on the wall there. He is dressed very unremarkably, in tracks and tees. He could be around the age of twenty, or so, for he looks quite young. But note the way he takes a drag. He does not take one single pull. He gently puffs at it, pulling and blowing alernately, and in the process, looks like a humanoid dragon, smoke emitting from his nostrils and cigarette. The cigarette flares to life, and he looks like he has had experience lighting firewood ovens. But considering the age and place, we may assume safely that neither this man, nor any other man (or woman) wearing tracks, had a firewood oven at home.
No, this, my dear readers, is the chillum smoker.
Beware of him, for he is not what he seems. He may look twenty to you, but the sum of his experiences would bring him close to fifty. His eyes are steady and calculating, wise and hoary, a scar on a fresh face; an abomination on a conventional sculpture of youth. He cannot kick the habit of smoking the way he does, because he has smoked chillums for far too long. He is the one in college that not many knew of because he chose so. He was the true "pothead", as he stoned only for himself, whenever he felt like it. He was the man people looked up to, in respect, envying his air of cool aloofness, no matter what the situation was. He was the one several impressionable fools mimicked, as they tried weed. His were the gestures they reproduced, as they proudly proclaimed themselves to be potheads to other fools, just as they knew secretly, in their hearts, that they hated the taste of marijuana. His was the name cursed and taken in vain, as these fools plummeted to their ruin, their echoes their only testimony of their hollow existence. Yet, he was the one ignorant of the influence he had on their fates. Do not fall into his web, for you wouldn't recieve even the honour of nourishing him, as your body decays to a husk, a whisp, into nothing.
Be wary of him, for he is not to be trifled with. He has seen much, and is deserving of any whim he may have. He may take offence at the way you stare at him, or at your red shoes, and nothing would daunt him in telling you so. He has been to the pits, and back, several times, and he has been stripped of all except the skills of survival. He would be labelled "an antisocial element" by his candour, and a "psychological hazard" if ever he chose to lie on a shrink
's couch. Yet, you wouldn't see a more composed man when things begin to get shaky, and tiles start crashing down from what seemed to be a strong roof, for he has long given up faith in any celing other than his mind's. He wouldn't bat an eyelid if you tripped and fell, unless you fell in his way, in which case he would step over you, and move on. Do not make the folly of tagging him a "human", for human beings are creatures who need inspiration, and consolation, from each other. He is a monolith, a complete being, and haughty of any unnecesary attachment.
Do not look into his eyes, for they glint with a supernatural light, and draw one into them. He stands there quietly, smoking, with a cup of coffee in his hand. Yet, his posture speaks volumes; of knights, arrogant and proud; of nomads, watching from afar as civilisations are built, and brought down; of sailors, who have seen things that defied bedtime stories. His voice, when he speaks, is almost devoid of inflections, and reminds you of veiled oracles; mysterious, and wise beyond moon-ages. You might find this extremely romantic, and try to draw him out of his shell. You might let out a hearfelt sigh in private, imagining the hardships that may have made the man lose his colours. You may fancy yourself becoming the one thing he treasures. But be warned, for his shell isn't a shell, but a solid monument, impenetrable and untarnished. His colours haven't bled from him; he has chosen to keep them in a palette that he keeps inside a cupboard in his head, accesible to those he deems worthy. His treasures exist already, and all hoarded and coveted within himself. And he wouldn' bother telling you that your quest was pointless. He will watch you, without any expression, as you swim hopefully up to him. He will continue watching detachedly as you get caught on the swells, as your expression turns into one of doubt, dawning consternation, and then, terror. He will turn to continue his charted route as your sails wave a final farewell at the world, your flag the sign of your sacrifice and dedication to this hopeless quest of yours. Make not the mistake of tinging the air around him with pink, and spring air. For his Spring may be your bitter winter.
Tread carefully around him, and you know why. He isn't a new species, or the first of his kind; he has walked among us ever since we thought of standing on two legs, and living in caves; ever since thought itself was born. He was the one who invented fire, and was feared for it. He was the single entity that didn't fit with the rest of his kind. Yet, he is the true epitome of Mankind, and of its greatness. He shall put to shame philosophers and wise men. He is the one represented in the pictures of the Tribal god with a snake, and a blue throat, living in seclusion in the mountains. His are the people we see with matted locks and scanty clothing in the Himalayas, smoking pot and squatting around. Do not feel ashamed in superstitiously fearing him, for your fear is justified. Keep twenty paces from him and avert your eyes, for he is the siren that sings of promises of being free, of being a true human being. Throw salt over your shoulders thrice after you pass him by, for he is the shadowy one that many have named Lucifer.
But.
He waits. He waits for men and women of his kind. He waits for kindred minds, who have shrugged their shackles of materialism off. He yearns for a conversation with like-minded people, for he has few he can name, and fewer he can claim any right over. His kind's numbers are dwindling, and they are wary, in turn, of being hunted down for being different. He will recognize you instantly, not by the way you smoke, or by the glint of your eye. And he will welcome you into his folds, and take his palette from his cupboard, and show it to you proudly. He will revel in your company that cold morning, and would love to share his cigarette and coffee with you.
He waits, the chillum smoker. Near the little teashop by the sea, in the shacks of Mahabs, in the shadows of bars.
He waits, in the recesses of all our minds.
He waits.
But.
Pay attention to that man leaning on the wall there. He is dressed very unremarkably, in tracks and tees. He could be around the age of twenty, or so, for he looks quite young. But note the way he takes a drag. He does not take one single pull. He gently puffs at it, pulling and blowing alernately, and in the process, looks like a humanoid dragon, smoke emitting from his nostrils and cigarette. The cigarette flares to life, and he looks like he has had experience lighting firewood ovens. But considering the age and place, we may assume safely that neither this man, nor any other man (or woman) wearing tracks, had a firewood oven at home.
No, this, my dear readers, is the chillum smoker.
Beware of him, for he is not what he seems. He may look twenty to you, but the sum of his experiences would bring him close to fifty. His eyes are steady and calculating, wise and hoary, a scar on a fresh face; an abomination on a conventional sculpture of youth. He cannot kick the habit of smoking the way he does, because he has smoked chillums for far too long. He is the one in college that not many knew of because he chose so. He was the true "pothead", as he stoned only for himself, whenever he felt like it. He was the man people looked up to, in respect, envying his air of cool aloofness, no matter what the situation was. He was the one several impressionable fools mimicked, as they tried weed. His were the gestures they reproduced, as they proudly proclaimed themselves to be potheads to other fools, just as they knew secretly, in their hearts, that they hated the taste of marijuana. His was the name cursed and taken in vain, as these fools plummeted to their ruin, their echoes their only testimony of their hollow existence. Yet, he was the one ignorant of the influence he had on their fates. Do not fall into his web, for you wouldn't recieve even the honour of nourishing him, as your body decays to a husk, a whisp, into nothing.
Be wary of him, for he is not to be trifled with. He has seen much, and is deserving of any whim he may have. He may take offence at the way you stare at him, or at your red shoes, and nothing would daunt him in telling you so. He has been to the pits, and back, several times, and he has been stripped of all except the skills of survival. He would be labelled "an antisocial element" by his candour, and a "psychological hazard" if ever he chose to lie on a shrink
's couch. Yet, you wouldn't see a more composed man when things begin to get shaky, and tiles start crashing down from what seemed to be a strong roof, for he has long given up faith in any celing other than his mind's. He wouldn't bat an eyelid if you tripped and fell, unless you fell in his way, in which case he would step over you, and move on. Do not make the folly of tagging him a "human", for human beings are creatures who need inspiration, and consolation, from each other. He is a monolith, a complete being, and haughty of any unnecesary attachment.
Do not look into his eyes, for they glint with a supernatural light, and draw one into them. He stands there quietly, smoking, with a cup of coffee in his hand. Yet, his posture speaks volumes; of knights, arrogant and proud; of nomads, watching from afar as civilisations are built, and brought down; of sailors, who have seen things that defied bedtime stories. His voice, when he speaks, is almost devoid of inflections, and reminds you of veiled oracles; mysterious, and wise beyond moon-ages. You might find this extremely romantic, and try to draw him out of his shell. You might let out a hearfelt sigh in private, imagining the hardships that may have made the man lose his colours. You may fancy yourself becoming the one thing he treasures. But be warned, for his shell isn't a shell, but a solid monument, impenetrable and untarnished. His colours haven't bled from him; he has chosen to keep them in a palette that he keeps inside a cupboard in his head, accesible to those he deems worthy. His treasures exist already, and all hoarded and coveted within himself. And he wouldn' bother telling you that your quest was pointless. He will watch you, without any expression, as you swim hopefully up to him. He will continue watching detachedly as you get caught on the swells, as your expression turns into one of doubt, dawning consternation, and then, terror. He will turn to continue his charted route as your sails wave a final farewell at the world, your flag the sign of your sacrifice and dedication to this hopeless quest of yours. Make not the mistake of tinging the air around him with pink, and spring air. For his Spring may be your bitter winter.
Tread carefully around him, and you know why. He isn't a new species, or the first of his kind; he has walked among us ever since we thought of standing on two legs, and living in caves; ever since thought itself was born. He was the one who invented fire, and was feared for it. He was the single entity that didn't fit with the rest of his kind. Yet, he is the true epitome of Mankind, and of its greatness. He shall put to shame philosophers and wise men. He is the one represented in the pictures of the Tribal god with a snake, and a blue throat, living in seclusion in the mountains. His are the people we see with matted locks and scanty clothing in the Himalayas, smoking pot and squatting around. Do not feel ashamed in superstitiously fearing him, for your fear is justified. Keep twenty paces from him and avert your eyes, for he is the siren that sings of promises of being free, of being a true human being. Throw salt over your shoulders thrice after you pass him by, for he is the shadowy one that many have named Lucifer.
But.
He waits. He waits for men and women of his kind. He waits for kindred minds, who have shrugged their shackles of materialism off. He yearns for a conversation with like-minded people, for he has few he can name, and fewer he can claim any right over. His kind's numbers are dwindling, and they are wary, in turn, of being hunted down for being different. He will recognize you instantly, not by the way you smoke, or by the glint of your eye. And he will welcome you into his folds, and take his palette from his cupboard, and show it to you proudly. He will revel in your company that cold morning, and would love to share his cigarette and coffee with you.
He waits, the chillum smoker. Near the little teashop by the sea, in the shacks of Mahabs, in the shadows of bars.
He waits, in the recesses of all our minds.
He waits.
