The Sanctum

Welcome, traveller. This be the realm of Jay Niner, where everything be possible, and nothing ever happens. If, perchance, thou wisheth to tarry, then find thou a page from the Grimoire and read. For we are here in eternity, and we are in medias res.



While this blog will focus mainly on my ranting over unavailability of certain luxuries, I also intend to examine:
  • The humanity of deprivation
  • The insanity provoked in the depths of the human mind due to the uncertainties of fate.
Alright! Let the ranting begin.


After nearly two weeks of holding back, I finally let go and marched all the way to Thiruvanmiyur. Bought a pack of Davidoffs and after several people waxed eloquent on the qualities of the Dunhill Red, I decided to sample that as well.
Imagine yourself running twenty kilometres with a friend.
Then afterwards, stopping and bringing up your bottle of water for a nice, long drink.
And the water gets knocked out of your hand, leaving just 10% of your throat drenched while the rest is still calling out piteously for salvation.
That, reader, is an accurate summary of what happens to me during Davidoff deprivation. Granted, a pack of cigarettes is not supposed to be worth the bother, but Davidoff is more to me than a simple pack of 20 cigarettes. I've tasted probably 50 brands of cigarettes till now, and fifteen or twenty types of cigars. It's not that I didn't like Nat Shermans or Camel or Pall Malls, didn't appreciate the taste of Gudang Garam or Charminar, or Djarum. Nope, it's just that eventually at a point in life you begin to get accustomed to something. 
I got accustomed to Davidoff, and Old Monk, two or so pints of Feni, a good bottle of Chianti, slow cars and large bikes, a country-made cot and Konkani beedis, Kerala rains, country chicken and bengali sweets, South Indian coffee and Dilli chai. 
The problem is, I could just have gone on smoking and not noticed what I was missing. You only ever learn the value of something once it's taken out of your hands. I'll learn and re-learn the value of my laptop when it conks off on me, which is too bloody frequently for my taste. Therefore, instead of incessantly walking up and down this oven of a city, I can indulge in Navy Cut while I wait for the weekends to get my relief.
That's the humanity of deprivation part covered.
As for the insanity provoked, it stems from the fact that while I was supposed to go home to pick up a carton of Davidoffs a friend bought for me, I couldn't just because my mother got suspicious at hearing that I'd be going. My whole family is scattered across India- parents in Amravati, sister in Pune, cousin in Nagpur and yours truly in Madras.
It's not a really big deal, not going. What's a big deal is that by the time I reach home in september, that carton will have been devoured to the tobacco flake.
Never mind the rest of the stuff I'd put for safekeeping. It's a bloody shame if you don't have anywhere to store weed and acid and so on and so forth, and as a result must leave them with people you only trust about as far as you throw them. We should have a bank for that sort of contraband, and the Government would be able to control it all the better.
Ah, well- smokers unite, puffing our right, another one we'll light.
And so on and so forth. 
In any case, I have near around to three times ten the number of smokes; it should keep me off those ghastly Classic Milds and the intolerable Gold Flakes. While I may have started out on that, I gradually veered toward the stronger, harsher stuff. 
Some people I know smoke weed to make sure they don't smoke. I smoke so that... okay, vice versa doesn't work out that way, since I do both. I know people who smoke weed 24/7; I know people who could sit down with a hookah and not get up for hours; I know idiots who jumped off cliffs on acid. I'll stay away from those daft highs and listen to Tex William's advice; if there's anyone who got it right, it's him.

No comments:

Post a Comment