ANALOGY

My father is a smoker. Ever since I was born, I had seen him with a stick dangling from his lips, off and on. As I grew older, the literature too glorified the men who smoked.

It was one life changing day when I was standing with my father in our balcony. Baba often slipped into a philosophical mode, with scotch in his hand, and gave his only target sermons. During those times my eyes shifted from here to there trying to look for an exit. But as I grew older, I started enjoying the sessions. In fact, I looked forward to the Saturday nights that would be filled with like-minded congregation, beautiful mellow light, the golden scotch that sparkled on the ice cubes moving rhythmically as people debated over heavy topics. As the night percolated, the music flowed, classical, light..and what not… and then my father would slip into his favourite mode and start with his explanation of ‘OM’and the meaning of ‘Life’. I liked listening to him. It had in fact started giving a sense of direction in life. Anyway, I guess I am digressing from the point.

So it was that evening when I stood by him listening to the philosophies, but I was particularly attracted to the cigarette. As it consumed itself. That was the first time I desperately wanted a drag myself. Not that I was any stranger to the taste.. a couple of times, a couple of drags..flavoured and normal. Stolen from my friend’s father’s box, and offered by our European friend with my parents as witnesses. Come to think of it, now, I do belong to a very aberrant family. But they did a good job of bringing me up. Digressing again.

So that night, I pretended to sleep till the night set in, motionless. The moonshine crept into my bed and made a silver dash towards my pillow. I sat up and went stealthily into the living room where the cigarette lay benignly under the switched off crystal lamp. I went to my parents’ room and pressed my ears against the door. No sound, except for my pounding heart. I tip toed back to where the temptation lay. I took out a stick and Baba’s lighter and went to the terrace. It was flooded with moonlight and a beautiful breeze blew. It was as if God was setting the scene for my crime. Crime? No. Retrospecting, I would not call it a crime. It was a blessing.

I knew the drill. I put the stick between my lips and lit it. This was the first time I actually ‘wanted’ a smoke and it was fulfilling. After a couple of drags I sat down on the floor and gazed at the moon. Something was sinking into me..making me heady. Then I looked at the burning stick. It resembled the analogy of life right in front of me. Between my fingers. Just like we say, our life IS in our hands.

The fire was making a thin ring and the once solid stick was turning into grey ash…the wind blew some of it away. I had heard that it was real cool not to let the ash fall..but the winds of time blew away parts of the life into oblivion. Isn’t that the same thing which happens with us? Incidents that consume us and never leave us the same. Each and every episode leaves a burning mark, positive or negative, but a mark indeed. Another drag, the fire was even redder, just like the efforts we give to make concepts materialize. The moon was beautiful. I was incinerated with a drunk feeling, and the breeze did not let me burn. After a while I saw that the fire on the cigarette head had died down. And the spark was gone. It was soot-black. And I was conscious of a sour taste in my mouth. I took the lighter again and lit it, putting in a lot of effort where I was curiously conscious of moving my hands and lowering my head to avoid the wind around.

Years later I had tried to put an end to my futile life. Just like the cigarette, my life, midway had some parts of it blown away as ashes, and some parts of it had made me so heady that I could consider myself a junkie for the love of life. And then there was total darkness. And it did leave a sour taste in my mouth not to mention the pain I went through to reignite what was left of the cancerous component (metaphorically) that was left of me. I had hated myself and that foul taste that was left in my mouth. As I had left the nursing home with my parents just like the cupped hands that would protect the flame from going out, I remained for several days in a stooping posture just like when I had tried to inhale the cigarette the moment the flame from the lighter had kissed its lips. No. It was not shame. I remained like that due to exhaustion, physical and mental.

That night, like a de ja vu had told me that our lives are like cigarette sticks, some privileged enough to be a big, fat, Moroccan cigar..but none the less we have a specific length beyond which we can’t go on, and life finally burns us all out. The length is variable but the end is inevitable. I smoked again, and somewhere as I neared the butt, it started to ‘feel good’ again. Was it the second chance that life gave us? And we should make the most of it. And boy! Does it not make us feel regaled under the heady moonlight being carried away by the breeze? Being a first timer, I did not know where to stop. I even inhaled part of the butt and threw it away immediately. So ..another of life’s lessons..we must know where to stop. Keep yourself grounded and do not get carried away. Wasn’t that what my father always taught me? It was all coming back like a full circle. Like the burning circular ring that consumed the whole cigarette. I was done. The headiness was gone. The bad taste of the butt was there and I wanted pure water and to go back to bed. But the moon was intoxicating.

They say every cigarette you consume takes away five minutes of your life. I have heard my mother ranting this ‘n’ number of times to my father. And here I was. I had given away a part of my life, sitting all alone in the dark. I would not have smoked in public. But when you self-destruct you are fated to be alone. And everything around looks dark. Though there may be the heavenly halo of the moon..God knows if that can be a metaphor for the Gates of Heaven..but finally in life you die alone, being consumed by all your deeds.

That was the last day that I had a smoke. But it taught me so much. And now when I spend sleepless nights nestled between my little ones, I remember that night. That one single stick that had like Nostradamus predicted the entire course of my life..ups, downs… success…failure and the all- consuming loneliness. Baba and Maa had taught me well to deal with things. Not to lose control and take a step at a time. But my inanimate teacher had taught me not to inhale too hard, to let go before you reach the butt and let life consume you and prepare you for the inevitable darkness.

And the final smoke that comes out of that long cylindrical chimney..the grey serpentine smoke taking you back you where you belong..the longest cigarette….till then….carpe diem!