Category Archives: Food for thought

Anchor for your knees

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To think about it, nothing stops us from doing whatever we want. Nothing stops you from doing what you want. Drop the sham, let the morals slide, wait for the ethics to evaporate; there isn’t really anything that stops you from doing what you want. Of course, there’s conditions that apply – seeing through the farce of what we call a society, and not having a family to care for.

Almost all of us are trapped in either or both of the conditions. The one who is truly free will not end up reading this. I’m not saying that a family is not important, but that it is not everything. Maybe I’m blabbering out loud, maybe I’m the one in bounds and not the world, or maybe we are all the parents of Harrison Bergeron.

I lost my train of thought. So, what was I saying? Yes. Anchor. A family is like an anchor, keeps you rooted. No one likes a wandering ship – a ghost ship. The open ocean is not exactly open for all.

If that is the case, then why do they feel like this? So, what do we do when we feel the way i feel? We express. The way it works is this – our thoughts are like a rabid dog in a cage. Kept within oneself, the dog will end up dying and rotting in that cage which is your mind. Think of rotting potatoes – a waste of good vodka material.

So you express – write, sing, dance, paint, do anything that you like and speak your thoughts out loud. You live a normal life but secretly think of being a recluse? Go on. Express. You enjoy your time but want to do something else but can’t? Go on. Express.

Let the dogs out. Let them infect someone vulnerable. Maybe someone else will live your dreams? There’s reason to be happy if that happens. Because, they’ll be able to trace their inspiration to your existence. Oh, they’ll lie. But they know. And that’s good enough.

It feels like i got on the train to Bangalore and landed in Hawaii. That’s how words work, really. They’ll make you feel things you’ll never feel otherwise. They’ll also help you live more than one life.

But why do you need an anchor, anyway? What makes the ship get carried away? The ship knows that it is not made for the shore. It remembers that the shore is not all there is, that the shore is of so little a consequence that it can afford to see it once a year.

That, dear reader, is dangerous knowledge. We make mountains out of the eye of a newt. We don’t know that we don’t know.

Find an anchor, reader. Be a shipwreck, for all I care. The open ocean is not open for you – you haven’t worn the three piece suit for the occasion. Your shoes aren’t clean. Your face is not kempt.

Shoo, go to the salon and sleep well when you get there. Tuck yourself properly, and don’t worry about the monsters under the bed. They’re long extinct. Do worry about the wolves in your head – the white and black. No matter who says what, don’t wake up in the middle of your sleep – or you’ll startle them. The chairs that you keep on the pile of clothes – they’re watching you.

Cigar et al.

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I remember seeing a cigar for the first time in movies. I think it was one of those gangster flicks. Cigars, cigarettes, and almost anything that is smoked for recreation or habit has been with us since time immemorial. For men and women alike, a smoke is almost an act of catharsis – with every puff of smoke exhaled, the stress and rage is perceived to be exhaled too.

If you’ve known me till the time I was employed with Goldman Sachs; then you know me as much as you know my past-life. After I came back to Chennai, I saw lifestyle habits in a different light. Ever since I formed coherent sentences, I saw lifestyle habits (smoking, drinking, etc.) as unnecessary. I wondered, ‘what are they escaping from?’, ‘why waste so much money on a habit that is killing you from the inside?’, ‘how do you even get addicted when you know that this stuff is addicting in nature?’

Of course, at that time, the only thing worrying me was the grades and an occasional banter from my teacher when I talked during class. Those times were simpler. Of course, now I know why people indulge in lifestyle habits. For them, it’s a sweet release (albeit temporary). And, despite them knowing the dangers involved, they can’t help but go back and knock on the fabled doors made of tobacco leaves and fermented food items.

Fear of missing out and indirect peer pressure contributed to my acquaintance with cigarettes and alcohol. All my life I wanted to fit in; and here was a simple way to do so. Now, I’m as normal as any other human. Had I not had writing and reading as a way to vent out and acquiesce myself, I’d have become addicted. So, I partook on fermented products the same way a child inspects Broccoli – tasting a bit, feeling the juices, experiencing the after-taste and vowing never to eat it again only to try again after a year or so (in hopes that Broccoli has learnt to taste better).

I’ve always wanted to hold a cigar in my fingertips. It has a place of its own. A cigar is symbolic. A cigar is costly, and it takes time to be made. It’s not your regular joint that you can make at home, or a cigarette that you can buy from a store. Hence, a cigar in your fingertips gives a subliminal message about control, power, will, and wealth. Handled well, a cigar can make you smell the forests from where the leaves were sourced.

I’m forever grateful to the one who gave me a stick of cigar. It was made by Henri Wintermans, and was marketed as ‘Corona De Luxe’. To think of it, in these Covid-19 times, I smoked a stick of Corona De Luxe – an irony indeed.

Anyhow, I found a comfortable place to sit back, relax and light the stick. The sky was dark, and the wind was flirting with my hair. I inhaled the smoke emanating from the stick, and let it swirl in my mouth. I could smell and taste the dry leaves. I exhaled the smoke as I emptied my lungs. The feeling was ephemeral, and strangely ubiquitous. At that moment, all I could sense around me was the stick and the smoke and the taste of the smoke.

They’re right, you know. A cigar in your fingertips is indeed symbolic. With each puff inhaled, I could see the stick coming to life and withering away – little by little. In a way, I was seeing a personification of life between my fingertips. This makes me death incarnate. As time passed, I saw the ashes clinging to the stick. It seemed like they are trying to replace the stick by offering themselves. I sensed inertia when I saw the porous ashes, as if the ashes aren’t aware that they aren’t leave crumbs anymore. Here I am, sitting on a ledge on my rooftop. I wonder what someone would see from a distance – possibly a silhouette of a figure, with embers shining hazily.

Indeed, smoking a stick is everything and nothing at once. If your family doesn’t like smoking and intoxication, then smoking becomes an act of rebellion. If you’re stressed and imagine the stick to be the source of all your woes, then you can smoke your woes away. If you’re yearning for someone or something and perceive the stick as a passageway, then you can inhale the smoke and feel nearer the source of your longing. How different is smoking from consuming tea or coffee? The manner of intake is different, the purpose remains the same.

As if on cue, the ashes that clung to the stick for so long fell on my lap. I was startled for a moment, but then sat back at ease. I picked the ashen stick, slowly crumbled it and watched the wind whisk it away. In the end, I inhaled the stick and let the smoke linger in my mouth a bit longer. I exhaled the smoke, and flicked the stick away. I emptied my lungs and inhaled the air around me slowly and surely. I let the air rejuvenate me, and jerk me back to reality. Feeling satisfied, I went for a long walk.