When Granddaddy Chuck Comes To Town

It’s the monsoon season in Goa. It rained all night. I woke up bright and early, bathed and changed, and then smoked a mighty spliff in the crisp morning sunlight, among our own wild greenery we call a garden, where every leaf was glistening in the soft sunlight, and my thoughts turned to the great prospects of becoming a grandfather someday soon. And by "soon" I mean in the foreseeable future, not right now.

Yes, today my son turns 22. I sent him an embroidered Hendrix t-shirt and a copy of Plato’s Symposium. The word “symposium” means “drinking party” in Greek. It is a lovely tale of a great drinking party held in the City of Athens circa 350 BC, when the gods were many, and included Eros and Aphrodite, and Dionysus. It is also an insight into the character of the philosopher Socrates, Plato's beloved teacher, described here as a "truth-loving eccentric," while he was alive and kicking – and drinking, and talking: about Love. We have nothing written from the man whom Athenian democracy murdered - for "corrupting the minds of the youth." But that’s another story.

Anyway, my parcel reached yesterday – and Gaurav told me that he was wearing the Hendrix t-shirt, and that a “drinking party” had already begun, which was to remain in continuance right through till Sunday. I am so proud of my boy. He plays great guitar. And he even motorcycled it down here to Goa from Bangalore – and back. On our “notional highways.” These are feats his Motorcycle Papa is very proud of.

But getting back to impending grandfatherhood someday soon, as I sat stoned in the garden, my thoughts turned to a very far-out great-grandfather I once met, and smoked a chillum with. This happened in New Delhi, some ten years ago.

I had a friend we all called “Ustad,” a simple man from the Kumaon, and a smoker. He was a little over 50 then, and already a grandfather. One day I asked him how he began smoking charas. He said that he stole a little from his father’s pocket and smoked it. And never looked back. Now, I knew that his father and mother lived back in a roadless village in the upper Kumaon - "unreal estate" - so I asked, “Does your father still smoke?” Ustad replied, “Yes, he smokes half-a-tola every evening in a big chillum all by himself.” Lonely, but happy – and stoned.

So I made a request to be invited to smoke a chillum with the great-grandfather whenever he was next in town. And that day came soon, because the old man, who was 86, needed some eye surgery.

We all sat in Ustad’s little room, the great-grandfather cross-legged on the bed, with the little great-grandson on his lap. It was an enormous chillum that he wielded in his hands. He mixed half-a-tola of his homegrown charas with desi tambakoo and filled it. And then he asked Ustad to offer him a light. He lit the chillum with a thunderous pull, so much so that small flames erupted from its mouth. Then, passing the gun on to me, he proceeded to blow a cumulo nimbus cloud of charas smoke all over the little boy on his lap, his great-grandson.

And so I thought that I would like to be a grandfather like that. We have a “smoking party” when the child is born.

Sometimes I wonder about the wonder that was Deng Xiao Peng, the communist who turned China around. He smoked 90 cigarettes a day and lived till 95. I do believe it must be the soya sauce. I now have a teaspoon of Kikkoman with every meal. And some ajinomoto too. Who knows? Might work.

Smoking is "risky behaviour."

Wish me luck.