A Fisherman, That Nut Gandhi, And Other Nuts I Hate

It was late last evening, and we were both tired, so instead of embarking on our regular stroll to one of the beaches, we decided to stop at a sheltered cove. There, sitting on the rocks, we watched the angry colours of the sunset reflected upon the calm waters of the Arabian Sea.

A man appeared – a man wearing nothing more than a ragged pair of shorts, carrying nothing more than a small fishing net bundled up under one arm. He stepped into the shallow waters and waded out a few metres, after which he cast his net. When he hauled it in, there was nothing in it, so he waded out a little further and cast it again.

“This is a fisherman with no Capital,” I commented, “all he has is a net – but no boat.”

She replied, “So what? He doesn’t want to catch too many fish – just two or three for himself and those he has to feed at home.”

And I said: “That’s what you call ‘self-sufficient’ – without any marketable surplus; producing for one’s own consumption, unable to perform any exchanges in The Market by which to obtain even a small portion of the surpluses of others. Thus, he is condemned to eternal poverty. This is Gandhianism for you.”

I  continued: “Actually, in reality, it is worse than that. It is Gandhianism combined with Communist-Environmentalism – for, on the one hand, the poor chap has no Capital; and, on the other hand, he has no Property either because of the Coastal Zone Regulation Act. Property by this shaded cove would be extremely valuable today and who knows which rich Western tourist would decide to buy it for Big Bucks and build himself a winter holiday home.”

“You and your eternal Economics,” she said, “Can’t you ever talk about something else?”

“It’s not Economics,” I replied in my defence, “It’s actually Anti-Economics. Economics is my Passion. Anti-Economics is my Hatred. I hate Gandhianism, Communism, and Environmentalism.”

“Talk of love, not hate,” she said, quoting the Cohen song.

"Men are from Mars and women are from Venus," I thought of saying, but didn't, for it is a cliche. But there might be some truth to it, to do with hormones. Chemicals matter - like good old THC, or alcohol. Ha ha.

A Woman, The Baba, And Me: Take #2

Today is the 129th birth anniversary of Ludwig von Mises. This post is written in his honour.

This morning, I awoke at the crack of dawn and, after a wash and a change, decided to drop in on my old friend, Baba Pagal Nath Charsi, whose "Hashrum" is quite close to where we stay. He was seated on a bench in his garden, filling a mighty chillum with some green ganja that looked rather good. What was peculiar is that there was a woman there too, seated on a chair. I greeted them both and offered a light to the Baba when the chillum was ready. We both smoked; the woman abstained.


When the chillum was done, the Baba shouted "bhoonsa maal" in disgust - and threw a big plastic packet full of ganja over the wall.


"Dum mein koi dum hi nahin hai," he said.


I understood, for no buzz happened to me either. So I made my offering to the Baba. I said, "Baba, I bought some charas at Palolem yesterday. Here it is, for you. The man said it was "Malana Cream" - but they all say that, don't they? Anyway, let us hope it is at least charas."


This time, I made the chillum. But the Baba took one pull and threw my chillum over the wall! "Bombay Black," he said. "Boot polish mixed with it," he added. "Poisonous!" he screamed.


He then took the entire lump of charas I had presented him with, and threw it over the wall.


"How much did you pay for this shit?" asked the Baba.


"Five thousand," I said.


"I paid two thousand for that crappy ganja myself," roared the Baba. "So that's seven thousand rupees thrown away."


It was then that the woman entered our conversation.


"Look at yourself sometime, Baba. Your clothes are tattered and your footwear is shoddy - yet you spend a fortune on these substances. This is a waste of precious resources. Why don't you give up this life of intoxication and get back into the normal world?" she said.


She was a small woman, very prim and proper, her clothes were simple, and her voice was as soft as her words were harsh. I thought the Baba might get offended, but he just smiled at the accusation - and said, "Let me explain my actions to you, since you understand them not." He then proceeded to make a long speech, which I will attempt to reproduce accurately, below. The Baba said:


"All human action is purposive; directed towards the removal of felt uneasiness. So, when I wake up, I feel uneasy - and reach for a cigarette. The cigarette relives me somewhat, but a new uneasiness begins - at my rear end. So I rush to perform my daily ablutions, and that done - which is a sign of good health - and with my face, neck and ears washed in cold water, feeling fresh, I feel a new desire in my mind - the desire to smoke a mighty chillum. If the maal is good, all uneasiness ends - well, almost, for there is some dryness in the throat, for which I make myself a hot cup of tea. After that, I am ready to face the day. I have a small breakfast of kandha-pohe - peasant food that is cheap, nutritious and easy to digest. I bathe and change. I then smoke another chillum - and after that, I feel NEEDLESSNESS. I need nothing. No more smoke, no more tea, no more food - NOTHING. My mind is at peace. No "uneasiness" at all.


Then, my working day begins: reading, writing, meditating. At 2 pm I have a simple lunch of khichdi - peasant food again. Then I sleep for an hour. In the evening I don't work. I smoke a few chillums. Enjoy my garden. Relax with some music. And I also have some beer for the dry throat, and for a good night's sleep, for tea in the evening keeps me awake all night. I dine on zunkha-bhakri, peasant food that is great for the health, the wallet, and the important performance of the morning. Now, that is me, my needs, and my life. Where is the "waste" you speak of?"


The woman replied, soft voice; hard words: "Exactly, Baba. If you did not spend so much on the substances you abuse, you could eat better, dress better, live better. Your lifestyle is nothing but waste."


The Baba was nonplussed, and replied: "Values and pleasures are subjective. I hold good ganja and charas in high value - so I willingly pay a lot for them. As for the rest, it is all a question of preferring one thing and setting aside another. I don't value good clothes at all. My power does not emanate from what I wear - unlike the policeman. For me food has no value at all - except for nutrition and digestion. I set these values aside when I prefer what I prefer."


WOMAN: But look at the amount of money you waste. Just 10 minutes ago you threw away seven thousand rupees - which could have fed a poor family for two months. Isn't this criminal?"


BABA: What is actually criminal is the legislation banning my "substances" - as you call them. Without this legislation, these would be cheap and plentiful. Farmers would grow these and prosper. A huge number of people would gain - and we smokers would have money spare for other things, by which we would encourage other branches of industry. There would be far less poverty, far less crime, and zero police atrocities. Do not forget that we babas have been smoking these "substances" for millennia. I have been to Gangotri, to Kedarnath, to Haridwar and Rishikesh - and everywhere I have met babas complaining about the smoke they love so much, and which is so difficult to obtain today, because of this thoughtless piece of legislation.


WOMAN: But these substances must be harmful, which is why our Parliament has banned them.


BABA: Harmful? What utter nonsense! Babas are the hardiest people in India. They walk the "char dham yatra" in droves, smoking all the way, something no city-person can do. Not only that, babas are full of philosophical insights. These "substances," as you call them, harm neither the body nor the mind. Our ignorant Parliament has banned these while unleashing alcohol upon the people. Vijay Mallya, the booze merchant, sits proudly in this Parliament. And do look around in Goa at the small bars that open early every morning. Look at the alcoholics who rush there for their morning fix - and who collapse by noon. Nothing should be banned, of course - except, perhaps, evil literature. And our government schools and colleges are full of evil literature!


WOMAN: But if these substances are legal everyone will smoke them. Even the poor. How will anyone work?


BABA: The poorest labourers smoke ganja - and work. Observe sometime the lives of day labourers, rickshaw pullers and the like in our cities. Why not make their harsh lives better - by giving them a healthy and cheap high?


ME: Baba, pardon me for interrupting, but you sound like a praxeologist. What have you been reading lately?


BABA: Why, Chuck, I have been reading those excellent books you gave me. I have read Ludwig von Mises' Human Action three times already - and it took me months. It showed me the inner harmony of Man - as God has made him. We babas always look at the harmony of God's work, without realizing that God made Man too - as a creature who is destined to live in harmony with his fellowmen. Mises showed me the truth about our own inner nature, the harmony in our minds, in the laws by which we all think and act. Thank you for this book, Chuck.


ME: Well, today happens to be Ludwig von Mises' 129th birth anniversary. Wish we could smoke a good chillum in his honour.


BABA: No luck, my friend. Let us smoke some cigarettes instead, and I will make some tea for us all.


WOMAN: Baba, you have convinced me of the truths in your arguments, and the correctness of your way of life. I have some good friends in Manali. I will fly there tomorrow and return with the finest charas money can buy - for the three of us. For I too want to smoke these substances. And to learn about Liberty from the two of you.


The Baba and I were astounded at her change of mind and heart. But I had not been introduced to her as yet, so I told her I was Chuck and asked for her name. The predictable reply: "Prudence."


I laughed.


The Baba laughed too.


WOMAN: I hate my name. Baba, please give me a new name.


BABA: I give you the name "Passion" - for that is what has fired you today. Not passions of the flesh, but passion of the mind, and the passion for Liberty.


ME: Thank you both, for such a lovely morning. And a fitting tribute to the memory of that great philosopher of Liberty - Ludwig von Mises.


Having said that, I departed. I am now waiting for Ms Passion to return from Malana with some good smoke.


"Any day now. Any day now. I shall be released... " as the Dylan song goes.

On Kaya... In The Monsoon

April and May were unbearably hot here in Goa. So when the monsoons finally hit us on Monday, it was bliss. Clouds kept the blazing sun away permanently; it has been raining off and on ever since; it is cool. Unfortunately, all our "narco tourists" have returned home and, for those left behind, getting a "decent smoke" is proving impossible. I haven't managed to score in weeks. Nor have two friends of mine who live nearby. This really gets my goat.

In my head, in this weather, Marley plays his lovely song:

Gotta have kaya now,
For the rain is falling.

"Kaya" is another Jamaican word for ganja. Marley has a great album of the same name, in which the above is the title song. Every song in that album is on ganja. My favourite is "Easy skankin'" which begins:

Excuse me while I light my spliff...

This impossibility of getting ganja when you need it bad really pisses me off. It makes me smoke too many cigarettes - and fouls up my mood. I frown and scowl all the time. I do not enjoy anything - not even music. Not even blogging.

So if you don't see fresh posts on this blog for some time, you know why. If you are in Goa and can help, please do so - write in. If one of my students from my years in Mangalore is reading this, I hope he will be duly activated. You can find me on Facebook quite easily.

Mangalore reminds me of the time when the fucked-up State Police locked me up half-a-dozen times for just smoking grass. This is a Liberty I will fight to the death for. Smokers of the Noble herb deserve the right to smoke unmolested by the fucked-up State Police. Farmers of this great "cash crop" need Liberty too. My dream is to do to the spliff what Henry Ford did to the automobile: mass manufacture them. Then we won't have to spend twelve and a half minutes rolling one. We can draw two huge spliffs out of a packet and smoke them, one in each hand. We can sing the Marley song in plural:

Excuse me while I light my spliffs...

Ha ha.

Good Morning, America!

Some of you may already be familiar with my old friend and soul-brother, my alter-ego, so to speak, Baba Pagal Nath Charsi, whose fiery political speech in the crude, street Hindi of barbarous Delhi was podcast on this blog many months ago, and saw record downloads.

Well, here is the good Baba again, this time in a more urbane avatar, in English, with a long song, a lyrical essay that is hilarious, risqué, and political dynamite. The F-word is sprinkled through it like confetti, so Eminem fans will love this long song.

The background to this composition must also be told. This was written in 2004, when the Baba was on the run from the Karnataka State Police, their goon squads, and their hired assassins who disapproved of his peaceful political activism: spreading the Gospel of Freedom.

Afraid for his life, and wanting to send out his final message to his faithful followers, he holed up in a small hotel in a remote mountain village and hammered in out on his laptop. He then jeeped it to a nearby small town, into a cyber café there, and e-mailed it to the faithful few. It is from these records, carefully preserved, that this long song has now been unearthed and is being aired. The Antidote Blog is proud to host Baba Pagal Nath once more: “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.”

Good Morning, America is an “immigrant song”: it challenges the visa-passport regime. But it challenges many other forms of tyranny, including, of course, that great tyranny against the Noble Herb.

To enjoy this long song of freedom, click here. It is also permanently featured on the right hand bar, along with all the other free downloads.

A Joke On Soniaji & Co.

Wasn't in the mood to blog today, so I thought I'd leave you with a children's joke I heard yesterday:

If "pro" is the opposite of "con," then what is the opposite of "progress"?

Methinks this applies equally to India as well as the USSA.

Songs From A Room

Began Sunday with this great travelogue in Mint on Marrakesh, titled “Souk for the soul.” It's the world's oldest MARKET!

My mind immediately raced to that old CSNY song, “Marrakesh Express”:

Blowing smoke-rings from the corners of my ma-ma-ma-ma-mouth…

That was the theme song of the hippies, white folk who loved the Noble Herb. Some came to Goa directly from Woodstock, and never returned. You sometimes come across these nice folk in these parts.

Anyway, I didn’t have “Marrakesh Express” in my poor CD collection, but so what? I put on Marley, who loved the Noble Herb too. Marley was not black. He was mulatto. Some white genes there. And he sang in English. That’s why he became a Third World Superstar. Makes absolute sense. Peter, Lord Bauer, often said that those underdeveloped nations that never had any contact with white folk were worse off. Goa had 500 years of the Portuguese.

So Mr. Marley started to play his stuff:

It’s a natural mystic blowing through the air,
If you listen carefully now you will hear,
This could be the first trumpet,
Might as well be the last,
Many more will have to suffer,
Many more will have to die,
Don’t ask me why….

Then he went on to “Rat Race”:

There’s a horse race,
There’s a dog race,
There’s a human race,
But this is a rat race.

It is here he makes the famous shout:

Rasta don’t work for no CIA.

That’s me.

And then on to “Exodus: Movement of Jah People”:

Wipe away transgressions,
Set your captives free.

A movement of Jah people got me thinking about Chacha in New Delhi. And of Dylan’s “Ballad of a Thin Man”:

You walk into the room
With your pencil in your hand
You see somebody naked
And you say, “Who is that man?”
You try so hard
But you don’t understand
Just what you’ll say
When you get home
Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

I found these lines especially appropriate:

You have many contacts
Among the lumberjacks
To get you facts
When someone attacks your imagination
But nobody has any respect
Anyway they already expect you
To just give a check
To tax-deductible charity organizations

You’ve been with the professors
And they’ve all liked your looks
With great lawyers you have
Discussed lepers and crooks
You’ve been through all of
F. Scott Fitzgerald’s books
You’re very well read
It’s well known
Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

Yeah. Something’s happening out there all right. I get all the signs. Wonder if Chacha gets them too. Or is he headed for the fate of that Last Mogul:

Poor old Shah Alam
He rules from Delhi to Palam.

Palam is the village where Delhi’s airport is located. Lots of property without titles in Palam.

But who wants Delhi? Recall Babur, when Humayun brought him Ibrahim Lodi’s severed head. Two of his top generals immediately revolted, saying Delhi was too hot. They deserted ship and rode off back to Kabul and Kandahar. And summer is approaching. The Brits always vacated Delhi in summer, taking their The State to cool Simla. Chacha and Pachauri prefer air-conditioning. And then they talk of global warming. Funny old world.

So, if I don’t want Delhi, where do I go?

Actually, Harare sounds like a great opportunity for conquest. They surely need a sound money man there. And Harare is the city in the world with the maximum number of golf courses. Great city, I am told. So we could paraphrase Marley, who supported independence for Zimbabwe:

We’re gonna chase that crazy Mugabe outta town…

What about Goa? Well, this is no Rasta place. The Noble Herb is smoked here in hiding, and sold in hiding. The mafia rules. There are no freedom fighters. And no freedom songs either. You don’t find a single shack on Palolem Beach, where Rizla papers sell by the bucketload, playing Rasta music. No Marley T-shirts are sported. My other serious option is Jamaica, where they could do with a Professor of Rastanomics. Ha ha.

Anyway, my Marathi manoos girlfriend in Goa complains if I have another beer.

I thought women complain if you have another woman.

But see how the mighty have fallen.

Bum Shankar

Boom Shankar or Bum Shankar? That is the question - so I found in New Delhi.

What did I do in New Delhi these past six months? Well, apart from my morning blogging, which took a few hours, and my monthly column for Mint, which took a few minutes, I did no other “work.” All I did was have a good time.

For starters, Bablu Das and I established the Dhooan Club – dhooan meaning “smoke.” We put up a poster accordingly on my wall, with Bob Marley’s photo on it – and smoked. But since the smoke in New Delhi is extremely crappy, our Dhooan Club soon had a motto: Hanshi Aar Kashi.

Hanshi means “laughter” in Bengali and kashi is “coughing.” There was lots of laughter in the Dhooan Club alright, but there was also a lot of coughing. That was the quality of the smoke – all cough, no high.

Now, the Dhooan Club also had an outdoor location – under the neem tree near my local market. There, Bablu and I were joined by about a dozen hardy workingmen every morning – and we all pulled chillums. It was there that I met young Subol, friend of Bablu’s, a professional cook who claimed to be able to produce better Afghani Chicken than can ever be found in Afghanistan. Must have got the recipe from a direct descendant of Babur, I thought.

I soon took a liking to Subol, a simple, honest and gentle soul. And so it was that one day Subol said something that struck a major chord in my heart. He said:

Dada, everyday I buy a 20 rupee pudiya of ganja. It makes two chillums. I smoke then both – but never do I get a buzz.

Now, 20 rupees is a lot for a poor man like Subol – and 20 rupees is a lot of money for smoke. For 20 rupees you can get 3 sticks of India Kings, our finest and most expensive cigarette – and still have some bucks left over for a cup of tea. For 20 rupees you can get an imported cigar. I advised Subol to smoke IKs. Better 3 IKs and a cup of tea than 2 fuck-all chillums, I told him. He looked at me wide-eyed, and shocked.

This truth simultaneously dawned on Bablu and me as well. We were then spending over 50 rupees a day on crappy ganja. We decided to give it a skip. We tore down the Dhooan Club poster on my wall with Bob Marley’s photo on it and switched to smoking IKs and cigars. The smokes were better. We felt good.

And so it was that I, who flies the Ganja Flag – and will always do so – gave up on smoking the stuff myself.

Now that I am in sunny Goa, the economics is even worse. Here, because of western tourists, the market for ganja has been ruined for us desis. Here, a pudiya of ganja costs 400 rupees. For 360 rupees you can buy 2 cases of King’s beer, arguably the best beer in our country – and this lasts me a week. For 420 rupees you can buy 10 packets of Gold Flake Kings cigarettes – and this lasts me a fortnight. A 400 rupee pudiya of ganja just lasts me half-an-hour, and is not worth it at all. Bum Shankar.

Thus, I have made up my mind to migrate – to Jamaica. I am told ganja sells there in 2-kilo bags – and that is the dose I need. And there are sunny beaches. And great reggae music. Marley lives forever. That is where I am now headed.

What about Boom Shankar in India? Well, we now have a national security advisor (seniormost cop) named Shiv Shankar. His offices are in New Delhi, right next door to Chacha. As under his predecessor, so under Shiv Shankar, in India the slogan will remain Bum Shankar.

This is what “democratic legislation” has done to our fair land. We need to institute a “private law society.” Read my recent column on this here. And think.

Guru Finds A Guru

Guru and I smoked a great chillum last morn, after which he said something wise. Simple stoners are known to do such things quite often. He said:

Saab ji, is desh mein bas Bhola ka naam hai, unka kaam nahin hai. Sadhu-mahatmaon ko bhi charas nahin milti. Hamara kya hoga. Hum tho chhup-chhup ke peetay hain.

He asked me to convey this message of his to the world. So allow me to translate:

Sir, in this country Bhola exists only in name. Reality is starkly different, where He does not exist at all. Here in Bhola Country, even our holy men cannot obtain the Noble Herb. What will happen to us? We must hide and smoke.

[Bhola is the nickname of Lord Shiva, the Destroyer, the greatest god of the Hindoos, who legend holds was much addicted to cannabis. Bhola means "simpleton." There are many, many funny stories of The Destroyer. Whenever a Hindoo lights a chillum, he offers a salutation to Bhola. There are thousands of these salutations. There is no word in either Hindi or Bengali for “Cheers!” – a salutation for a glass of alcohol.]

Well said, I thought, and offered him some wisdom myself. I said that the problem is that we think of Law as something that emerges from the noisy deliberations of some 500 or so “elected representatives” of the masses crammed together in a room called, fittingly, the lok sabha; "lok" meaning masses. 500 people create a new law, indeed, they manufacture new laws every day – and all these new laws are binding on 1000000000 people. Law is brute force. We are ruled not by Law but by brute force.

This is not how Law has ever emerged in the past, I told him. And Law comes always from the past. That is why we value customs and traditions. English law was never written, but always based on local customs and traditions. Law was never "made"; it was "found" - by a discovery process involving the search for decisions in similar cases in the past. This requires serious private scholarship, not noisy parliamentarians.

It is Law that is our biggest problem I told him – and The State teaches all the Law. He seemed to have got my drift, and nodded sagely.

As an aside, these elected representatives should only be allowed to enact “public law” – binding only on the departments of The State whose budgets and activities they are supposed to administer – in the interests of the commonwealth. In India, it is these who are lawless in the strict sense of the term. They are 99.99% “misproductive.” And the lok sabha dictates the lives of all us private citizens instead.

Getting back to our stoned conversation, Guru, like all simple stoned people often do, then said an extremely stupid thing. He said that The State should be asked to do useful things. Why can’t they clean up all the pollution in the Ganga and Jumna instead of shoving bamboos up our backsides? he asked. It struck me Guru needed a guru himself, so I proceeded to cure him of his schizophrenia.

I said: Guru, we cannot expect anything useful to happen from the efforts of The State. It is not The State that is causing the pollution. It is ordinary people, mainly businessmen. They must stop it themselves, under the pressure of public opinion. If we ask The State to do it, we will be asked to pay more taxes, then The State will set up a big baboo department – and things will only get worse for both the Ganga as well as the Jumna and, who knows, perhaps the Saraswati too. Get it, dude? I asked.

It was cheering to see his wide-eyed enlightenment. So I continued to press the point. This applies to education too, I said. If we ask The State to solve the problem of illiteracy, they will extort a new tax, set up baboo departments – and nothing will happen. Illiteracy is a problem among the people. They must cure themselves of this disease through their own efforts. He was grinning widely by now, and there was a dull glimmer in his bloodshot eyes.

Actually, this also applies to endemic violence in parts of India, where people are calling for The State to create order out of chaos. Ultimately, there will always be parts of the world where violence is the norm. It is these people who must opt for civilization. Only then can they be possessed of “civil government.” Only then can they have “local self-government.” Think about that.

Guru seemed to have drifted away, lost in thought, and this also happens often to simple stoners, but I dragged him back to our conversation, thereby driving the lesson home. Alakh! Khol de Teesri Palak!

I said, Guru, there are two kinds of ships on the great oceans. One kind are run by businessmen. They ferry passengers and cargo from here to there. They charge for services rendered. The other kind are pirate ships, who loot the merchant ships. Our The State is one such pirate ship. Nothing good can be expected of it. They are, quite literally, "good for nothing."

Indeed, this is ultimately the result of grave philosophical errors – errors so deep that we have no idea any more as to what is good, what is evil, what is Law, what is a public assembly meant for. We don’t even know what money is.

Anyway, it was nice meeting Guru after a long time. The charas he so generously shared with me lit up my head alright. That too in the morn, when it is best. And one good turn deserved another.

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.

In Praise Of Smoking

I must thank Aristotle the Geek for drawing my attention to a column written by Mythili Bhusnurmath, a very senior economic journalist, praising pmk ramadoss on his smoking ban, and calling for continuing such coercion on peaceful members of society. “This is for your own good,” kinda stuff.

Actually, 1,30,000 people die on Indian roads every year. In America it is 40,000 – and they have 850 cars per 1000. We have less than 20 cars per 1000. And this number is growing FAST. If nothing is done, many more deaths will occur on roads – a State monopoly. The government can “work” to prevent these unnecessary deaths. What Mythili is inviting is not government work, but government coercion. On people like us, smokers.

Coercion is barbaric.

The Great Ideal of the Natural Order is peaceful and voluntary exchange. No coercion – except upon outlaws. Are smokers somehow “outlaws” that require coercion – like kidnappers or rapists? Which planet is Mythili living on?

And here I am flying the Ganja Flag!

Character is Destiny.

Smoking is an achievement of a very high level of civilization. To the primitive, smoke was something to be scared of, because it meant fire. If he smelt smoke, he ran. Even after fire was tamed, smoke remained something noxious, to be avoided. It took millennia before some humans learnt the art of inhaling the smoke of certain plant products – not noxious smoke, but pleasurable smoke. The ultimate control of fire.

In India, the only smokes for many thousands of years have been ganja and charas, both derived from cannabis, and opium. Tobacco has been a very late entrant, imported from America, where the Red Indians used to smoke it in their “peace pipes.” This is how late the west learnt about smoking. It is again in this respect that we are a far older civilization.

And we all agree that the smoke from Cannabis Indica is better than the smoke from the Tata Indica, and further, that it is also superior to the smoke from India Kings.

The Market must provide us with Bhola Spliffs, advertised as Ganesh ka Baap ka Bidi.

Machine made. So no more lick and paste, no more unnecessary loss of vital body fluids.

From the continent of America we got chillies, potato, maize, cocoa and tobacco. I vote we send the tobacco back – and get the coca!

Ha ha.

I’m flying the Ganja Flag, not the tobacco flag.

Boom Shankar!

On Sardars, Sardars, And More Sardars

Callous.

That is the right word to describe Chacha Manmohan S Gandhi’s statement that the “1984 riots cannot be kept alive forever.”

Does that mean we all forget the Holocaust? Or Hiroshima? Or any other instance of deliberate mass murder?

And do note that the word “riot” is inappropriate. What happens in India are “pogroms.” What happened in 1984 in Delhi was a pogrom against Sikhs. The pogrom was organized by Congressmen. There has been no justice yet. And we know that the Congress is very fond of Jagdish Tytler and Sajjan Kumar.

Yet, Chacha is the PM-candidate of the Congress.

He has spoken as a loyal Congressman, not as a Sardar.

So let us turn to another Sardar, who has spoken like a true “Sardar”: MS Gill.

He is opposing an SMS gambling game. (Read about the game here.)

Amit Verma has already lambasted him in an open letter.

But allow me to lend some muscle to Amit’s arguments.

MS Gill is a former chief election commissioner who has shown us his political affiliation by becoming a minister in the Congress-led government. Yet, elections are the biggest legal gamble in India! Candidates gamble in the electoral sweepstakes.

MS Gill was running the casino – as an interested party.

So much for Sardar-speak.

We should get Montek the Sardar Planner in, shouldn’t we? And his predictions of the growth rate.

Anyway, with so many Sardars running the government, it was bound to mess up real bad. Here is news that the courts in Switzerland have ruled that documents submitted to them in a money-laundering case by the Enforcement Directorate are forged. Pune-based racehorse breeder Hassan Ali is innocent.

I am always happy when a man’s wealth is saved from State usurpation.