My Newfound Serenity

My Newfound Serenity

The air hung heavy, not just with the pre-monsoon humidity but also with the oppressive silence of a bandh. Traffic, usually a cacophony of honking horns and sputtering scooters, was a ghost of its former self. The only signs of life were the occasional darting of a stray dog and the menacing presence of religious zealots patrolling the streets on their bikes, brandishing sticks like oversized lollipops.

I, Nikhil, a man whose day revolved around deadlines and strategically placed coffee breaks, found myself in a predicament of epic proportions – I was out of cigarettes. Now, for some, this might be a minor inconvenience. But for me, a nicotine fiend of the highest order, it was a full-blown existential crisis.

My first stop was Ramesh’s shop, the one-stop haven for all my smoking needs. But alas, the shutters were down, emblazoned with a hastily scrawled message in Hindi that roughly translated to “Closed for Holy Upliftment.” Ramesh, bless his entrepreneurial spirit, probably saw this bandh as a prime opportunity to spend the day meditating on his stock levels. Not helpful for my current state of jittery desperation.

Panic, a cold and clammy hand, began to squeeze my insides. I wasn’t about to succumb to a nicotine-induced meltdown in the middle of this deserted street. Mustering my inner Indiana Jones, I decided to explore uncharted territory – the new shop that had sprung up across the street.

As I ventured forth, the air crackled with a strange tension. A group of young men, their faces painted with religious fervor (and possibly a suspicious amount of kajal) eyed me suspiciously. Their bikes, adorned with colorful flags and questionable plumbing modifications, looked like they could double as battering rams in a religious rally gone wrong.

“Excuse me,” I piped up, my voice sounding suspiciously high-pitched, “do you perhaps sell cigarettes?”

The silence stretched on, punctuated only by the distant wail of a police siren (probably on its way to a more pressing emergency, like rescuing a particularly enthusiastic squirrel from a tree). Just as I was about to beat a hasty retreat, one of the men, sporting a handlebar mustache that could rival Tom Selleck’s in its prime, spoke.

“Cigarettes, you say? In these holy times?” His voice boomed like a disapproving foghorn. My hopes sank faster than a stone in a well. Was I about to be lectured on the evils of smoking by a man who looked like he could wrestle a rogue rickshaw to submission?

But then, a glint appeared in the man’s eye. “We don’t sell them here, brother,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “but I know a lady.”

Intrigued, and desperate, I followed him to a narrow alleyway that reeked of spices and something suspiciously like overripe mangoes. There, nestled between a shop overflowing with garishly colored plastic toys and another overflowing with enough bangles to adorn an entire Bollywood dance troupe, was a tiny shop selling religious paraphernalia.

Behind the counter sat a woman, her face framed by a vibrantly colored sari, calmly arranging incense sticks. My guide, with a flourish worthy of a magician, announced, “He seeks the forbidden leaf!”

The woman, unfazed, simply smiled and disappeared behind a curtain of beads. A moment later, she reappeared, holding a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Not my usual brand, a strange concoction with a picture of a majestic-looking elephant on the front, but beggars, as they say, can’t be choosers.

I paid her a princely sum (the desperation tax, I figured) and beat a hasty retreat before the religious police, or worse, the bangle mafia, decided to take an interest in my unorthodox cigarette purchase.

Back in my apartment, the first puff was… interesting. My taste buds, accustomed to the smooth, familiar flavor of my usual brand, were assaulted by a strange mix of what tasted vaguely like hay and disappointment. Each subsequent puff was accompanied by a hacking cough that could rival a consumptive Victorian poet.

Night passed in a haze of nicotine withdrawal and elephant-induced coughing fits. Sleep was a distant dream, replaced by visions of angry bangle ladies and disapproving religious zealots brandishing stick-lollipops.

The next morning, the glorious news – the bandh was over! Shops were open, traffic was back to its usual chaotic symphony, and most importantly, cigarette shops were operational. With the enthusiasm of a man reunited with a long-lost pet, I rushed to Ramesh’s shop and exchanged the cough-inducing elephant brand for my usual savior.

The first puff was pure bliss. The familiar taste, the calming effect – it was like a symphony for my nicotine-starved soul. As I leaned back, blowing smoke rings that resembled miniature holy halos, I swore to myself – never again would I get caught in a bandh without a decent stash of smokes. This experience, however, had its unexpected perks. Now, Ramesh greeted me with a knowing wink and a whispered, “Extra pack for the next holy upliftment?” that reeked of entrepreneurial spirit and a healthy dose of amusement.

My elephant-brand fiasco wasn’t entirely in vain either. It became a cult classic among my friends, a symbol of desperate measures and the lengths a nicotine addict would go to. We even nicknamed it “The Holy Smoke,” a moniker that stuck and occasionally resulted in me being offered the offending brand with a mischievous glint in the eye.

Life, however, has a way of throwing curveballs. A few months later, a well-meaning doctor (who, I suspect, had a financial stake in the local lung sanatorium) delivered a stern lecture on the evils of smoking. Coupled with the memory of those elephant-induced coughing fits, a seed of doubt was planted.

The following weeks were a battle royale within my being. The nicotine fiend in me craved his daily fix, whispering sweet nothings about stress relief and the calming effects of smoke curling lazily into the air. But the newly awakened health-conscious Nikhil countered with visions of clogged arteries and a future spent huffing and puffing like a beached whale.

The turning point came during a particularly stressful deadline. I reached for my pack, only to find it empty. Panic started to rise, but a voice, surprisingly calm and collected, spoke in my head. It was the health-conscious Nikhil, and he had a surprisingly compelling argument. “Maybe,” he said, with a hint of smugness, “a walk around the block wouldn’t hurt?”

Hesitantly, I put on my shoes and stepped out. The air, unpolluted by cigarette smoke, felt surprisingly fresh. As I walked, I realized I wasn’t missing the smoke as much as I thought I would. The stress, however, was still there, a nagging itch I needed to scratch.

That’s when I saw it – a small park tucked away in a quiet corner. Children squealed on the swings, their laughter the sweetest melody. An old man sat on a bench, feeding pigeons. In that moment, I realized the stress reliever I craved wasn’t smoke, but a moment of peace.

From that day on, the cigarettes slowly became a relic of the past. The elephant brand remained a cautionary tale, a reminder of desperation and questionable choices. Now, when the stress monster rears its ugly head, I take a walk, breathe in the fresh air, and maybe even watch a few kids on swings. It’s not the same as a cigarette, but it works, and that’s all that matters.

The bandhs still happen, of course, but I face them with a newfound serenity. I stock up on tea and biscuits, maybe even a good book. Because hey, you never know when a religious holiday might force you to confront your inner self and discover a love for pigeon watching. And that, in the grand scheme of things, is a pretty good outcome for a man caught in a bandh with an empty cigarette pack.