House of the rising sun

Take it easy, he said

Playing Pablo

It all started with a valium prescription following a workout accident: I couldn’t straighten up after I put the barbell down but had to crawl on all fours and finally clamber up a chair clutching with every movable limb. That’s how the ambulance found me – sprawled like a chilling octopus.

Since I didn’t scream at his random poking, the good doctor ruled out a misaligned spine, rotated innominate and a pelvic upslip.

“You just take it easy,” he said giving me the valium.

The pain that was supposed to last for a week didn’t leave even after a month by which time I had returned to Delhi; the accident took place during a monthly trip to Kerala. During which time I also exhausted all the eight hundred medical stores flanking the AIIMS; the pharmacists in most of them gave me the ‘ha!’ look while tossing the prescription back at me. Then I sent two others – sweet, helper-type lads at my ex’s apartment – with the same prescription to the same places. In hindsight, I feel this was the closest to human rights violations I have ever done.

I alternated between walking like one of those bot-waiters in a Japanese restaurant and lying so unmoving that my partner blamed it on lack of love. Things were getting out of hand. There were plenty of contacts from my work on hemp, the industrial variety to begin with. This included several who used marijuana for recreational and medicinal purposes. One of the most prolific among them I knew from Bareilly in Uttar Pradesh – he used marijuana for both, even though his medical condition was not known to me. Which, when it did, came as a jolt.

And this is putting it mildly.

Guns and doses

“It must be the ‘nath nagri’ connect,” I defended myself.

“It is just the way you look,” AB insisted.

Traditionally scoring is easy at railway stations: every third lout there is a drug dealer or will know one. When you are in a border town or boondocks or Bareilly this becomes every second.

Each time I lay my foot on any platform I am met with earnest queries:

‘You want room?’ Maybe.

‘You want girls?’ Well…

‘You want boys?’ Now, now.

‘You want drugs?’ We could be talking.

What’s love, baby don’t…

This continues even after I cut my hair. So I guess AB has a point. But Bareilly is called ‘nath nagri’ because it has seven Shiva temples steeped in history.

Just saying.

When you are at a place with the express intent to buy drugs seeing a gun shop is so tempting – that is if everything Narco showed about Pablo Escobar is true. And right next door to the railway station, Bareilly had plenty.

“That is for those coming to the cutchery,” AB answered my queries crisply all the while bombinating above the din of the auto rickshaw.

Did he mean those who possessed guns illegally were brought to the cutchery, or court? I looked at him quizzically.

“Most of the disputes that come to the cutchery are land-related. Those who lost their case buy guns soon afterwards to settle it in a different manner.”

I looked at him incredulously.

Hum hum.

Later we hired a cab to go out of town. The dealer ran a dhaba along the highway. AB was such a regular there and was known even to the goats that gambolled about. One came and put its head on his knees and looked at him through moist eyes almost as if pleading with him not to be gone for so long. Another chased me around – took a while, a toke actually, to realise all it wanted was to tell me the same.

Apple-knockers in soiled kurtas and a distant look in their eyes hung around. The argute dhaba owner told them all to leave: too many people always attracted unwanted attention. Soon we had the entire dhaba to ourselves – and an empty charpoy.

There are times when a humble charpoy can feel like a water bed.

And talking to goats normal.

Around Bareilly

After cutchery, the gun

Too many chit funds and money-lending agencies are quite telling of a deep economic disparity. I come from Kerala where we have lots of them. In Bareilly I saw plenty of them.

“Too many corrupt bureaucrats with tons of money stashed away under their mattresses,” AB said.

After our visit to the dhaba he was quite talkative.

“It is usually the NBFC Act that regulates such institutions,” he continued. “Here we call them FBNC – fly by night corporations.”

We passed by a building that had all the charm of Gitmo. Called Ganga Enterprises, it was an FBNC whose promoters took off after swindling a lot of investor money.

And we blame those poor bureaucrats for corruption not realising what happened to them.

When you see a coaching institute called ‘Extreme’ you can safely assume that the business has run out of names. In fact there are thousands and thousands of coaching centres in Janakpuri that the place is known as Coaching puri.

“What is wrong with it, you might ask,” AB said.

I hadn’t asked, coaching and studying weren’t exactly my strengths.

Apparently the competition was so intense that these centres tried to bribe the question-setters for UPSC exams for better results. Those who were caught and licenses suspended were always back in time for the next batch.

Hence names like ‘Extreme.’

We canna…canna…  

AB’s mom fed us lunch before she loaned us her pressure cooker. A hundred grams of marijuana went into it along with coconut oil and we began the process.

Homegrown

In a couple of hours an oily vapour wafted about the room – which was recently expanded to include AB’s sister’s bedroom too who had recently migrated to Canada. We took turns stirring it every 20 minutes or so – we had to keep at it for at least 8 – 10 hours. We discussed the various merits of using coconut oil in the infusion – the high concentration of fatty acids making it a distinct favourite.

“The fatty acids make it a stronger binding agent for cannabinoids,” AB said lighting up. “This is where your coconut oil gives the olive oil a run for its money.” I had brought along the virgin oil I bought from Kerala for my hair in Delhi’s heat and dust.

I nodded.

I was actually wondering why AB’s mom didn’t give us a crockpot but a pressure cooker instead. Maybe because AB was a crackpot. I told him the joke which was studiously ignored.

“Compared to olive oil which has a saturated fat content of less than 20 per cent, coconut oil has over 80 per cent,” he continued.

I looked around for stationery to make notes.

Close to midnight it was time to strain. AB’s mom brought us cheesecloth. The oil was poured into little bottles and kept in the refrigerator. The plant matter was kept away to make high chai. We all stepped out for a late dinner.

Processing window

By now our eyes shone like a permanent state of limerence. We were discussing deep stuff with poignant words. Every step we took defied gravity. We looked around with compassion and understanding. I was introduced to the Tamilian pushcart food seller as his brother. We hugged and I reeked of batter and ghee all the way back to Delhi.

On our way back home, I asked AB’s mom why he wasn’t married. I assured her that I had every right to know as I was twice married. Besides I was sure AB was not gay.

“No, no, no, he’s not gay,” she said. “I know.”

“Then?”

“He hasn’t told you?” She asked and looked around for AB who was still explaining to the Tamilian that masala dosa tasted better when the potatoes are not squished. He wanted me to explain in Tamil and brushed me off when I told him I spoke Malayalam.

“He is dying…

All the traffic and pushcart and street lights began whirling around me. I blinked my eyes hard. And tried to focus on a distant point. The lights circled me very fast as if I was walking inside a phosphene bubble. 

Oh mother, tell your children

Not to do what I have done

Spend your lives in sin and misery  

In the House of the Rising Sun

(House of the rising sun, The Animals)