The Smoking Sadhu

The world had gone to the dogs. Rabid dogs. So it was all quite crazy. The Sadhu being one of the few sane people left decided to live as a recluse and smoke himself to death. He figured that since picking any affiliation is only choosing a different kind of crazy, he’d like to be among the dead people. The were the most sane kind of people he knew. His parents had horded quite a sum of money in their life time. Even after taking into account the inflating inflation, which every growing economy faces by the way, he would be able to maintain his lifestyle for a very long time. This was of course a safety net. He intended to smoke himself to death as fast as he could.

On his twenty fourth birthday he picked out a small flat in a small town far from the Capital where he knew no one and vice versa. He had two shirts and two pairs of jeans. He had a raincoat and a sweater. The room had a double bed he could roll in, a bedside table, a PC with internet access and an attached bath with running water all the year through. Within walking distance from the apartment was a tiny shop that sold tea, cigarettes and variations of pakora. It was all good. He didn’t bring his cell phone and ceased communicating with everyone he’d known till then. The first night he spent at the room was bliss. The morning of the second day he promptly started smoking.

Quite some time passed this way. He’d stopped checking his email and logging into his other accounts. The last time he’d logged into his facebook profile, everyone he knew had posted things on his wall. Photos, music videos, quotes, and he’d been tagged in so many notes which glorified his extraordinarily mundane former achievements – all assuming he was dead. He considered enlightening them but decided to follow that old dictum ‘fake it till you make it’. Besides, it was an excellent way to discover what his favorite songs were.

The Sadhu woke up. For a second he wondered if he was alive. Upon registering the fact that he was, he tried to go back to sleep. He couldn’t. So he propped up his pillow, moved the ash try to a more comfortable position and lit a cigarette. He fiddled to fit his toes under the blanket, took his music player out, selected Panivizhum Malarvanam and put it on loop. The day had begun well. When the cigarette was over, he stubbed it out and started singing along to the song. He was a terrible singer. The ash tray was still smoldering when out of nowhere a chair popped into his room.

(to be continued.)

– Kaber


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