“Bro!” Kanishq barged into my room, smashing the door in — trying to run through it. “Have Pranav, Aman, Sujal and all the others blocked you too?”
“Where?” I asked, too invested in the novel I was reading.
“What do you mean where? Are you dumb? On Insta, WhatsApp — everywhere man!” He shoved his screen into my face. I could see an Instagram User who’d shared some reels with Kanishq earlier in the day. “Look man, Pranav’s not available. They’ve left the group as well! Please check.”
Reluctantly putting down my book on an unfinished chapter, I picked up my phone to confirm Kanishq’s suspicions. I was, indeed, blocked everywhere. We’re in third year now. These were the first friends I had made in college — now just faceless Instagram Users.
Almost immediately, I knew what had happened.
“Looks like they know about the marriage invite bro.”
“Yeah, no shit!” Kanishq said, still refreshing his Instagram as if it’d make a difference. Both of us were aware of Einstein’s definition of stupidity. Ironically, that had always been the extent of our intelligence.
I lay on my bed that day as I do all day everyday these days. Wasting away like food that wasn’t tasty enough to be edible. Now stashed in a corner cast to rot until it reeks too much. Melting into the wall against my bed, reading Stoner, it was dawning on me that I was relegated to be a well-versed cliché even if I’d subscribed to my romantic notions of misguided passion. This fad of optional opportunity does come with potential cash influx though, opposed to chasing dreams and hating LinkedIn. The only good that comes with being an engineering student in a faraway land is living in a boys hostel. The famous quote about this lifestyle is that either boys hostel was the best time of your life, or you lived in a PG. Between labs, lectures, presentations, quizzes, evaluations, and exams; every day’s Verdun, every night Sommes. All of us die a little everyday with the meek realizations that we’re not as smart as our schoolteachers or JEE percentile led us to believe. There’s something about embracing the shame imposed on us so shamelessly though. The self-awareness of all the wasted potential makes the humiliation almost cathartic — don’t worry, we already knew that sir, we still won’t come to class. My friends wake me up every morning to drag me through the same parasitic rituals of labs and lectures. We spend odd hours in library to entertain some make-believe notions of productivity only to leer at girls and cuss out their boyfriends. And after wasting all day with the rigor it takes to kill a dream, we shuffle on back to the hostel where everyone’s our friend — kind of. Honestly, if it weren’t for guys from different corners of the nation laughing together at situations which can only be solved by jumping off a terrace, I’m not sure if I would’ve been able to hold off on jumping off a terrace for so long. Well, that and drugs.
“Bro, Raman’s really shook up,” Kanishq said to make me feel something.
“What happened?” I enquired with absolutely no interest other than to end the conversation.
“You know how close he is with Pranav and guys and them blocking him was kind of big deal man!”
“Ah, it’ll sort itself out like it always does.” I knew it would. It’d been three years and far too many forgotten fights amongst us now. How long could it possibly hold?
“It’s not like that man,” Kanishq sighed. “He went to their room in the afternoon, you know, to apologise. And Pranav told him that if he doesn’t get out, he’ll call the warden on him.”
“What!” This can’t be that serious.
“Man, he’s been in his room all day. You don’t even know! I heard him talking on the phone to his family and he might be going back home!”
“The finals are in a week, plus there’s lab evaluations and shit! He can’t leave now!”
“That’s what I’m saying! You think I give a flying fuck about those vegetarian morons blocking us? It’s just, we can’t abandon Raman bro. He’ll screw up his studies, and we’ve got placements next sem!”
“You’re right,” I said, getting up. “Let’s go talk to him!”
The first time I did heroin, I was in my third semester. I’d been a teetotaler up till that point as most people who come to my college are — much dissimilar to most people who leave my college. I’d read Naked Lunch in high school though. And if I couldn’t be a writer shuffling across the carpet laden stone streets of Tangiers; an immunity to any judgement towards the most depraved forms of degeneracy will do. I remember the night, and not just because I’d shot up a syringe in the hostel for the first time.
I’d known Manan for over a year. He used to play table tennis with me in the lobby, fatal topspin on his serve — almost impossible to chop. So when I heard he’d tried to kill himself, I felt like I did often during his service — helpless. Just how much did he not want to live to have downed two bottles of cough syrup before slitting his wrists with a 4-rupee dot pen. This really didn’t jar me though. It wasn’t even the fact that we couldn’t find a wheelchair in time to rush him to the infirmary, so we had to carry his semi-conscious body on our backs. It wasn’t even that the college refused to take him to the hospital for avoiding media coverage and FIRs. Or when the prof still refused to pass him because they’d be setting a precedent where every kid with a bad grade will just attempt to kill themselves, it didn’t affect me as much. It didn’t even bother me that this was the second time in 3 months that someone attempted to end their life in our hostel. It didn’t anger me that there are so many people online pretending to be suicidal out of boredom who’d never understand Manan. Or have the guts he did to do something about it. What really broke me was the fact that I had a quiz the next day, so no one could afford to care for more than a couple of hours. When I went to Pranav’s room to assess what had happened, he was still studying. He could only spare a couple of “Oh shit”s. The prof was not going to postpone everyone’s evaluation over this, he’d said. So, I went up to the fifth floor.
My nerves really couldn’t afford a bong hit at the time, I didn’t want to think. So, I decided to swim in a different river — just hoping to quietly drown for a while. I didn’t want to numb myself of the pain. Of the helplessness. Or sedate the guilt. I just didn’t want to be so mechanical in my thought anymore. The economics of critical thinking had ripped humanity off me. I just wanted to be weak and fragile to feel some of it back. As Jay, who’d been doping since the first sem, was prepping the syringe; he told me that I’m a perfect fit because the nerves in my arm weren’t hard to locate. If only Manan had been as lucky, I thought before surrendering myself to the floor of a stranger’s room.
Last month, Kanishq asked me to come to his sister’s wedding. He was my oldest friend in college and I’m always ready for an open distraction, so the answer was an immediate yes. Considering the inordinate expense of orchestrating an Indian wedding, especially when you’re ladki vaale, Kanishq could only spare two invites. Knowing that half the people in our wing would be studying and the other half should be, Kanishq only invited Raman and me with the pretext of keeping it quiet — something I hold an expertise in and Raman, reservations. Raman wanted me to indulge in his ethical dilemma about truth and subjectivity when we went kurta shopping, I was mostly preoccupied with how good I looked in pink. I could see it from Raman’s point of view though, he was more tightly knit with Pranav, Sujal and all. They were the vegetarian gang. They used to go to temples for outings. Their wild nights were doing double features of IMDB’s top 100. When we went to Abdul’s housewarming party, Raman really wanted to come but he didn’t because Pranav and the others didn’t. They could not eat from the kitchen of a house where non-veg was also cooked (I wished they’d told this to us before Abdul’s mom cooked a fully vegetarian dinner for us — the vegetarians took my kebabs). So, naturally, leaving college in the context of fake emergencies; Raman was a little torn about the entire affair, I was just high.
The first time I did heroin, I decided I’ll do it forever. Even if the comedown feels like all lights are trying to burn out my eyelids, every sound was staggering my brain matter, and each sentence coming to me after the next one has been spoken; there’s still nothing better to satiate a long day. And since all I have are long days, longer nights are harder to manage. It soothes like a parent does before one becomes a person. I never used to escape some kind of abstract melancholy, I’m doing engineering — there’s no time left to spare for rumination. I use because it’s fun. I abuse when it stops being fun.
Really liking something, and I’m not talking about addiction because I’m not addicted, isn’t destructive until you start romanticizing it in your head. All my friends who’ve given their life up to substances aren’t using it for fun anymore. They were too romantic about it. It’s exactly like all my friends who ruined their future for a few months with someone who loved them in lieu of being miserable together. Every time Jay spikes a needle in his brown veins, he’s not having fun chasing his first high. He wants to feel like he did the first time he infused his veins with the brown tar. Just like people want to be in love the exact way they fell. You think smack’s just extreme — go talk to a stoner or a pack a day smoker, there’s never a pack a day amount of tension. People just want to feel the first time they did when the smoke caressed the back of their throat. There might be an allegory here about flying too close to the sun everytime we shoot up and the wax we used to heat the wings burning us out one day in chasing the lulls of fading away but Greek mythology is for posers who spend too much time online, so I’ll refrain. When I was in high school, I broke up to focus on studies and now I’m single to just doze off against walls. It’s easier to schedule your day when you don’t have to barter your leisure for scoring love. The only time I spend with people these days is the small talk I’m coerced into each time I have to score some from the student body dealers. They mostly talk about football and old girlfriends. It’s the only time I consider quitting heroin — when I’m forced to hang out with people who actually have it.
Kanishq and I went to Raman’s room. We really wanted to know how the others found out. Raman told me he had lent his laptop to Aman before going to the lecture, Aman’s didn’t have Omnet. Out of curiosity, just fucking around, Aman discovered the pictures from the wedding. He didn’t waste any time in letting everyone know. When he came back from the lecture, Raman just found his laptop lying on his bed, and himself — blocked.
“Who’s the one really at fault here man?” I asked Raman. “What is he, your fucking girlfriend going through your messages like that? What did he expect to find?”
“I don’t know man,” Raman couldn’t manage an entire sentence. He was silently weeping. I’ve lived as somewhat of a man for over two decades and I still don’t know how you deal with a crying one. Do you just hug them — because I don’t think I’ve ever unironically hugged someone besides girlfriends. There’s no point in trying to console when all you’ve got in your vocabulary are quips and cusses. I just patted Raman on the shoulder whilst counting the tiles in his room. As an attempt to steer away from the awkward hush of the room, I asked Raman if he’d tried to explain himself to the others.
“They’re not even letting me in,” he scoffed.
I could never figure out how people manage to care so much that they surrender all qualms with hurting the one person who cares back. Maybe all love does boil down to who you can break.
One of my friends is dating a good woman. This girl firmly believes that women who work after marriage just don’t care about their family. When asked about why she’s studied so hard to get into this college and why’s she pursuing such a grueling degree — she claims it’s better for dowry negotiations for a girl to be well educated. Something about social credit. I know the guy. I know how hard his single mom worked to get him here. When I ask him why’s he still with her — which I do daily — he just shrugs and says it’s better than having no one. My friend says she’s better than most girls who fuck around. At least she’s wholesome, he says. I’m not wholesome. There’s a pernicious undercurrent in being wholesome that steers one towards being a loser when they’re a man and a hypocrite when they’re a woman.
What’s a wholesome man? It’s someone who talks to their mom everyday, someone who’s not hateful of others, someone who’s respectful of all and naive to everything. If I hide my drugs and politics, and my preference in women — I’m a perfectly wholesome man.
What’s a wholesome woman though? Is it someone who doesn’t speak against marital rape, or doesn’t talk about politics, or dresses to hide? Is it a good woman? Or is it a dead one? I don’t know. I just know she won’t approve of me.
I’ve never been the problematic guy who objects when guys are leering at women. Or just staring long enough into making them feel at fault. It’s not because I’m for it but because I dread to be at the ends of dismay of people who’re “just having a good time” “they’re not doing anything wrong per se” “they’re not raping”. If one can notice, one notices that the bar’s pretty low for being the good man and when one sees that bar as more of a hurdle, one just finds it easier to shoot smack up their veins.
My friend’s girl fervently despises people who eat non-veg so I don’t even want to know what she’d think of casual dope fiends. Her only political stance that my friend’s seemingly bothered by is her take on the importance of chastity, especially before marriage.
“Ah, she’ll come around”, he says.
I don’t think heroin’s that bad.
When we stepped inside Pranav’s room, he began storming out. I held him by the shoulders and asked him to give us a chance to explain ourselves. We spelled out the constraints of the invite.
“Why wasn’t one of them me then?” Pranav stiffly asked Kanishq.
“So, it’s just about that then?” Kanishq said, now exasperated.
“You’re damn right,” he spat out. “You’ve got room for a smackie who’s entire purpose is just scoring a fix. And that lowballing loser who’s never done one thing right in his life — do you think they’re good enough and I’m not?”
“I don’t think it’s about th—,” I tried explaining.
“Oh shut up,” Pranav waved me off. “I don’t even wanna talk to you, you fucking loser! You don’t study. You only get good grades because I help you cheat in exams and this is how you repay me?”
“Oh, fuck off!” Kanishq said as I pressed his arm tightly, we were here for Raman. I said nothing. Pranav was absolutely right, maybe he could’ve phrased it better. But then who am to be offended by a man’s candor?
“Man, this isn’t about me. It’s about Raman, he’s really hurti—”, I began before Pranav cut me off again.
“Raman’s a fucking dog man! He gets kicked out of everywhere he’s been. We befriended him out of pity. I don’t expect anything from you but that two-faced rat I’m the maddest at! Sneaking around behind my back like he’s better than me? He’s nothing! He’s less than nothing actually! I can’t think of any cuss words because he’s worse than all of them!”
Kanishq stormed out of the room and this time I couldn’t stop. I wanted to beat the life out of Pranav. I even knew I could, no matter how high I was. Suddenly, Raman’s crying face dawned on me. And how small Manan had looked in the infirmary bed. I looked at Pranav and Sujal and Aman and I pleaded them to reconsider.
“Man, you know it’s not his fault. We told him to stay shush. He was forced to choose. He was gonna get creamed one way. Maybe he thought you’d understand him better but I guess he misjudged that”, I explained.
“Oh fuck that,” Sujal said. “Don’t try to sound smart. He’s a fucking adult. He can make his own decisions!” Sujal spat in my face.
“I know you guys are angry right now but you’re bullying the one guy who cares about you I don’t care about being blocked. Neither does Kanishq. But Raman’s really hurting. We don’t want him taking any wrong steps now, do we?”
“I don’t care if that moron dies, just as long as our names are not on any note,” Sujal shouted in my face.
“Please just talk to him once,” I begged. “Cut him off, or shout at him — I don’t care. Just talk once, give him some peace.”
They looked tired from shouting. I was trying to figure out who would be swayed most easily by a desperate eye-contact when Aman spoke up.
“Alright,” Aman said. “Send him once.”
Getting out of their room, my conscience weighed heavier than anger. I didn’t know whether to tell Raman all the things said about him before sending him in. I began wondering how’d he react if he knew. I was afraid he’d still apologize to them and ask to be let in. The sight of Raman foregoing all his self-esteem to mend what never was hurt me more than all the words put together. If he chose to be in this after knowing all the truth, I don’t know if I’d ever make eye contact with the guy. If I knew for certain all the ways that the dope’s killing me, would I still let the needle break skin? If I knew exactly the damage it did to my body, would I still think it’s fun? I don’t want to know because I don’t know. I don’t know if I’d stop and that’s the saddest thing about it. If I knew for certain exactly all the ways I’m dying and continue still — what excuse would I then give to continue living? So, I decided not to tell Raman what had happened. I didn’t want to hate another friend. Engineering’s too hard to go through without relying on some kinds of co-dependence. Afterall, in the land of the crippled — who can really afford to ban crutches?
This was hands down one of the best reads for me on this app💛
Crazy good storytelling ong. brilliant dialogues uper se☝🏼☝🏼