Beads of Euphoria.

I walked out of FranPrix, a local supermarket, a stone's throw from my place of work, grabbing 2 chicken sandwiches and a bag of tortilla chips. I had planned on eating in the privacy of my air cubicle, at my work-station. I was feeling quite proud about not having succumbed to the pressure of smoking, over the weekend that had just scampered by. The thinker by the road, lay in shambles, with his adamantly dirty coat covering his head, a needle by his side, and crumbs of bread strewn around his limp hand.

It was about 2 in the afternoon, the sun was abnormally high in the winter sky, and it felt good basking in those rays as I trudged over the cold snow beneath my feet. Just then, I am not sure whether it was my subconsious that spoke to me as I stared at the lifeless form of the man, or a meta-physical entity, and I guess I shall never know. “Hearken! My dear friend, you were right and I was wrong. You had chosen rightly, I wish I had; I can't change the past, for I am alive no more.” It felt like a thought from a swiped chunk of memory was addressing my conscious being, beckoning me to write out about him. Tinnu, as he was then called, was taking me back down the memory lane, to when it all started.

If I had to describe Tinnu's story right from the beginning to his adolescent death, I would have to say, 'cliched' is the word. I shall spare you the suspense, Tinnu died 8 years back as a result of an overdose of methampethamine, more popular these days as 'crystal meth' amongst the hip-hop, mobile totting, youngsters hanging out in flashy outfits, atop their trendy mode of transports, whilst fashionably pouting over a cigarette. The colors of glamor and vanity, as seen
through the tinted shades, pull the wool over their innocent eyes, as they take a long, supposedly satisfying drag that pulsates the euphoria right through their systems. Tinnu got his hits via injections, another excellent mode of self-destruction, which finally led to his cosmic calling.

Parikrama, the rock-band from Delhi used to play often at Mood-Indigo, during my undergraduate years, and it was the second year of my engineering debacle, and we could hear the other bands ululating the red carpet welcome for the P-band that was to play in a short while. Thanks to inflation, we were forced to buy our 'quarters' (180ml containers) of alcohol, and make ourselves comfortable in the backyard of an isolated shanty, guzzling our lurid liquor to glory. There were too many of us to place a finger on the actual count, but a ballpark figure of 15 would be satisfactory. Through my glazen vision, I could see my drinking buddies roll and strike up a cigarette. Olfactory senses told me that this smoke was laced with THC, and unfortunately, it seemed to make perfect sense to 'try'.

Well, I am not a druggie but I have 'tried' herbal narcotics on some ocassions, a fact that I am not proud of. I am quite happy that I did not venture into other aspects of the drug-culture, that included snorting, sniffing, pill-popping, injecting, palette-lining and other methods of abuse that I am thankfully ignorant of. However, I have been a mute witness to acts of self-destruction, and am also guilty of indirectly promoting this behavior in some of my friends, by not opposing their dreadful actions; a crime that I shall forever atone in repent, a realization put into focus by the demise of my friend, Tinnu.

After the quick 'vamoose' from the Chinese stall, the freebirds flocked at the entry points of the rock concert. Some of us gate-crashed into the concert, as that was the 'in' thing to do, and some of us bought entry tickets in 'black', using a lefthandshake. We all met up inside, and were sitting snugly, with our backs resting against the topmost step of the concrete structure. The crowds were smoking anything and everything, a collosal destruction that I look down upon with contempt and sincerely wish that I could rewind and orchestrate the whole affair in a different manner. I don't regret my actions though, funnily; but given an opportunity, I would play my cards differently. Cuddled in the arms of somebody, we were blowing circles of smoke, entertaining the crowds with blith rings, and then a syringe dropped to the ground. Tinnu died with a smoky halo around his head.

The shrieks from the bystanders, as they watched him convulse, perversely trying to congress the steps. Tinnu's friends were high on substances unknown to me, his group had joined our group outside the gates, so he was more of an acquaintance than a friend to us. We were in a better position to think, considering our levels of sobriety. None of us were trained in any sort of paramedic action to be taken in such a situation. I tried to massage his already over-heated body foolishly, thereby aggrevating his already worsened situation. Tinnu's body stopped contorting, and he lost consciousness, and the scene of his possum body rolling down a few steps, still remains vividly clear in my mind. The well-wishers scooting away from the scene, but remaining within a good distance to witness a case of serious overdose. Another friend of his, probably his companion in deed, stubbed out the cherry of a burning cigarette on his body, trying in vain to revive his dead friend.

The ensuing silence in front of the operation theatre, the singed look on everybody's face, the fear in the eyes, the wailing of Tinnu's parents over his lifeless body, leaves me numb even today. I recollect Tinnu's mom, holding onto his beaded chain, as they rolled his body into the autopsy room, the distinct drop of every link to the floor, echoing through the hospital corridors, ringing through every soul present, shattering the ephemeral beads of euphoria.

Fictional Realm.