The silent comity of smokers
Every successive year, the push towards the social alienation of smokers seems to get stronger and stronger. Not only is the price of a pack of cigarettes the same as that of a weeks worth of fuel for a bike, the ban on smoking within bars and pubs has put a serious damper on many a lit stub. Progressively, it is becoming more and more of a pain to light up. You can’t smoke at the bar, can’t smoke in the office, can’t smoke in the canteen, can’t smoke in the car, can’t smoke at the train station, can’t smoke in the airport lounge. The urge to light up now requires serious brainstorming, to find an appropriate spot to take in that leisurely drag. In fact, there is none of the lazy elegance, of watching the world pass by through the haze of cigarette smoke that accompanied the aura of smoking. Now you may find them scurrying about for a few quick puffs before they squelch the rest of the unfinished roll with their heel, lest they miss out on the action inside.
Granted, smoking has nothing good about it. Cancer, asthma, heart disease, hypertension, to name a few, are pretty much guaranteed results. As a erstwhile dabbler into the seductive, hazy world of the ‘drag and flick’, I now feel sick the morning after I’ve been to a party at a friend’s terrace, one of the last surviving havens for those who smoke. The actual act, has no appeal left for me. Beer gives a far more sustainable buzz than nicotine, which pretty much dissappears as fast as the cigarette itself. Plus it tastes better too.
But there is something that I miss about not smoking anymore.
It begins as you crack open the pack of cigarettes, pull one out and flip the pack onto the table. Bringing the cigarette to your lips, you gently purse your lips around the filter. A quick ‘look-around’, a hopeful glance towards the perfect stranger, “Got a light?”.
Got a light. It’s is like the secret password, the ‘Open Sesame’ to be accepted into the fold. Like a key that clicks open a well-oiled lock, almost immediately you are one amongst the many. Those three magical words. And ‘Entrez!’. Out comes the matchbox, with a nonchalant flick of the wrists. A strike. The matchbox returned with a silent nod of acknowledgement. A silent acknowledgement of being one. In the same boat. The perils and joys of being a smoker.
Smokers, like any other endangered species, find safety in numbers. Birds of a feather flock together as they say. There is that one thing that unites them all, the desire to light up. No distinction on class, colour, creed, sex. And anyone, asks anyone for a light. It’s not just about striking that match to satiate that craving. It’s an entire performance. A performance only a select few play out: The silent comity of smokers.
