Reverted to being a non-smoker

I've been a smoker (tobacco only) for almost 30 years. Been a heavy smoker for the last few (about the last 20... LOL).

Made many attempts to quit too. Sometimes to impress various females ("For you, I'd do anything"). Those were rare but it was a given that I'd be smoking while out of her sight. Sometimes to try and exert some kind of control over my life - "DO I OWN MY LIFE OR NOT?" my mind would scream and I'd quit. Only to start again at the next cigarette-lighting cue.

Something strange happened last Friday. Those of you who want to attribute it to being Good Friday are welcome to do so and to assign whatever significance they wish to THIS particular Good Friday. What happened was, I was reading Tony Robbins' book, where he describes how he stopped over-eating. If you want to know how he did it, buy his book, simply coz I can't explain. He's written the book well and simply handing you the formula won't work. You need to read the chapters that came before.

So I thought of quitting smoking - again. Then I thought, "Why not revert to being a non-smoker?" After all, I was a non-smoker for the first 16 years of my life.

So I picked up a ciggie as if it were the first ciggie I'd ever smoke. I smelled it, felt it in my fingers, etc.

Then I put it in my mouth, lit it and took a drag, taking care to TASTE the darned smoke.

It tastes AWFUL!

It had tasted awful the first time I had taken a drag at 16 too, really. But it was the cool thing to do and I did it and progressed from a stolen drag every now and then to a ciggie a day to nearly 40 a day.

So I decided to approach every ciggie I lit from then on as the first ciggie I would ever light.

The rationalisation started immediately; "You know you're going to start again, so why torture yourself?"

So I held off for a bit, then "gave in" and again, treated it as the first ciggie I'd ever light.

Awful. Stubbed it out after the first puff.

Tried again a few hours later, when the demons were going at me full swing.

Still tasted awful. Stubbed it out after the first puff.

I haven't smoked since Good Friday of 2009. Sure, it's early days yet. They say, "Once a smoker, always a smoker". That may happen. It's just that I think I've reverted to being a non-smoker.

I haven't even bothered to give in to the demons since Sunday. It tastes awful, so why bother? I've been through a very fretsome event last evening, sans a smoke. Usually, I'd be chain-smoking throughout, unable to taste the excellent wood-fired pizza at the end of the event.

No anxiety, no irritation, nothing.

I won't pretend that I feel fresher, or more energetic, or anything other than being Deepak. I'm just Deepak, the non-smoker, and that's fine by me.

Deepak

I miss my Irani chai

I do.

There are very few places in Pune that offer authentic Irani chai (tea) and they're rapidly having to sell out to Houses of Lights and Baristas and other big guys who pay them plenty of money to vacate their ancient, authentic timber-lined tea-houses in favour of glitzy, glamorous, monotonous places that make it clear you're sinning if you're just browsing.

Thing is, I'm not sure I miss the chai or the experience of the chai.

Kayani Restaurant, now the House of Lights, at Sarbatwala Chowk, Pune, was a prime example of what I mean.

Actually, the chai itself didn't draw me there. It was Ismael.

He was the waiter. And Ismael, the waiter, had standards. Regulars we greeted with loving abuse. Newcomers were ignored.

It took me a long while to get Ismael to call me a "baster". Although he did suffix it with "Chairman" in deference to my ability to control the motley crew of us who hotly debated the latest art endeavour over our endless cups of Irani chai.

"Baster Chairman aa gaya. Pundhrah cup chai tayaar kar" (The bastard Chairman has arrived. Get 15 cups of tea ready), he'd chant upon seeing me.

As a business model it was exquisite. Create an exclusive class of customers who enjoy whatever form of exclusivity you bestow upon them. I am convinced that Kay's, as we called it, thrived because we spent so much on chai just to get in Ismael's good books.

But all things come to an end. Not just all good things, ALL THINGS.

Kay's is gone forever, replaced by a glitzy House of Lights that's doing a roaring business supplying light fixtures to the nouveau riche.

I meet Ismael sometimes, surviving on the guilty largesse of past customers who remember his acerbic wit and wily grasp of customer relations.

He spends his days looking for old customers he can touch for a tenner. He spends his nights beneath the staircase of an old building owned by a kindly Parsi gentleman.

The owners of Kay's are happy, having traded their traditionally selected spot for pots of cash. Consumers are happy, with convenient locations providing the latest glamour accessory.

But Ismael is looking for people he used to serve in order to make his employer richer, to survive another day.

And I miss my Irani chai.

Deepak