Read between my lipssss

By Arun Ram
I find cigarettes weird creatures. Drunken stupour I am not in, when I
say this. If a peg of rum can slap its aficionado, I would, by now,
have got slapped nine times—without ice.
So, cigarettes as weird creatures, ahem!
Let me ask you this one thing: are you a smoker?
Not that I ask questions to get answers. I just ask.
I ask. I think. I think you think. I smoke.
When I open a pack of Wills, ten people stare at me (I buy a
ten-a-pack pack). Have you – by now, the non-smoker must have stubbed
himself/ herself off this wonderful flame – looked at the filter tip
before you jabbed it between your lips? I did.
White, as science tries to say, is light. So is our filter tip –
before tar makes the soothing penetration from Drag One (DO). In the
whiteness of that white, I see faces—pleading, pagan and purgatorial.
The filter tip of my Wills tells me the feeling deep down – to the
bottom of the packet, where the valiant end of the cigarette
contemplates the inevitability of the instant inflammation. The tip,
dear DOer, has a wonderful life—it starts with the moment you light up
and ends with, well, just that. If the tip could speak in its enviable
hybernation, we will have another topic to discuss here.
Time to get personal. With the cigarette, that is. I see cigarettes –
however tightly they are packed – shuffling themselves as soon as I
open the pack. Are they panicking (who will go up in flames first)?
Conspiring (You get him/ her first)? Copulating (We can't do it here,
let our spirits do it in the areole of his left lung)? I usually let
them choose between themselves. I, you know, love martyrs—preferably
alive. So here pops the guy (I have not found a gal there, yet) with
the guts. Up!
Then, the white speaks— almost like how the light spoke to the
prophets. I realise the face of the cigarette is the filter. (If you
smoke a cigarette without a filter and see a face on the lateral side
of the cylindrical wonder, we will talk in private). One guy has
really got a face: with a few flakes from the adjacent one, forming
what we humans take for eyes, nose and, yes, a pair of smoking lips.
It was a challenge, dear smoker, I could not refuse to accept. And, as
I lit up, I could not take my eyes of the rest. One tried to form a
union of nine (he included, as the secretary general of the
till-matchsticks-do-us-part). Another was a revisionist, preaching the
efficacy of nicotine patches.
In every pack of ten (they are conspicuously missing in the twenties
pack) there is a revisionist. I listen to him. I want to quit. I will.
But, only when I find a lady in the pack. After all, behind every
ex-smoker, there is a butt.
Post Script: MS Word tells me I have written 505 words. There is this
temptation to make it 555 to pay glowing tributes to that cigarette
brand. As I type out this PS, I salute Oscar Wilde; not only for
having said he could resist everything but temptation, but also to
have proclaimed that his next cigarette would be his last.
