Cannabis and a dog
Do not read this if you are under 18.
Mangala’s house in my hometown was on the main road leading to Colombo and was always open. I frequently hung out there with my other friends. Mangala had two brothers Priya, the elder and Jeeva, the younger. Their mum was a kind-hearted soul and a welcoming lady. She had a soft corner for me because I was the same age as their youngest son. Mangala’s mum, a devout Buddhist, understood young, restless youth. She allowed us the freedom to enjoy our little vices in her home. Like alcohol and cigarettes, the bane of teenagers.
Some evenings, I sat on their parapet wall en masse with my friends and watched the road at sunset. Motorcars, buses, cyclists and pedestrians were passing by. We amused ourselves by sharing our daily chatter and cigarettes while the world moved around us. Mangala’s household had a pet dog, black.
Mangala organised booze parties regularly. The boys pitched in, contributing two Rupees each to buy local liquor and cigarettes. Mangala’s mother provided the snacks.
On one of those visits, unprovoked and unexpectedly, Mangala’s dog bit me on my leg. The dog bite on my right knee was minor. Immediately, Mangala and his mum took me to the local doctor and treated my injury.
On hearing this at home, my father, who did not take any chances with the health and safety of his children, took me to the local hospital. I was given a rabies vaccination. After that, he took me back to Mangala’s house, checked with his mum, and checked on their pet dog to convince himself there was no rabies risk for me. In Sri Lanka, wild dogs were rampant, and rabies was common.
Mangala’s mum felt a sense of responsibility for an injury to her son’s friend from their dog and ensured no further harm came to me when I revisited them. Whenever I visited her home, she poured a cup of tea for me.
Out of the three brothers, Mangala was the worldliest. He had broad experiences. I looked to him for his views on things I needed help understanding. At that time, he was waiting for a visa to go to California to join his fiancée.
Here I was, wanting to experiment with what the adult world had to offer.
Mangala was a regular user of Cannabis. So I was naturally interested when he praised the mystical power of Cannabis. I wanted to experience this magical power Mangala said came with Cannabis.
I signed up with him to smoke Cannabis. Mangala knew how to get Cannabis and prepare it for smoking. He bought it from a pusher who sold it discreetly. It was a rigorous process to prepare it, remove weeds from other plant materials, and roll the leaves with paper. Everything was done in a specific, time-consuming way, a skill I had no idea about. However, Mangala was skilled in this extensive process and prepared it diligently with his experience with the substance.
Cannabis was illegal in Sri Lanka. Young men smoked it in hiding to avoid the cops. When one smoked the raw Cannabis, it gave a stenchy burning smell, leading the cops to the smoker for a likely arrest. So everyone smoked it in closed quarters, hiding. Mangala took me to the local church ground to smoke it, which was generally quiet in the evening. There was nobody around; it was completely dark. We sat on the ground in preparation for the big bang facing the back of the Catholic church. Imagine smoking weed in the holy ground!
Mangala took a few puffs and gave the Cannabis to me. I smoked it, taking turns with him. I could feel the effects of the substance straight away; I felt every bone in my body in my brain. It was sensory. I was being liberated left, right, and centre of my body. You could hear sounds you had never heard. The sky and stars seemed so close and so far, very different. The universe was mine. It was an epiphany of your body and mind combined. Everything became softer.
I enjoyed the feeling, and it felt perfect. Mangala said your taste buds would feel different and better after a smoke. He took me home and gave me a meal of rice and mutton to prove it. I have never tasted mutton like I did that night. Every bite counted and tasted better.
I smoked Cannabis two more times with Mangala. If there was a heaven, I had it covered when I smoked it. Mangala gave me a few more tips on worldly pleasures one could enjoy after a smoke.
I knew I had a higher calling. Destined to be somebody beyond this. I was conscious of not being addicted to anything. Yes, I was a kid playing adult. But this was not real life. It was an illusion that could go wrong horribly. I had seen Cannabis addicts who came to the illegal joint every evening to get their hit. I never wanted that life. Yes, I was a rebellious kid; I was not afraid to experiment. But I decided I would not smoke Cannabis ever again. My self-actualisation instincts kicked in, protecting me from possible harm.
That was it. I never smoked Cannabis ever again.
The next time I came across Cannabis was about 45 years later, in Canada, at my nephew’s wedding. Cannabis is legalised like cigarettes and sold at selected stores in Canada. It is a premium product and is given as a gift to groomsmen by the groom. My nephew had gourmet gift packs of Cannabis for his groomsmen on the eve of his wedding. I get along royally with my nephew (I live in Australia, him in Canada); he and his groomsmen burst out laughing when his uncle described the experiment with the substance almost a half-century ago. Some stories could transcend into different flavours for the next generation.
Come back to Sri Lanka in the mid-seventies; my friend Mangala came to my help during a trying episode. After work, I had drinks with some of my batch mates in a bar in Colombo. I had a bit too much but managed to board a bus home. It was late in the evening. The bus wasn’t crowded. I sat near a window. As the bus headed home, I felt awful in my tummy and wanted to vomit. The only way to vomit was to put your head out of the bus window from the speeding bus onto the road, a normalised practice in Sri Lanka. I had no option but to vomit, which I did. Anybody with too much to drink would know that after a good vomit, you’d feel terrible and lifeless.
The bus came to my usual bus halt. I got off the bus with a bit of struggle. Now on the side of the road, I could not stand up anymore and felt lifeless. Some lads from my hometown, who knew me and saw my plight, came to my rescue immediately. While one of them was holding me, the other ran to Mangala’s house, which was only a short distance away. Fortunately, Mangala and my friend Cyril were there. Both came running and took charge of me, their friend in need now.
Mangala and Cyril decided to take me to my home. The way to my home involved crossing a few roads on foot, passing the church and my street. It was an embarrassing spectacle, me in the middle, a lifeless soul walking home resting on my friends’ shoulders. Sri Lankans generally love a dose of gossip, and I am sure my being carried and drunk was the breaking news in my home village the next day.
Mangala and Cyril went back after returning me to my home. My father said nothing and quickly took charge of me. He cleaned and cleaned me and put me to bed in the front room. My mother, the disciplinarian she was, was angry and did not want anything to do with me that night.
Fortunately, my father never said anything about my drunken episode. Instead, he tapped me on my shoulder at the breakfast table the following day. By tapping me gently, he indicated that he loved me despite my indiscretion. My mother, though, gave me beans after he had left for work.
My father’s considered silence was his ultimate reprimand. And one that worked. And I learnt my lesson about responsible drinking even before I turned twenty.
Where are the characters of this story today?
Mangala lives in California, while his brothers Priya and Jeeva live in Sri Lanka. Cyril lives a simple village life in Sri Lanka. I keep in touch with them.
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