SMOKE IN THE MOUNTAINS

Today I  woke up and read about a fire in Andheri (West), Mumbai. It had broken out in the house of my friend - an affable woman with twinkling eyes and crackling wit  whose only gnawing anguish in life remains  Brazil's 7-1 humiliation. She proudly talked about her olfactory prowess which I believe could have been  acquired by spending quality time with her pets about whom she is very passionate . She wrote  how she had sniffed smoke bellowing out of her sofa and  further that, despite it being three in the morning, she was able to douse the flame single handedly.

Much as I was relieved to learn that all were safe, I did get terribly anxious. Okay, it is one thing to burn your Science and Maths books after the Board exams  or be a victim of the  the odd short circuit. But accidentally or negligently stubbing your cigarette on your sofa after a drink too many as happened in my friends's house is a bit galling - and I know no amount of  harangue at her husband or huddle with her friends  to complain will change such people. But then I softened up. Sanjoy da is great chap, and in marrying my friend he has been blessed with enough luck to tide him over these tricky  situations he puts himself in.

The post reminded of  another incident which happened about three decades ago. My cousin, a chain smoker and newly wedded, had, in a surge of passion that is a marker of early married days,  left a burning cigarette on a bed which he had been sharing only since his marriage a week ago. It is not that the coitus was interrupted, because the cigarette is a quiet customer, not a violent flame thrower. It burns slowly, enjoying the  titillating softness and warmth of the foam of the mattress.  But it is not my intention to tell you a story about my cousin's  early days of marriage . I don't want to even talk about  the  wisp of smoke or  crackling and flaming sticks  in the fireplace or even the smouldering embers in  the morning which Indian filmmakers, out of censorial diktat,  use to  symbolise  various stages of  lovemaking - when they are fed up with inflicting  frames of flowers in sway and tangle on a sublimely overeager and salivating audience!

No, I want  to narrate my own story about triggering smoke when I was neither drunk nor newly married. It happened in Musoorie  in 1988 - but before that I must digress because it relates to my shoes. I had purchased a pair of shoes, rather shoe uppers, sometime in 1984. The SnapDeal was made in Chor Bazar, adjacent to Lal Qila in Delhi - a bazaar which streaked like a colourful ribbon  on the footpath for over a kilometre , starting from across  Vijay Ghat and stretching upto almost across  Rajghat. One could buy a variety of things - empty  champagne bottles,  new  and used carpentry and electrical tools and goods, new and old clothes, cassettes, pirated books, old books, rugs, hooks and hangars and clotheslines, cots , a huge variety of plastic goods, shoes and furniture and what not. During the winter months, one would go once in a while and be lucky with the odd bargain. 

It was in one of those visits that I had picked a  pair of snazzy black uppers, shaped almost like Bata's Mocassino , a popular brand in the early 1980s.  It appealed to my eye and feel and was gentle on my wallet - I  paid  Rs. 35/- for it. Later on, I gave it at one of Bata's repair shops in Patna for  fixing the soles. The shoes came out nice and comfortable- and were  a favourite. I called them Red Fort shoes. I am sure the pair of shoe uppers I had purchased  must have been stolen because shoes are normally not retailed without soles- but this was Dilli . Here fellows have earned the reputation for selling Taj Mahal and their ranks had been augmented by a large number of migrants from my state Bihar - the more enterprising amongst  whom had cut their teeth by selling even the Platform No. 1 of Patna Railway Station.  Besides, the Sunday Chor Bazar had a reputation to uphold. 

Anyway, let us  come back to the story I wanted to tell you.Mussoorie was the first stop from where I began my career . We assembled for close to 4 months in this hill station for a Foundation Course or FC at Lal Bahadur Shastri Academy of Administration. In shoemaking terms, you could say the FC was an intermediate term between curing and tanning- though not so malodorous. The only unpleasant task was waking up early and going out for a jog - otherwise, classes,  guest lectures, village visits, treks and a host of other extra curricular activities I  found entertaining and stimulating. So what if we could not reach our destination of Khat Ling glacier because of a land slide?  So what if our play Chandragupta Maurya ended in a disaster? 

It was  the month  of  December.  The FC  was tapering towards its end. Winter had set in. The air was getting cooler and days shorter.The pine trees  smelt different.The 3 p.m  tutorial classes had become a tad tough to attend but this story is about one such class. I don't remember what was the subject.I am not sure whether Srikant or Pankaj or Bandula were  with me or not that day in the class- my memory fades into  an embarrassing opacity. But  I do remember  it was being taken by Rajiv Takroo, a 1979 batch Gujrat cadre IAS officer who had joined us mid term as a Deputy Director. Let us call  him DD to give relief to my aching fingers on the keyboard. One of  the younger members of the  faculty , he was fit as a fiddle, a lover of squash and easy to mix with . Probably 10 to 12 of us were there in that room  that afternoon and DD was sitting at his desk.  It was  very cold and a two rod heater was placed in between his desk and the front  row where  I sat. It was within the touching distance of my feet which had become numb as the Red Fort was an ordinary moccasin, not the warm knee length  deerskin boots  which Red Indians  wore.

Slowly, as the class progressed, I started to prod the heater with my Red Forts. The extra warmth felt nice. Now nice things one doesn't let go away easily. So from a prod, I  started to place it for a few moments at a time, then more than a few  moments at a time and feeling the much better , and with the genial electric rods  not imparting any shock, I  somehow 'stepped on the gas'  as it were and let my feet stay on the heater. The warmth was radiating  and I was transposed into a fairly blissful state, a kiss of of sweet languor, a peck  of sedating drowsiness when I was disturbed by a sudden silence from DD. I looked up and saw him arching his eyebrows in an inquiring manner. I first turned around to see whether anyone had fallen asleep which could have disturbed him. Finding none I turned back and noticed that he was now sniffing in a fairly alarmed and inelegant way under and around himself. I also craned my neck  and joined in a sympathetic sniff rather dutifully.

" What's burning?" he said. 

I smelt something mildly acrid and spotted  a wisp of smoke swirling up  in the area between our tables but could not zero in on the exact source. 

I replied , ' Beats me, but there is no fire, so from where's  the smoke coming out?" 

" Vivek get up I say, " he kind of boomed  with a look of amazement and tone of urgency.

I got up, a bit unsure and peered at  where the DD was staring.  " Holy smoke" I exhaled. It was at my Right Red Fort which had actually caught fire, smouldering if not exactly swishing tongues of flame, but  definitely on fire- announcing  itself with a lot of smokey fanfare. Surprisingly, my feet were absolutely untouched, unharmed, unsinged - the sole, heel and the plantar fascia.

The class thanked  me because on that note it broke up fifteen minutes early- even the best of the faculty cannot collect back the horses and herd them into the stable so quickly after a fire alarm. None offered sympathy as most good friends would in moments like these. The  DD  nicknamed me Smokin' Joe. I lost my shoe but saved my leg and everyone cheered me -as I walked out with the  Red Forts in my hand on the heartless, cold cemented pathway to 14 Mahanadi.