Six puffs too many

 Six Puffs Too Many

Let me tell you a little secret.

I have a shocking admission… I was a smoker. Brand: Charminar.

⚠️ Warning: Even a single puff can harm your health.

Before anyone faints—I’ve taken just 6 puffs in my entire life. That’s it. Smoking is bad news. Don’t be tempted.

Well, let me spit out the story.

I was doing my intermediate examination in Allahabad during the oppressive summer heat. The centre was some godforsaken place on the outskirts of the city, full of positively evil-looking boys, muttering, jostling, and plotting mischief.

Three of us arrived on cycles, parked and locked them, and paused to take in the chaos. The courtyard was alive with shouting, darting boys, tea stalls hissing steam, swirling dust, and a hot loo wind that made the heat almost unbearable. The college toilet added its own pungent punch. Nearby, an invigilator with a hideous demeanour and ungainly gait was prowling outside the hall, daring anyone to make a misstep.

We had planned to revise quietly—but the tumultuous atmosphere swallowed our notes, and not a single page was opened.

I was skinny, fair, short, and looked about 13. Confidence? Zero. One friend whispered,

“Let’s buy cigarettes. We’ll blend in—and look tougher.”

The idea appealed to me—borrowed swagger, a tiny prop to feel older.

Money was scarce. We marched to a tiny shop.

“What brand?” asked the shopkeeper.

I blurted Charminar.

We bought three loose cigarettes and held them with style, waving them around. Then came the lighting.

No lighter. No matches. Just a burning rope hanging from a metal ring.

One chap struggled, coughed, and finally succeeded. The rest of us lit from him—a relay of choking doom.

Two puffs later… disaster.

Coughing. Wheezing. Eyes streaming. Mouth bitter.

Any swagger vanished instantly.

The bell rang. We shuffled into the hall, and I spent the first half hour recovering from my “initiation.”

Bishop’s: Round two

I had just joined Bishop’s in Pune as a young teacher. One evening, I was invited to Mr Fletcher’s home, along with Mr Denzil Innis and Mr William Daniell ( I think it was these 3 as they were close ) —all senior teachers. I was happy to be invited, quietly hoping I would blend in and learn from their experience in the school. 

It was a fun, relaxed evening. We were talking about common friends in Allahabad, and they were filling me in about how good Bishop’s was, along with other titbits and anecdotes. Laughter flowed freely, mixing memories of chaotic exam halls and mischievous boys.

Cigarettes were on hand. One offered me a drag. “For fun,” they said.

Two drags later…

Burning lungs. Eyes streaming. Cough loud enough to wake the neighbourhood. I could hardly eat any dinner.

That was it. I vowed never to smoke again. The laughter and stories didn’t need a cigarette. Smoking adds nothing but regret.

The Lesson

Some Bishopites smoked, mostly senior boys or boarders. They thought we teachers had no clue, quietly puffing away behind doors and under bedsheets. Little did they know—we knew exactly who smoked and how cigarettes were being brought in. We just never caught anyone red-handed… which, to be honest, sometimes felt like a superpower.

Me? I had my 6 puffs, paid my dues, and never went near another cigarette. One lesson was crystal clear: smoking is neither cool, nor clever, nor worth a single cough or bitter mouthful.

( And then there was Mr Roberts who smoked a pipe!)