Smoke

I don’t have anything against smokers. It’s the smoke I don’t like. Especially the kind that I’m forced to breathe in. Of course the solution to that is to a) be polite and tell the smoker next to me to stuff it or b) make an obvious and pointed exit. And at times when the room resembles a gas chamber more than anything else, walking in and walking out is the only way to go.

And this is exactly what I found myself doing last night. Apparently there was an impromptu song and shayari session in the bar and those of us who weren’t already audience to it headed there. I had taken maybe 2 steps into the bar when I realised I’d probably die of smoke inhalation in the next 5 minutes, and since I hadn’t written my will or called everyone I know to let them know what I thought of them, I decided to step out. Here I was joined by the Fellow (also a non-smoker who likes the full use of his lungs) and another officer (whom I keep supplied with chocolates and who thus felt chocolate-bound to keep me company). While we discussed the habits of smokers and then moved onto talking about drugs, their use and of course, availability, another officer walked out of the bar. On being asked where he was headed to, he indicated with that typical hand gesture that he was off for a smoke.

“Uhh….why don’t you stay in the bar and just take deep breaths? That would save you a cigarette at least.”

“I would, but the smoke is not the right brand.”

That’s the fauj for you.