JOIN USThe smoky circles of bribery
Har fikr ko dhueh mein udaata chala (I blew up every worry in smoke) was a hit song in the early 1960s, and its lilting melody continues to haunt music fans today. Decades ago, the song had the ever-green hero Dev Anand flaunting a cigarette and blowing its smoke in his inimitable style; smoking then was synonymous with manhood, and seen as the panacea for all sorrows. Why was smoking not recognised as the cause of lung diseases and possibly cancer? Lack of knowledge, perhaps.
Regardless, in every other film, local or global, the protagonist or villain had a cigar in hand, either dangling between the lips or flicking up the cigar and catching it neatly with the mouth, and so on! The way they lit it up was unique too, depending on the lifestyle of the protagonist. He would either use a matchstick or a musical gas lighter. The matchstick would be lit up not only by rubbing against the box but any conceivable surface, from anybody’s head to a nondescript chair, to showcase the ruggedness of the hero or villain. Quite a few heroes conceived a new way of lighting up a cigarette or cigar in every new flick, and that would be the cynosure of all eyes, right from those of the housewife and the ogling teenager to the grandma. Many movie buffs who idolised such heroes took to smoking as a fashion statement.
I remember an uncle of mine who would smoke clandestinely on the terrace of our house, wave away the smoke, and pop some scented areca nuts into his mouth before coming back to join us. My father was a strict Gandhian, and smoking was taboo.
I once caught the aforementioned uncle in the act, and I was given my favourite chocolate not to spill the beans on him. I confess I was fascinated to see the expert blow out ringlets of smoke in a practised manner, with his face turned upwards like an oblation to the gods.
While chocolates and comic books came my way regularly, he would hide the pack of cigarettes carefully amidst his luggage. But I remember once my cousin pilfered it and tried her hand at a few puffs, resulting in a bout of cough, which we juniors respectfully witnessed.
The uncle later became adept at hiding in a new place each day until his departure. I found out much later in life that he had been a chain smoker. Chain smoking was looked up to in awe during the filmstars-touting-cigarettes era because it was something extraordinary, something not possible for the chicken-hearted, or rather, chicken-lunged.
But recently I read about a new serial action, “serial party hopping,” with reference to a politician who hopped, skipped, and jumped from one political party to another, which enticed him with a ministerial berth.