Marijuana, Atomic Dreams, and Funeral Pyre Flames

The first time I smoked marijuana was in 1981, during my final year in engineering college. But it had a slow buildup, one that began in 1977, when I arrived at college as a nervous, slightly over-packed freshman.

I came from a quiet, vegetarian family, raised on sambar, dosas, and moral instruction. Meat was something "others" ate, taboo, distant, and associated with other people's festivals. Well, mostly distant. I had once tasted a tiny bit of meat at a Christian classmate’s home during Christmas, and washed it down with a glass of homemade red wine. Although it was hush-hush and coated in mystery, I liked it. But that was it, a nibble, not a rebellion.

All that innocence faced its first proper test in college, where "ragging" was the unofficial orientation ritual. Known as hazing in America and bizutage in France (which sounds like it might involve brie and baguettes), in India, ragging was a sweaty mix of humiliation, unsolicited cardio, and odd social contracts.

That fateful Friday night, my seniors decided to "initiate" me. After a set of thirty push-ups, each more dramatic than the last and a jog around the football stadium, they rewarded me with what they called a “treat” at the seniors’ hostel mess. The dish? A giant, glistening plate of chicken biryani.

I loved it.

So I dug in, pretending like I’d done this my whole life.

That biryani was more than food. It was the symbolic beginning of my college life, one rebellious grain of rice at a time.

After dinner, my two senior hosts, one bald and shiny-headed, the other soft-spoken and monk-like, led me down a long, dimly lit corridor. It felt like the prelude to a horror film. They suddenly stopped and asked, “Can you smell that?”

I sniffed. It was strong, pungent, and smoky.

"Yes," I said, with the air of someone pretending to know more than they did.

"Do you know what it is?"

I shook my head.

We kept walking, and the smell lingered. As we reached the night canteen, they bought me sweet tea and a cupcake. As I took a sip, Baldy leaned in and, with dramatic flair, declared:

“That smell? It was savam naariya manam — the scent of burning flesh,” he said in Malayalam

Now that got my attention.

My eyes widened. Was I in danger? Had I just eaten the biryani equivalent of cursed meat?

Sensing my horror, the soft-spoken senior smiled gently and clarified, "Relax. That wasn't a corpse. That was ganja, marijuana smoke. We thought you’d recognise it, since you’re from Idukki.”

Ah yes, Idukki, land of cardamom, mist, and the most legendary marijuana in the country, nicknamed as Idukki gold. I quietly wondered if they thought I was a weed expert because I was born in the Idukki district.

They chuckled at my wide-eyed innocence, realising I was a genuine freshman in every sense, vegetarian, weed-illiterate, and emotionally confused.

Soon, we drifted into more mundane conversations, my classes, why I chose mechanical engineering, and what I thought of campus food. My answers were as raw as I was, and they laughed kindly, sensing my eager cluelessness.

As the night ended, Baldy stood up, pointed a finger at me, and said with surprising seriousness, "Promise me something."

I looked up, unsure.

"Promise me you'll never touch ganja. Never smoke it."

It felt like a simple request, even noble. So I stood tall and replied, "Yes, sir. I'll never smoke ganja."

They even walked me back to my hostel that night to ensure I wasn't caught and ragged further. It was a moment of unexpected kindness.

For the next four years, I kept that promise. I watched friends experiment, boast, spiral, and mellow out, but I stayed clean, partly out of fear, partly out of pride.

Then came 1981.

I was now in my final year, a senior myself, with a dusty drafting set and slightly looser morals. One evening, I passed by the senior hostel courtyard and heard a familiar voice singing a parody tune:

"Oruthanu orathanatea sangeetham pidichillaa,

Avar thammil kasa-pisa vazhkuundaaki…"

("One person didn't like the other's music, so they created a messy life together.")

It was ridiculous and poetic, the kind of song that only makes sense when sung in a smoky bathroom. Curious, I walked toward the group. And there it was again: the smell of ganja. Strong. Sweet. Sinful. Intoxicating.

I joined the circle, laughed, sang along, and just like that, took my first puff.

What followed wasn't exactly Woodstock. After a few rounds, I spiralled into a full-blown panic attack. I couldn’t sleep. I felt molecules of pain climbing up to my brain and exploding into atoms. Is my brain splitting into atomic particles? I couldn’t sit still.

A kind-hearted postgraduate senior found me pacing like a lunatic in my room and calmly led me through a relaxation technique that involved reciting engineering formulas and counting backwards from 100. It worked, barely.

After that night, I never smoked again.

Fast forward to 2014.

I was working for an Indian company and visiting the holy city of Varanasi. After witnessing the breathtaking Ganga Aarti, with its flaming lamps, hypnotic chants, and river rituals, I asked for a little “me time” from the minders and wandered off alone.

As I roamed through the ancient gullies of the old city and listening to the Ganga reached Dashashwamedh Ghat. And there it was again, that unmistakable smell of ganja.

Two sadhus sat in the distance, sharing a chillum with a foreign woman who spoke with a thick Russian accent. She looked at me, smiled with vague friendliness, and gestured for me to join them. I smiled back but kept walking, carried by memories and melody.

"Oruthanu orathanatea sangeetham pidichillaa…"

It floated into my mind like an old tune from a broken radio.

Ten minutes later, I reached Manikarnika Ghat, where the cremation fires never go out. And suddenly, I could smell the scent of burning flesh.

The smell of ganja was earthy and sweet. This was different. It was solemn, pungent, and deeply human. Wood, incense, and flesh. But I found it more intoxicating and earthy than the ganja smell.

I stood there, staring into the flames of funeral pyres, watching egos and identities burn. And strangely, I felt at peace. I felt at home. And in that moment, I silently thanked the two college seniors who once made me promise never to touch ganja.

I had broken that promise, yes, but only once. And perhaps that was enough.

Postscript

In 1833, a young Irish doctor named William O'Shaughnessy arrived in Calcutta. Working at the Medical College Hospital, he began experimenting with Cannabis Indica to treat diseases like cholera, tetanus, and rheumatism.

In 1839, he published the first scientific paper on the medicinal benefits of marijuana in the Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal.