And you thought I never doped?
by Jutismita Hazarika
Many years ago, when I was nothing but a little foetus, life was super fun. Floating in a cozy corner of my mother’s womb, I used to dream of the days ahead -- the dreams of being an extraordinary child, the dreams of making my parents proud! I still remember those carefree days of sheer imagination! How I used to dream of the thrilled faces of a family welcoming such a cute baby!
In one of those happy and languid foetus-days, may be it was in the evening (I don’t remember it that well), a life changing event occurred and that was about to change the course of my life. And, I swear it did!
On that fateful winter day, I had just woken up from a sweet dream. From the movements around, I could figure out my mom pacing across the room. A few loud voices coming from a distance made me alert, followed by a nice waft of an unknown scent. You know, how we embryos react to new things, right?
After pondering over it for a few minutes, I still couldn’t understand what that sweet, strange smell was all about and I gradually drifted off to sleep. I had no way of knowing what happened after that. I was floating like a leaf.
Now I know, it was the scent of weed. No, you are guessing it wrong. My mom never doped. Even dad was away at that time.
What was happening outside my cozy abode was probably a very thrilling drama where my weed-happy, semi-hippy uncle was trying to teach my mom a lesson. Long arguments were followed by his blowing smoke into my mom’s face and that was the day I got stoned for the first time in my life. Boy! That was some awesome experience I must say! Mind it, my dad was away in another state busy earning his living all this while and my mom was left with the tricky situation of dealing with an unruly, teenaged brother-in-law. Otherwise, dad would have beaten up my uncle to pulp for blowing marijuana into my mom’s face.
Now, for a teenager in the early 80s, life was all about getting familiar with Western music and a hippy life, even though this whole getting familiar phase was, in reality, a faded echo of the actual hippy phase of the 60s. So you can’t really blame my uncle, can you? And, for such a teenager so full of roving ideas and an old model stereo continuously blaring country music (and at times some punk rock), trying some weed was something very vogue. Who cared if his name was too odd for the person he was? More than his odd name, his ways were odd enough to puzzle my folks at home. So this was what the argument was all about.
So the point is, does this make me a crack-baby even when my parents never doped? Of course, it does. The arguments continued and so did the smoke-in-the-face act. By this time, I was beginning to enjoy those sweet hallucinations so much so that I almost forgot to be born. They waited and waited and thought what a lazy bum I was. But hey, it wasn’t my fault.
After some painful 30 days of waiting, they opened up my already harassed mom. Who wouldn’t get sick of an 11 month pregnancy after all? She was super pissed and I can tell you, I almost heard her swear that she would beat me up once I was old enough to accept my faults.
I got the beating. Though the reason was cited as my unwillingness to take a bath but I know it was her long awaited vengeance. Anyway, pardon me for getting away from the actual story.
Coming back to the hospital scene, they opened up my mom and said, “Hello, you lazy bum! How about doing some real job?” I was like, “Eh, are you talking to me?”“Yes”, they said. “How about some real job like getting born and acting like a baby?” “Alright. Since you have already invaded my warm environ, why not? Let’s do it,” I replied.
And that was the day, I was born much to the annoyance of my Grandma who wanted a super cool boy whom she wanted to make a pilot someday, not a sleepy girl who didn’t even cry.
But how could I convince them that crack-babies don’t cry? They are wired to be quiet and at times sad (though I can’t really tell you the exact reason for the sadness). May be it’s the magic of the weeds.
However, I was a beautiful baby. I can see you crack up but I will show you the pictures from my childhood. Oh, wait! They got burnt in a house fire. I am telling you the truth, trust me. Or may be my mom accidentally shoved the album into the fireplace thinking it was a log.
So no matter how angry you are at the injustice around, you are bound to love a beautiful baby and my weed-happy uncle loved me just right. He used to carry me all day long and I loved his super cool company.
By this time, the household was getting back to normal. My mom being a working woman had to return to her job pretty soon and the crack-baby was left in her own paradise with the uncle and the grandma. Thus followed many years of continuous passive-highs! I just wonder, how my mom could leave me with my uncle (to get stoned when I was just a little baby). Further investigations revealed that she never left me with the uncle to make me a passive doper but she thought my grandma was a good babysitter. Now that makes me crack up. She could have been a good babysitter for a would-be-pilot! Okay, may be I am framing up my grandma here. She wasn’t that mean. She was just indifferent.
Anyway, now you know why do I look so drowsy, mute, inert, lost (and cold?) at times. No man, I don’t dope anymore. The uncle went nuts and left home when I was 5 years old. But, 5 years (Almost 6 years including the 11 months pregnancy) was a long time to expose a baby to your sweet crack. But I am not complaining.
So what if I day-dream a lot? It is a part of my hallucination from those days. And, I tell you, I am too good at it. Amazed to see how awesomely my brain cells developed in spite of all the smoke inside me? I think I owe that to my dad. Dear Dad, thanks for the awesome genes. I feel awesome, really. Now don’t go and tell mom that I mentioned awesome genes.
My body doesn’t move much and may be this is why my brain cells get the extra energy to work overtime. They never sleep; crazy lot they are!
Wait, am I hallucinating or am I really telling you the top secret story of my life? Thank God, we don’t’ have active Social Services in the country. I love my parents and I would have never wanted to leave them. So when my boss accuses me of not being too active, the Court can use this testimony from the crack-baby itself. I promise I won’t use it for not-being- hard-working-enough though.
Now, you can go. I am too tired of remembering the whole story. I can see some funny tunnels. Wish I could get some weed and sleep off.
P.S: Dear Mom, Sorry about the ‘awesome gene’ lines in case you read this. I can understand how difficult it is to make it through an 11 months long pregnancy. Thanks for bearing (with) me! ****