Marlboro Musings

I haven’t yet written the novel that I think I have in my mind. But every time I have pictured myself writing that novel, I have, in my mind’s eye, seen a polished mahogany table and a wine coloured wooden chair. The table and the chair are placed against a big glass window, from where one has a spectacular view of the ocean.

On the uncharacteristically neatly arranged table, apart from the Toshiba laptop (the one gifted by Sanjay) there is a tall glass of dark rum, an wooden ashtray and a pack of Marlboro Lights. Both the glass of rum (and never a glass of vodka, which is my preferred poison) and the pack of cigarettes are no props. They are writing tools as much as the laptop is.

Which is a bit odd. Because, while I have always more than enjoyed my drinks, I haven’t ever been a serious smoker. I started out in school because I wanted to belong to the “gang” which smoked. It wasn’t until college someone pointed out that I was merely puffing and not inhaling. Even today the Marlboro Lights are only an accompaniment to the Smirnoff.

The Marloboro Musings come to you, thanks to a wonderful film I watched last night. Front Page, starring Jack Lemon and Walter Matheau. There were several engaging moments in the film, which one related to because it was about the business of news. But what really touched a button, and made these words flow, was an otherwise innocuous line from Jack Lemon. As he furiously hammers on the typewriter’s keys, frowning in concentration, he almost absent-mindedly says to Walther Matheau, without even looking at his direction: “Cigarette me.”

The crusty Matheau, otherwise never short of a word, just does what he is asked. He quietly lights a cigarette and places it between Jack Lemon’s grateful lips, even as Lemon types away without skipping a beat, and without so much as a thank you.

Cigarette me. That one line of just two words, that nonchalant demand for the cigarette, brought a thousand memories flooding back. If you have ever been a journalist and a smoker and been lucky enough to have worked in those happy days when newsrooms would have as much smoke as any popular pub during peak business hour, you would know what I am talking about.

Sleeves rolled up, trying to beat the deadline, as you penned your masterpiece, sometimes you would ask to be cigaretted, on other occasions just casually raise a hand, and someone surely would light a cigarette and place it either between your fingers or between your lips.

In return you don't say thanks. Partly because that word appears inadequate as an acknowledgement. You just keep an eye out when a fellow hack is trying to beat the deadline, his hands hammering away on those unfortunate keys. You do what Matheau does. Light up and put the cigarette between his fingers or his lips.

There were those who didn’t need a cigarette even at moments like these. Between 10.30 and 11.30 every morning, for one hour and sometimes a bit more, John Dayal, the finest journalist I have ever worked with, would sit in the news pit of Mid Day, in front of a computer, and type away furiously. Mostly he would re-write the main leads, and often – depending on the quality of English or the lack of it -- he would even end up translating.

During that one hour he wouldn’t take phone calls, and you had to be either very desperate or completely daft to interrupt him. Most of us were rookies, in our first jobs. With three years behind me, I was a veteran. When John was at his work station, we all sensed something special was happening. People would speak in hushed whispers, reporters on the phone with their contacts usually kept their voices low.

At the end of that hour John would straighten his hunched shoulders in an effort to get the blood flowing back again, reach out for a cup of tea that would be waiting for him, then get up from his seat and smile at all of us. The smile was a cue for resumption of normal business, and the big hall would suddenly come back to life.

Though I have had my moments, I am not half the journalist on a good day that John ever was on his worst. In Mid Day, Thursday mornings killed me. It was the day we brought out a three-paged Sports Extra. Theoretically, inside pages were locked the evening before. But because I was often the sole writer (and some nasty folks said the sole reader too) on those sports pages, I had the rare luxury to finish my writing and make the pages on Thursday morning.

So, on Thursday mornings I would usually be the first into the office, and quickly get on with the task at hand. As the minutes ticked by, I would pound the keys on my computer, sleeves rolled, eyes glued to the screen, mind away on distant tennis courts and cricket pitches. At that moment my entire being was focussed on writing.

The only thing, the single thing I wanted, my whole being cried out for, was a cigarette. But I wouldn’t dream of stopping my typing, of locating a cigarette, and lighting it. The entire process was too time consuming, too much of a distraction.

Yet, every Thursday morning, magically, even miraculously, a colleague or a friend would almost inevitably place that lit cigarette between my lips. I can’t for the life of me, remember ever asking for that cigarette. The timing would be uncanny, the understanding perfect, as Rahul, Deepankar, Arun, Gautam or Bobby would “cigarette” me.

Sometimes as you typed you could hear the sound of a match being lit. That sound was almost as intoxicating as the first drag. All you did was reach out your hand over your shoulder and someone would deftly place the lit cigarette in the gap between your two fingers.

I spent some of my happiest years -- my first few in journalism, being cigaretted and I guess had my share of cigaretting friends and colleagues. Today after I finish this blog, I might just light up one in the memory of those good old days.