Confession needs to be made that I’ve rolled only three-four times in my life, I’ve my friends for this crucial task. My first few weeks in college went into recruiting people and on the very first day, I met him, the master of the art of rolling. BHANDari is every stoner in the world, he is skinny, by which I mean his pointy shoulders are hanging by the support of collar bones of the shape of chopsticks, his Adam’s Apple at the verge of jumping out of his throat along with long hairs, a pair of ever bloodshot eyes and completely blank deadpan face.
In a group of stoners, you can freely be yourself, nobody is going to judge you. Stoners are nothing but free thinking liberal pacifist people who believe in making joints, not war. People fighting after getting drunk; very common, people killing each other after sniffing cocaine; happens every day, Meth heads running car over people; happens very often but have you ever heard of a pot smokers raising his voice at another smoker? The worst he can do is to eat all your nachos and not laugh at your joke.
So grab your pot, ignite the tail and take a shot and enlighten yourself why pot heads make amazing friends:
- The Warm Welcome: Ever since my seniors got to know that I am one of them, every once in a while some guy just appears out of nowhere while I’m walking through the corridor and asks me ‘Bruh, you want some?’
You are a newborn to the community and needs to be fed well, so they babysit you,
they take care of all your needs
and teach you how to remove seeds
or how to identify the unadulterated of em’ all
as well as how to crush the weed
and make sure to update your playlist with Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin,
so you listen to it until your ear bleeds
yes, they are the true-blue allies indeed.
(still a better rap than yo yo who-dafaq Singh)
- Equality: The pot head community is the most accepting one. No matter who you are, from which class, color, caste, religion, creed, species or planet you belong to, if you smoke, they are there for you, always ready to give you a hand in wrapping up 40-45 minutes of visa into a world of amplified sound and distorted vision in a four-inch of Odet Cascadec Ballore (OCB). They enlighten you about the holiness of the sacred grass that is crushed and smoked, the pilgrimages they have done to Manali and Himachal for it, the medicinal benefits and so on, so that you also start to believe that world can’t run without two things; oxygen and weed.
- Innovative: The world of stoners is ever-evolving, long ago Indian Sadhus used to chill in the Himalayas with a Chillum filled with hash, tobacco and of course cannabis. What Red Wine is to Catholics, as what Chillum is to our savage Sadhus. This holy tradition passed on to the younger generations and soon we had a paper entirely dedicated to roll up and smoke, but that was never enough for our parched lungs. Our innovation transcending all the human-made limits that said ‘used coke bottles are of no reuse’ and led to the invention of the most sophisticated of all, the abode of ecstasy, Bong, which looks like a chemistry lab equipment. Made with just an empty bottle, an empty pen tube, a Chillum holder and lots of happiness, Bong is the epitome of innovation and recycling. And my rolling buddies took their innovation and Eco-friendliness a little too far and created history. Never before in the history of robberies a bunch of people broke-in an ATM not for cash, but for cash receipts that ATMs spits out after every transaction. Never before in the history of addiction a bunch of high-spirited guys broke-in a closed ATM at midnight because apparently the ATM slips are thin enough and perfectly shaped.
- Emotionally Available: Some people say that lovers holding hands and walking towards the sunset with broad smiles that says ‘and they lived happily ever after’ is the most heart-touching thing, I say ‘Bullshit!!! Have you ever seen a stoner telling his stoner buddy who is having a BT ‘Sab theek ho jayeega bhaai, acha acha soch!’? That’s the most heart-warming thing man because we men are terrible at expressing ourselves. It is when our lungs are filled with smoke and our mind flooded with triggered dopamine, we behave the most emotionally.
If you want a marry a guy;
ask him when he is high.
(here we go, again a better rap line)
I’m talking about the guy who uses up all your hot water and puts his dirty clothes on your side of the cupboard. I live 700 miles away from my home with a guy who happily uses my soap, my towel and sometimes my boxers and vice versa. Four years ago I moved to Delhi for usual kind of stuff, perfecting the art of rolling joints while completing my college and getting a job. In the process, I had to share my place with many different third world people of different choice of TV series and IQ.
My history of sharing a house with other Homo sapiens goes back to my early childhood when I was forced to share my small room with a smaller human whom they labeled as my sister. I spent most of the time convincing that small round and loud human with a rampant excretory system that she is from another world and my parents have just picked her up from a dustbin on the roadside, or building a spaceship to send her back to the planet of small and round wailing heads, where she belonged, especially when she got all the attention from my parents just by making a noisy howl like a puppy run over by a lawn mower.
Then after more than a decade, I moved to the cosmopolitan jungle of Delhi and for survival, I had to live with people, many times complete strangers, strangers with a possible career background in serial killing or cannibalism. But I rose above my fear of unfamiliar faces and their different taste of music.
I have lived with a guy who had once screwed the maid, and then with a guy who showered once in a week, then with a homo and then in a PG with a bunch of desperate weirdos who used to work all night, sleep all day and plan Goa trips every other weekend.
I have done enough jumping from apartment to apartment (8 apartments) in the last four years. Although I love to live alone so that I don’t have to alter my bathroom schedule because of somebody else’s, neither I have to stay dressed when I’m home, however, a 1 BHK flat in South Delhi is still an amenity for a struggling writer.
Despite his extreme obsession with big-eyed and pointy head Japanese cartoons they like to call ‘अनिमे’, I’m pleasantly surprised that we get along very well. From making morning tea to cooking the most exquisite chicken dishes, he is the ideal roommate in all the aspects of roommat-ing except that he doesn’t roll. He has actually made me realize that having someone by your side to talk about random shit or watch an episode of The Big Bang Theory late night or sleeping until late afternoon is not such a bad idea.
Here are three reasons, why having roommate is better than living alone and fapping all day:
- Hammered: Apart from the obvious reason that your rent and food bill split into two, there are several other reasons helpful enough to make you get a room partner. It’s a Saturday evening and you’re already hammered, who is gonna stop you from jumping off the rooftop, or drunk dialing your ex? Although this does not happen with me, I’m quite good at controlling myself, and you can’t just tell by looking at me that I’m under the influence until I open my mouth and speak, because when I do, random words come out that does not make any sense. I then need someone to answer my calls before my mom starts thinking that somebody has either kidnapped or killed me and call the police, after three consecutive calls I miss. He never volunteered for this job but yeah, we don’t have an option.
- Bitch-ing Please: We are men and we bitch, yes we do. Gals, it’s not only yours extracurricular, we also sometimes talk crap about our girlfriends, their friends, our friends, teachers, government, Jon Snow, etceteras. We need an equally fed up guy who will reply you with equally shitty statements, and besides talking crap, we are always in a need of a second opinion on our work, on our outfit, on whether or not India will win the match and just about everything. He is the extra Grey Matter I sometimes need.
- Killing fucking Spiders: Spiders are creepy little hideous creatures with eight long sting-like disgusting legs and every once in a while these repulsive little creatures crawl out of nowhere inside my washroom to kill me with its exceptionally grotesque appearance. The only thing that I abhor so intensely from my heart is a freaking spider and I am not capable of killing them because of one of my strange fears that the spider might jump on me and crawl inside my nose. So this herculean task of annihilating a freaking resilient spider belongs to my roommate.