Connaught Circle in New Delhi,
India. I was staying in a charming run-down shithole nearby, infamous
and verminous, hippie rainbow murals long covered by flaky layers of
Asylum Blue. A wise-guy room-boy presciently recommended a
left-behind book titled "Trainspotting". He assured me I'd
like it, smiling at my clueless scepticism.
November
1994: the Hindu Divali 'lights' festival going full tilt. I waded in
thick, wandering the thronged streets, stunned and dazzled by
constant firework detonations. No idea I would soon meet my guide to
the Underworld.
A
conversation started with some street guys; a couple named Raj spoke
good English. One of the Rajs opened, cursing the bourgeoisie and
their conspicuous waste of money on fireworks. I wholeheartedly agreed, craven hypocrisy. As the prosperous wound down, blew
off final firecrackers and left in their jeeps, the truth emerged.
Raj, Raj and the ragamuffin gang were engaged in small time dealing,
cannabis to tourists. I was done with cannabis, although back-slipped
to cigarettes.
Gradually,
Raj baited the hook. Mentioned the guys had lined up some heroin.
Should arrive shortly...? I pondered trying some, just to chalk it off the bucket list.
Raj recited the statutory health warning. Claimed this stuff is the
ultimate bitch; I would become a junkie. Inconceivable. Raj smiled
knowingly.
"I'll
turn you on. Why not?"
I
always did like getting lit up. From dentist gas to speed; psilocybin
to MDMA, via lots of wine and smoke. Thought I was all drugged out by
23 and quit the lot, even cigarettes. Began hiking, hill-climbing and
went back to college. Planned to get a life. Destiny planned
something else.
Later
that Divali night, I was offered a line of white powder to snort. The
guys noted my good luck in trying top-quality number 4. No charge:
friendship. I sat back with a ciggy to wait for another sound and
light show. Instead, everything just...glowed. Subtle but
rich; imbued lustre. The hubcaps on an old parked car shone like
polished heirloom silver. Raj checked me out.
"Feeling
it? Oh yeah...good line. Hey, we're going for some food in a while.
Coming?"
I
wasn't hungry, but felt so lovely and mellow, up for hanging out.
Certainly...actually, the shadows and spookiness of the City Of
Djinn* had receded somehow. The fact that everything around was
grimed and broken and the utter destitution of the fellows was really
not an issue now. Everyone was cool and sweet. Loaded.
After I
vomited up my food we all lay on blankets spread on the pavement,
like at the beach. Basking in the winter night, cosy from the inside
out. Under the arches of Connaught walkway, outside boutiques and
banks, no-one gives a rat's arse. No criticism, man; folk just wander
by. Like, if you want to lie in dust and garbage stoned on heroin,
getting a midnight tan with the marginals, go for it. It's on you,
your Fate or whatever.
That's
what I was vaguely thinking, while getting a leg massage from a chap
called Pandit. Western males don't usually share such tactile
intimacy, but it felt amazing. When in Rome and all that...hang-ups
dropped. We arose and wandered through wondrous smogs and
cracker-smoke. They introduced me to the night-people who gathered
and played on the patchy grass in the Circle center park. All kinds
of cats, bizarre bazaar. Hustlers, gamblers, schizos. Shoe-glue,
spirits, sleepers. Exotic in dusty silk blouson and grey-green
pin-prick viper-eyes, I was welcomed to the freak-scene. I felt like
the honoured guest at the after-party. Actually, I felt like the
character Max in the children's book "Where The Wild Things
Are." I had traveled far, boldly faced the Wild Things, danced
their dance and befriended the monsters, who turned out to be sweet.
Even became their king for a night! And it was all a dream.
Except.
In the book, Max wakes up. I didn't. Going back later to the guys, I
hung out. This time, they accepted my money. Now, heroin wasn't white
but brown. Not snorted; melted on foil, inhaled by pipe. Bitter
treacle...hold the smoke in, brother. Raj said I was a quick study.
One day, the powder was red. Red?
"Yes,
we call it Lal Kila. 'Red Fort'. From the Red Fort area of Old
Delhi. Low grade...what to do."
I got
ill. Whether it was Red Fort, mosquitoes, pollution or what, I was
brought down, hard. So sick; fever, vomiting. Aches, scary-feeble
coughs. Bad sign. I crawled to a free clinic. Didn't think to spend
money on healthcare. That would be bourgeois, or some scam. The
clinic diagnosed septicemia and pneumonitis, the cloudy chest X-ray
told it true. I could die. Still, I didn't check in for treatment.
Just learned to pray, ride it through. A word from the wise: leave
Delhi. Go somewhere clean, a nice beach. Slowly I recovered; luckily
I was young and fit. Felt stronger for having suffered. Things had
got real for a minute. But I made it home...that time.
What
lessons were learned? Heroin was delicious, as advertised. Harmful,
so stay lucky. I went back to Delhi, many times. Turned out heroin
was here at home, too. Cheap and good back then. Friends and family
were spooked and worried. Protests were white noise to me. New
friends were made, and some old friends were into trying smack too.
How
does this end? It doesn't, really. Just goes on. I spent a lot of
dough. Became an IV poly-drug user, liar and criminal. Desperate
schemer, veins collapsed, lungs scarred. Busted in my city, then
busted abroad. Looking at mandatory life. I skated away but lost my
reason briefly. Paranoia and despair; a gallows drop on infinite
rope. A Djinni had got me.
_________________________
*Djinn
(or Jinn AKA Genies in the West) are a race of sidereal
entities usually invisible to humans but may assume shape-shifting
forms (especially animals). They can be good or evil and it is
believed they can affect humans, benignly protect or malignly
possess. Djinn can be roughly regarded as a type of demon or imp
although their children are seen more as fairies, gnomes etc. Delhi
has been termed "City of Djinn."
