THE LAST CIGARETTE

As the satin curtain was cautiously being detached hinge by hinge, he sat at the far end of the dimly lit small suburban studio. With a wrinkled and tired forehead much like the walls and corridors of an old building, he tried to flex his fingers, but even his lazy knuckles refused to crackle with a noise. Half lit by the flickering monitor kept ahead on a small makeshift tool to his left, the other half of his face kept steady despite the glaring sunlight entering from the small slit on top of the grungy studio wall next to him. The untied shoelace on his stretched-out legs kissed the long sequences of never ending wires on the worn out wooden floor. The hammer, with which the P.O.P pillar in the middle of the shooting set was being broken, could not break his deep gaze. The only time his eyelids shifted was when the plywood was being unearthed, generating a heap of floor-dust; even as the lens on the camera, was still being detached. Right from his first day of shooting as an unpaid intern to 20 years later as a modest television director, he had learned to respect, protect and shield the camera at all costs. This brief instinct of the eye broke him out of the deadness of the graveyard shift which began at 9 – the previous night. Moving his head towards the glaring slit now, his eyes struggled to keep open. His digital watch displayed 8:59 am, and the noise was suddenly much more prominent. With honking horns and barking dogs outside, he stared at his worn out watch for some seconds while the entire shooting floor was being dismantled. It was a wrap! The long run of 318 episodes had come to a halt. The production house had decided to shut shop as the ratings weren’t really the talk of the town! But there was little despair. Over the years, he had incepted and ended numerous mediocre shows with great flair. Once touted as a promising film-maker – he waited anxiously for his ancient Nokia 3310, battery bundled with a rubber band - kept on the monitor in front of him, to ring. Neither the ‘KEEP IN TOUCH’ hoots and hugs of his assistants, actors and crew; nor the workers and setting boys taking the set to pieces – could get his eye. His son had an interview lined up at a film production house today for an internship as an assistant. Just making sure that the phone is fully charged and not on the silent mode, he picked up his torn packet of Marlboro next to it. Without using his fingers, he lipped out the last cigarette in his mouth.


I ran! I ran and how! I ran like a dog! In absence of a belt and food - for days, my pants were on a perpetual decline. As I struggled to keep my underwear from full public display with one hand while running, the other one tightly clenched a shoulder bag freely hanging all over the place. I was still far from even the other side of the road and I feared that I had missed the bus to the city, already. It was, by now, almost 9 a.m! My interview was at 11 and the massive production house, about 90 km away, had shortlisted applicants for an Intern position - from all over the country - for the biggest film ever being made. Having won umpteen film festivals, this was to be my first job and I was perspiring not because I was shitting in anticipation but because I was running like my ass was on fire. With an entire town praying for me, my untied shoelace and ill fitted pants did not ruin my plan of racing through the bustling street of my small town connecting to the main highway to the city, like a fox. My body was giving up but with no other means of travel to that production house and with virtually no money in the pocket, I just couldn’t afford to miss the bus. The clutter of the street filled with tea stalls and bullock carts, clubbed with the madness of the sun were driving me crazy. Even in this moment of insanity, being the obsessive freak that I am, I wanted to check my resume one last time for any errors. Jumping railings and maneuvering like a cat, my hand swiftly moved inside the bag to remove my paper. Meanwhile, I had almost reached the opposite side of the bus stand and my sticky black shirt could now take it no more. It was a small town where the bus barely halted for seconds but it was no where in sight. Gasping for breath, I had the slightest smirk when I gazed at the fat fuck standing at the bus stop grinning at me. I used to see this guy every day, same time, same place, and sometimes I used to think – same clothes as well. He used to catch the same bus to the same final stop for fuck knows why. His life was as predictable as that of a headless chicken. When I saw him there, I knew I hadn’t missed my bus. Deciding to check the papers in the bus, my breath was subtly returning. I was bending with hands on my knees, with the fat fuck smiling at me with just a road divider in the foreground. The desolated road usually never had a single vehicle pass for hours in a day. So passing onto the other side required no marathon. Giving him the most devious smile, I reached out for my pack of cigarettes. No one knew I smoked. I barely used to carry a packet, but this moment called for one! To my delight, there was one last cigarette inside and I guess one last minute before the bus to arrive. Perfecto!


The studio was virtually empty. The crew had left, the set dismantled, the equipment loaded in trucks. He still sat at the far end of the studio with eyes gazing in front. He was waiting for his son to call. He was waiting for his son to tell him that he was on his way to the interview. He was waiting for his son to ask him what to expect when being interviewed by a director. He was moving the cigarette from one end of the lips to another. He wouldn’t light it. His eyes were tired and clumsy. His posture was losing grace. Smelling like a rotten fruit and looking like a pig, he got up finally to bid adieu to his bread and butter for over 18 months. Dusting off the leftover properties of the dismembered set, he picked up his shoulder bag and stepped out of the studio with the cigarette popping from one end of the lips to another.


As soon as I managed to smuggle out a miniature matchbox from my dysfunctional shoulder bag to light that victory cigarette, a bus zoomed in and zoomed out before I could blink my eye! I lit the match and was about to light the cigarette when my ass lit with fire. The fat fuck was gone! He boarded the bus. My body trembled. My mind went numb. The next bus was not scheduled till for at least 3 hours and my big interview went for a toss. Drowning all expectations, I felt like a goat ready for slaughter as I gazed at the empty bus stop. I still had the cigarette in my mouth. It did not drop. I tried getting my phone out to make a call but to my dismay, I had not charged it. I was a dead duck. Just sometime back, I was a promising film maker who was in the final short list for the coveted intern job. I was destined to be there! Everything and everyone in the universe conspired and played the part right to get me that job. The last cigarette did me in! Life did not fuck me. I fucked myself!


It has been 20 years today. I managed to get a job in the city after that. I have a wife and a son who is starting out to make a mark. Who knows what would have happened if I were to be on that bus. Life could have been different for me or the bus could have punctured a tyre just a second after my boarding and life would have been the same. But I missed my chance not by destiny but by deed. And that’s what counts. The universe forgives but does not forget. And I did miss the bus it sent! I stopped time on my fancy but cheap digital watch just a minute before 9 am and it has remained like that ever since. Time stopped, life paused! I played with fate and it screwed me hard and I wanted to apologize. I don't know why but I couldn't get closure. I stood opposite the bus stand on a deserted and lonely highway with a cigarette stuck in my mouth, angry at myself - for a long time. I hated every element of that moment but I wanted everything to remain as is, like a snapshot, till the time fate found me again. Life was to resume only then! And hence, I could never throw my Nokia 3310 which gave up on me at the last minute, nor throw my flying shoulder bag. My watch still reads 8:59 a.m and I still do not tie my shoe lace! I still gaze at the fat fuck every time I end a show, thinking and reminding myself that he was the one who led me to that bus every day. We never spoke but he smiled and grinned till the last minute. He was virtually making my life. I never saw him after that! Only the day I find him and the bus in real again, will I throw the last Marlboro cigarette, from that day, I could not drop. Until then, I will continue popping it from one end of the lips to another.