It was 9:30. Me and my family's flight back home was a day ahead. I was at this Arabic restaurant, Marrakesh, to meet some relatives who'd hatched up a rendezvous at the last minute to meet us before we left. Not like we were really important people or anything. It would just have been considered impolite to not have had met them.
Intrigued, I look around some more. Almost everyone here was smoking shisha.
No matter how much they tell you at school, how smoking causes your teeth to yellow, skin to sag, how it is not cool to smoke , it still looked cool .And even if cool isn't the correct word, I can safely say that watching people smoke does cause you to wonder how it makes the smoker feel.
And so I too, imagine myself smoking just like the other diners at Marrakesh; decked, rich, independent, impeccably toned all the while exploring the profundity of life through deep conversations with my friends.
Just then a waiter places a shisha on my table. The men in the family start smoking.
I must try this.
"Ma, may I smoke? " I question my mother.
"Ask your father," she answers.
I turn my attention to father.
"May I smoke Abbu?"
"Yeah, sure." He replies and hands me the pipe.
"No, I was just asking whether I may smoke. Don't exactly want to."
"Are you sure, Bushra? " asks an uncle of mine while gesturing toward the emerald vessel.
" Huh? Oh no no no no. I'm good." I reply.
"Oh C'mon. You've done everything that you could possibly do in this country. You've been on the Vuvuzela twice for crying out loud."
I shake my head.
Well,I do want to smoke. Says a voice.
But no. I don't want to. Replies the other.
C'mon. it's just a puff, a harmless puff.
No. It is still a puff. remember what you studied in 3rd grade science class. Prevention is better than cure.
But its just a puff,babe. You're not getting addicted from just one itty bitty smoke.
But it's unhealthy. Like 12 cigarettes at a time or something, unhealthy.
But you'll have a story to tell. people won't think you're a whimp anymore. You'll be glorious.
And just then John Lennon's "Glory" starts playing in my head.
But what will your friends think- GLORY
And its bad for your lungs and- GLORY
ONE DAY. WHEN THE GLORY COMES. IT'LL BE OURSSS.
"Can I please have that?" I ask.
My dad rolls his eyes his head giving me the I-have-a-really-indecisive-daughter-look.
I give the pipe a one-second look and quickly inhale and blow out. Unfortunately, there is no cloud of smoke.
"You didn't do it properly. Breathe in deeply," says my uncle.
Okay. Smoking, take two. I follow the instructions this time, taking in the slight grape flavour that came along with the smoke. A cloud comes out, but malaise sets in.
"Here." I hand the pipe back to my father.
"Sure you don't wanna do it again. Take a picture maybe?"
"Nah." I chuckle. It was definitely the most unfatherly thing he had ever said or done.
Nevertheless, it was a let-down. Smoking seemed cool. It wasn't. It was supposed to be more than just a puff. It was supposed to be this forbidden magical place within me from where would unleash this maniacal she-beast who would raise an army of bad-bloods and wipe out, no, eliminate every single hater in her path. Maybe that is a bit too much for a single smoke. I definitely hadn't smoked enough until the nicotine had kicked in but I didn't want to.
Guess, I'll just go back to observing. Something that actually gets me going.
I generally don't enjoy family gatherings or anything. Sure a comment here, and a laugh there are some highlights I remember. The food's good too. But there's nothing that gets me going. Probably because of the stark contrast of age between my cousins and I. The younger ones at gatherings usually play together or are glued to a screen. I can't exactly run around playing tag being the um ... "petite" thing that I am nor can I stay glued to a screen. Like I said. It's impolite.
So I do what I usually do. Sit and observe. And at Marrakesh it is no different.
The ambiance though, gets me going. Arabic music hums softly in the background. Dim lights hang from the pillars erected above. And oh look, there stand the Petronas Twin Towers in their 88 storied glory.
"What do you want to eat?" Abbu asks.
"Whatever you guys are," I respond.
And then my father proceeds to the ordering. I continue the observing.
A svelte waiter with a pompadour paces across our table. He's sort of... sucking, I guess on this shisha and places it on a table where two Chinese women sit. The woman with the colombre barely notices the waiter who's either standing at this table because he wants her to smile at him or to elicit a tip who to his utter dismay is responded with a callous "Thanks". She takes the pipe and inhales deeply.
Intrigued, I look around some more. Almost everyone here was smoking shisha.
No matter how much they tell you at school, how smoking causes your teeth to yellow, skin to sag, how it is not cool to smoke , it still looked cool .And even if cool isn't the correct word, I can safely say that watching people smoke does cause you to wonder how it makes the smoker feel.
And so I too, imagine myself smoking just like the other diners at Marrakesh; decked, rich, independent, impeccably toned all the while exploring the profundity of life through deep conversations with my friends.
Just then a waiter places a shisha on my table. The men in the family start smoking.
I must try this.
"Ma, may I smoke? " I question my mother.
"Ask your father," she answers.
I turn my attention to father.
"May I smoke Abbu?"
"Yeah, sure." He replies and hands me the pipe.
"No, I was just asking whether I may smoke. Don't exactly want to."
"Are you sure, Bushra? " asks an uncle of mine while gesturing toward the emerald vessel.
" Huh? Oh no no no no. I'm good." I reply.
"Oh C'mon. You've done everything that you could possibly do in this country. You've been on the Vuvuzela twice for crying out loud."
I shake my head.
Well,I do want to smoke. Says a voice.
But no. I don't want to. Replies the other.
C'mon. it's just a puff, a harmless puff.
No. It is still a puff. remember what you studied in 3rd grade science class. Prevention is better than cure.
But its just a puff,babe. You're not getting addicted from just one itty bitty smoke.
But it's unhealthy. Like 12 cigarettes at a time or something, unhealthy.
But you'll have a story to tell. people won't think you're a whimp anymore. You'll be glorious.
And just then John Lennon's "Glory" starts playing in my head.
But what will your friends think- GLORY
And its bad for your lungs and- GLORY
ONE DAY. WHEN THE GLORY COMES. IT'LL BE OURSSS.
"Can I please have that?" I ask.
My dad rolls his eyes his head giving me the I-have-a-really-indecisive-daughter-look.
I give the pipe a one-second look and quickly inhale and blow out. Unfortunately, there is no cloud of smoke.
"You didn't do it properly. Breathe in deeply," says my uncle.
Okay. Smoking, take two. I follow the instructions this time, taking in the slight grape flavour that came along with the smoke. A cloud comes out, but malaise sets in.
"Here." I hand the pipe back to my father.
"Sure you don't wanna do it again. Take a picture maybe?"
"Nah." I chuckle. It was definitely the most unfatherly thing he had ever said or done.
Nevertheless, it was a let-down. Smoking seemed cool. It wasn't. It was supposed to be more than just a puff. It was supposed to be this forbidden magical place within me from where would unleash this maniacal she-beast who would raise an army of bad-bloods and wipe out, no, eliminate every single hater in her path. Maybe that is a bit too much for a single smoke. I definitely hadn't smoked enough until the nicotine had kicked in but I didn't want to.
Guess, I'll just go back to observing. Something that actually gets me going.
