Missed the train OR ... the moments??

Missed the train OR ... the moments??
I was 15 when I had my first cigarette, right after my last high school exam. It felt like the perfect moment—an act of celebration, rebellion, and sheer idiocy all rolled into one. I remember lighting that first cigarette, the tiny flame flickering like a beacon of my soon-to-be-cool persona. What I did not expect was the violent betrayal of my own body—discomfort, an uncontrollable coughing fit, and teary eyes that made me look less like a movies hero and more like someone experiencing an emotional breakdown. My smoker friend took his mentorship role very seriously. "Don’t inhale it all at once," he advised, like an ancient sage passing down forbidden knowledge. "Take gradual and subtle puffs."
I was impressed by the level of detail in my training—felt like I was being prepped for a secret mission. My inner voice exaggerated me up: Yes, you can do it! So, I puffed... then coughed like a malfunctioning exhaust pipe. Still, I managed to salvage my pride with a few smaller, less embarrassing puffs. Then came the grand declaration from The Leader of the Clan:
"Nice. Impressive."
Ah, sweet validation! I had arrived. I was in the club. Sure, the first smoke didn’t exactly welcome me with open lungs—more like a violent eviction notice—but hey, subtle puffs were the key.
Feeling elated, excited, and slightly dizzy, I chewed on betelnuts and pan masala to cover up the smell. Mission conducted. And many more to come. I strutted home, feeling like a secret agent… and promptly passed out. Not from the cigarette, mind you, but from pulling an all-nighter studying—something I only realized much later.

Smoking felt like initiation into a top-secret society, one with an exclusive membership. The non-smokers were the outsiders—innocent, clean-lunged souls who would never know the thrill of sneaking around like a nicotine ninja.

The missions were legendary:
Behind an under-construction building; Near a lake in the dark (for the full dramatic effect); Inside a ghost house (because nothing says "badass" like puffing smoke where ghosts might live); Best of all? At a friend’s place when his parents were away—pure luxury! There was no guilt, no fear, no sense of wrongdoing—just a growing sense of self-belief.
Wish I had known then...
I wanted to be accepted in my boys’ school, where cigarettes were apparently the unofficial membership card to the club of coolness. The problem? I had no idea about brands or tastes back then, so I ended up smoking a cheap cigarette—one of those that wanted to inhale pure suffering wrapped in thin paper. Not only did it taste like burnt despair, but I also smelled like an ashtray at a roadside tea stall for the rest of the day.
It was an insult to self not being able to do it as I envisioned. But I had a resolve to make it. After all girls like bad boys and dashing smokers!!
Then came the twist. My sister caught me red-handed. Being the ever-vigilant informant of the family, she at once reported the crime to my uncle—the one man who had been smoking for years and never got cancer. I knew I knew I was doomed. So, in an act of pure survival instinct, I ran to my uncle before she could fully sabotage my future.
My uncle, ever the wise philosopher, simply asked, "Which brand did you smoke?"
Me, still reeling from my near-death coughing experience, managed to squeak out, "Small **** Flake."
Without missing a beat, he followed up with the real interrogation, "Whose money did you spend on that cigarette?"
I gulped. "Dad’s money…"
My uncle, shaking his head like a disappointed mentor in a badly written movies drama, said, "Listen, if you wish to smoke, at least smoke a quality cigarette. And most importantly—buy it with your own money."
That was it? No yelling? No lecture? Just an upgrade request? If anything, my uncle made smoking sound like a premium membership program!
Lesson learnt? Not really. But my sister certainly made the most of the situation. She cashed in on that incident, trading my secret for endless favours. I don’t remember exactly how much she extorted out of me, but let’s just say I ended up doing more of her chores than I’d ever agreed to in my life. Dishes? Done. Homework? Copied. TV remote? Forever hers.
As the days passed, I couldn’t help but reflect on how movies had betrayed me. Where was my effortless exhale of smoke? Where was the deep, philosophical monologue I was supposed to deliver while leaning against a wall? Instead, all I got was a burning throat, betrayal by my sister, and an unintended lesson in capitalism from my uncle.
My uncle—the man who once gave me an unwanted lecture on capitalism while simultaneously proving why it doesn’t work for him. He was visiting us in Pune and had booked his return ticket on a weekly train, scheduled to leave at 3:15 PM on Sunday. Being the logical masterminds we are, we estimated that one hour was enough to reach the railway station, with an extra 15 minutes to find coach B14. Simple, right?
Ah, but then came the extended farewell session with my sister (who lives next door—so why the dramatic goodbye?). This ate up an extra 15 minutes. Still, 45 minutes was enough to make it to the station.
Before leaving, my uncle joked with my wife, saying, "If I miss the train, I’ll just come back! What’s the big deal?"
Little did he know he was manifesting his own fate.
The drive was smooth. No traffic, no chaos, no last-minute panic—just two men, 16 km of road, and the sacred ritual of two cigarettes each. Because nothing says ‘I’ve got my life together’ like prioritizing smoke breaks over punctuality. There was something comforting about the bond of smokers—an unspoken agreement that time stops for cigarettes.
At 2:42 PM, I checked google map. 12 minutes to reach the station. Confidence was high. Then, an unexpected realization crept in: "Wait… we might not make it."
But we had our priorities straight—so instead of stepping on the gas, we stepped on another cigarette. Because stress-smoking is obviously a logical coping mechanism.
Here’s how things spiraled minute-by-minute:
2:45 PM – Google Map says 9 minutes to go. I’m relaxed but vaguely alarmed, like a guy who just remembered he left the gas stove on.
2:46 PM – A traffic signal of 112 seconds. It’s like the universe saw us winning and said, "Not so fast, buddy."
2:48 PM – Still at the signal. Trying to stay calm. Silently praying that Indian Railways decides to embrace lateness for once.
2:49 PM – Signal turns green. I press the gas harder. The discussion continues because what’s a minor emergency when you can argue about cricket?
2:50 PM – Anxiety peaks. The only reasonable response? Another cigarette. Uncle declines, but I see temptation flicker in his eyes.
2:51 PM – Railway station, 1 km ahead. Relief floods in. We’ve got this! Or so I thought.
2:52 PM – I tell my uncle I was worried about missing the train. He laughs, repeating his infamous prophecy: "So what if I miss it? We’ll just go back!" (Sir, this is not a round-trip amusement ride.)
2:53 PM – Miraculously, a parking spot opens. Destiny is playing mind games.
2:54 PM – My brain is doing math like a stockbroker in a market crash. 15 minutes left. Fine. Right?
2:55 PM – Uncle sighs, "No smoking in the train… Should I have just one more?" My response? "Do you need permission? Go for it!" (Because at this point, why not?), Simple Yes was my reply.
2:56 PM – He replied with simple YESSS and OK , He lights up. The train is officially not our priority anymore.
2:57 PM – Cigarette still burning. We’re passionately discussing Kejriwal’s downfall as if we’re political analysts.
2:58 PM – Cigarette still burning. Uncle asks if he can keep my lighter, "Just in case." (Just in case of what? An underground smoking bunker on the train?)
2:59 PM – I unload his luggage, fully confident that we still have enough time.
3:05 PM – X-ray check for the luggage. The machine beeps. Suspense builds.
3:07 PM – Uncle is huffing and puffing as we speed-walk. "Rest for a second," I say, "I’ll grab a water bottle." Priorities!
3:12 PM – We finally reach Platform 3. Just a few more steps. Still no panic.
3:13 PM – We pass Coach B6. Calmly walking. (In hindsight, we should’ve been running like contestants on a reality show finale.)
3:14 PM – Coach B10. The platform is oddly empty. Suspicious.
3:15 PM – Coach B14 in sight. People are waving goodbye. And then… the train starts moving.
Uncle looks at me. I look at the train. Uncle looks at me again. He wants to jump on. I yelled, "NO NO NO!!"
3:16 PM – Reality hits. "Mama(Uncle), you know what just happened?" I asked. He stares at me, confused.
"You missed your train," I say, laughing like a kid.
For a moment, he processed it. And repeated, we missed the train, then he asks, "What do we do now?"
"Well," I smirk, "as you manifested … Let us go back home!"
We spent an hour diagnosing the "root cause" of this disaster. We blamed everything—traffic signals, parking delays, water bottles, escalators… but not once did we dare mention that last cigarette.
Oh, we knew.
I knew.
He knew.
But neither of us spoke about it. Because sometimes truths are too shameful to admit. It was just a train this time. But what else have I missed? A hug from my parents when I got my first job—because I stank of smoke. A shared drink with my niece—because I was too ashamed of what was in my glass. Special moments, priceless memories, love, laughter—all sacrificed at the altar of "just one more."
Smoking is not just a habit. It’s an invisible thief. It steals our time, our health, our relationships, and our dignity, all while making us believe we’re in control.
Find out what you've missed. Find out what you're still missing. And ask yourself—what else are you willing to lose for "just one more"?
Do you think if this is a brilliant and hilarious take on smoking, laced with sarcasm and a deeper message! Do you think the real emotion is perfectly captured the absurdity of how smokers rationalize their actions while completely ignoring the obvious culprit. Please give a shout out and inform others about the book.
That “just one more” moment is chef’s kiss—because let’s be honest, we smokers have all been there. The delusion of control, the camaraderie, the casual ignorance of the consequences. And then, BAM! —the realization that we’ve been played by our own addiction. The small but powerful moments we unknowingly trade for a cigarette—missing a hug, a genuine celebration, or even just the purity of a loved one’s admiration. The image of your niece, son or daughter looking up to you as a hero, contrasted with the fear of losing that status if they ever found out.
Now, the big question—was this just a reading, or it is that little voice inside you getting louder?