Holy Smoke!

To the aromatic coffee houses of Istanbul where patrons, who call it the Narghile, spent hours fussing over the lule (the cup in which the coal and tobacco is placed). Placing the wet Tombeki tobacco (a speciality that is reserved for hubble-bubble smokers only) on oak charcoal with reverential hands.

Considering the years of coolness that went into this ritual, I had to do it right. Deste the slightly awkward chairs, I hoped my posture was regal enough. However, my middle-class mind suddenly screamed, ‘‘What about all those germs at the end of the mouthpiece? What if that man in the corner, with a beard that looked like it hasn’t seen soap in a century, had taken a puff on the same mouthpiece only minutes back?’’ I am told that the agizliks (mouthpieces) were usually carved out of a high-quality amber since it was believed that amber was a natural disinfectant.

I checked…no amber but ala wooden mouthpiece on this one. Its glass bottom looked pretty authentic and the smile on the toupeed attendant (those hats honestly don’t look good on everyone) was very encouraging. I looked around hedging a little to take the first puff. Images of dedicated skers, carrying a small silver mouthpiece in their waistcoat pockets, swam into my head. No waistcoat, and no mouthpiece, but what the hell, where was my sense of adventure.

The first drag rumbled down my throat, sticking a little to the edges, tickling a cough that I quickly suppressed. Since I was no longer the twelve-year-old novice, who declined an offer to take a quick drag from a doe-eyed Kashmiri woman’s hookah, I could not get away with sputtering. The next-door table of giggly teenagers, however, happily gave themselves up to a round of choking, gagging and squealing. (Hmmm…the legal age for hookah smoking is 18…)

As I held the snakey, bejeweled cod, the stem to the body of this ancient smoking device, I hoped I looked dignified. Not a Noorjehan but at least not a yuppizoid. By the third or fourth puff, I began to understand what persuaded the Persians to take the humble coconut shell version that originated in India, to hedonistic heights.

Gurgling softly, the sheesha takes its time to make an acquaintance with your throat. But, from India, Egypt, Arabia, Persia, North and East Africa, and all the way to the Ottomans, it was unanimously decided that it was a vice worth having. Much industry went into the carving of each piece of the assemblage. Juices like pomegranate juice were added in the water, sour cherries floated in the rotund depth of its body, and the dark tobacco was washed till it was the right strength.

This safer, watered-down version definitely gives one the thrill of touching the tip of what has become a slightly defunct cult world-over. The oldest surviving restaurant is Corlulu Ali Pasa Medrese at Camberlitas. However, what may be fading out in the near East, is hot property on the shores of the Arabian Sea.

Sitting in Mocha, watching fellow smokers order peach, melon or rose, I wonder if the novelty of this experience will linger. Will busy, buzzing Mumbaiites still find time to shut off their cellphones and taste a little piece of bliss? Only time will tell.