Not knowing at that age the fascination of intoxication, I declined his offer and returned the leaves to him. He put them into his mouth, chewed them, and swallowed them.
'Well then, smoke a cigarette.' So saying, he took two cigarettes and a box of matches out of his pocket and, giving me one cigarette, lit the other himself. Then, holding it in a curious manner between both his palms, as one would smoke a chillim,[1] he began to draw in the smoke. And oh, what vigorous pulls! At one pull the flame reached from one end of the cigarette nearly to the other. There were people all round us and I asked timidly, 'What if anyone sees you smoking?'
'What if they do?' he answered. 'Everybody knows.' He disappeared round the corner of the street, smoking with a nonchalant air, leaving a profound impression on my mind.
To-day I can recall many a detail of the happenings of that day. But I cannot remember whether I loved that strange boy or inwardly despised him for having dared to chew siddhi and to smoke cigarettes in public.
A month had passed since the day of the match. The night was dark and warm: not a leaf was stirring. We had all had our beds made on the roof of our house; it was near midnight, and yet no one could get to sleep. All at once the music of a flute floated to our ears. What sweetness that simple Ramprasadi[2] tune scattered in the
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