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THE HUB

Desperately Against Cokeheads

In the last few months, high society drugging has repeatedly made headlines. Most recently, it is the bust at Delhi’s Olive Bar. In a scathing piece, writer Rupa Gulab cuts the gauze and exposes this scene for the poor thing it is

Rupa Gulab
Right, this is a grim fairy tale about Snow White, Cokey, Dopey, Junkie, Drunkie, Hippy, Snorty and Sniffy. Sorry, I can’t help but feel contempt for the rich and infamous. Their recent penchant for nose candy is a put-off. In case you hadn’t noticed, coke is the new caviar. And it’s way up there on upper crust party menus because you have to pay through your nose for it. It’s all about the money, honey! It doesn’t end there:

currency notes are whipped out with panache yet again and rolled into straws to snort the snow. Too bad the RBI isn’t printing one lakh rupee notes. The highest denomination Page 3 cokeheads can show off with is the modest one grand. Small beer.

 
I’m a snob, I prefer the romance of
real addicts over the wannabe
fashionable ones. The dysfunctional
angst, the blowing out of brains. Not
the Page 3 kind who dope to party
Confession time: I’m not the moral police. I’d rather sell my soul to Mephistopheles than belong to a prissy club that boasts of members like Sushma Swaraj and RR Patil. Hey, go ahead and do your thing, but do it with style. I’m a bit of a snob, I prefer the romance of real addicts over the wannabe fashionable ones. On the one hand, you have the heady sex, drugs and rock n’ roll culture and all the dysfunctional, angst-ridden, legend-making histrionics that go with it: blowing up hotel potties and blowing out brains, death by od-ing and gagging on puke, psychedelic endings for troubled souls. I don’t condone it but I have to admit that it does make me reach for the Kleenex. And there’s always an upside: dope addicts like Morrison, Hendrix and Cobain died young and we will always remember them as being beautifully sexy because we never have to suffer seeing them bald and toothless on a revival tour.

And then (sigh), on the other hand, you have the sex, designer drugs and Buddha Bar/Trance culture. How fussy-wussy can one get? I’ve heard that Page 3 cokeheads do it for energy to party non-stop. My god, they’re willing to go through the trauma of rehab and cold turkey for something as dumb as that! Why can’t they take a tonic instead?

Legends are not born from these fashionable addictions. Well, not so far. All we get are sleazy stories of how rich hotties make out with pushers to get the dope. And forget blowing out their brains in drug induced frenzies, wishy-washy nosebleeds are the worst they suffer. When the cops hunt them down, they don’t go to jail. Perish the thought. Daddy’s obese bank balance bails them out. They go to classy substance abuse centres instead. It’s the pushers, mainly Third World students, who pay the price. Now this is the only thing that makes me reach for the Kleenex here. The poor pay for the rich to party. For shame.

Men Who Party: (from left) Fardeen Khan and Vijay Raaz, both in dope controversies
I have a theory why coke parties are the rage at snooty lounge/restobars in India’s metros: face it, the French Riviera, Club Med, Banyan Tree, etc, are passé. Our rich and infamous see coke addiction as a way to gain access into even more exclusive resorts where chances of fraternising with Hollywood stars are greater. A few Los Angeles rehab centres boast of gourmet chefs, personal trainers, rooms with ocean views, fireplaces, designer linen and (ahem) horse riding too. My, what memorabilia they could come back with! A hospital gown with a dead posh rehab centre label says so much more than a bathrobe from a fancy resort. Way to go, cokeheads. Or should I say dopes? There are better, less damaging ways to get a great high. And thanks to Sharad Pawar’s hysterical fascination with wine, your friendly neighbourhood grocer may well be your legal supplier.

And just how stupid are the Page 3 lounge/restobar owners to let coke bashes happen on their turf? It’s alleged that they don’t just turn a blind eye, many actually provide and profit from it. This isn’t Amsterdam, sweets. Once the law comes sniffing, the sleaze tag occurs. And then, well, you shut shop unless you know rich biggies who know political biggies.

Honestly, the only cocaine story I know with a happy ending happened to someone very close. This guy went into rehab so often he fell in love with his nurse. And now they live ecstatically ever after. But don’t let this get you all turned on about cocaine again: trust me, there are better ways to meet your soul mate.

 

Sep 17 , 2005
 

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