How I met Robert the cocaine peddler

Every once in a while, for the last six months or so, I get a text message from a man called Robert. Every time it is the same message: "Hi Brother, what's up? You forgot me or what?"

Usually I do not ignore text messages, but Robert is a special case. Robert is a Nigerian cocaine peddler. I look at the text message and a part of me wants to call Robert immediately; a part of me wants to hold on.

So far the latter has won, but I am not sure how long I will be able to hold on. Occasionally I reply saying I am busy, or something like that, knowing fully well that Robert knows what's playing on in my mind: Cocaine: to be or not to be.

Ever since Robert arrived in my life, every social gathering I attend in Delhi or Bombay, I find that cocaine reaches before me. If people are not snorting it, they are invariably talking about it.

I met Robert in a rather strange, or shall I say, business-like circumstances.

One evening last April I bumped into a young man I now lovingly call Cocaine Cowboy. A six-foot tall 23-year old man with a round face and soldier's hair, he was a law student and hardly bore the countenance of a seasoned substance abuser. But he was one.

We spent the evening smoking weed and discussing various substances: who's done what, how much, and what were the adverse reactions, if any. Drugs like conversations dilute time. But the earth still moves at the same rate. We had no clue it was midnight. I wanted to go home and sleep, but Cowboy had other plans. "Why don't we do some cocaine," he suggested. "In one snort, you'll be up like an antenna." Unfortunately his peddler was upset with him. Last time when he had gone to score, he had passed on three fake thousand rupee notes in exchange for a gram of cocaine.

"Why don't you call him?" he asked. "Say a friend gave you the number." That was how I ended up calling up Robert.

Robert did not believe me. He wanted to know the name of the friend who gave me his number. I could not name anyone. He hung up. I called back but he did not answer. Cocaine Cowboy nudged me: "Send him a text," he insisted. But he did not tell me what to write, perhaps out of respect for my profession as a writer. More than the prospect of ingesting cocaine my bruised ego was encouraged by Robert's blatant rejection.

I wrote: "Brother, I cannot tell you my friend's name just the way I won't tell anyone your name. Please help me."

The plea worked. Robert took my call five minutes later. He was rather touched that I had called him "brother". "Meet me at ____ in Juhu," he said, "and come alone."As I walked towards the pick-up point in Juhu I was suddenly aware of the danger involved. The pursuit of cocaine seemed headier than the drug itself. If caught with the powder, my life, as I knew it, would be over. Yet, I knew that countless individuals in the city undertook this operation daily, almost with a religious zeal.

Waiting on an empty stretch of road I felt an odd chill come over me. What would happen once I got the stuff? Was I going to give into temptation? It wasn't the case that I was a coke novice. However, around the time I got married, less than a year ago, I promised myself that my days of experimenting with substances were over. Yet there I was, waiting.An auto came into sight. I readied myself for action. Less than a minute later the auto stopped next to me. "Come on man, give me the money," Robert roared from inside the auto. There was no time for a hello or a formal introduction. Robert did not even waste any time confirming if I was the one he had spoken to over the phone. "Come on man, no time to waste!"

I pulled out three thousand rupees Cocaine Cowboy had given me (as always, I was stone broke) and handed the notes to Robert as swiftly as I could. Robert threw a small plastic pouch containing cocaine at me, and left.Seconds after the auto disappeared into the night my phone rang. It was Robert. "Sorry brother," he said, "the cops are always after me." On my way back to Cocaine Cowboy's apartment, Robert continued talking. Apparently he hadn't met a man as polite as me in recent times. I wondered if it was even true. He bitched about boys like Cocaine Cowboy (although he did not name him) who paid him less and called him to odd places at odd times. "But you're different."

I felt Robert was trying to charm me. In order to shake him off, I finally told him I was a writer and was perpetually broke. I would never be seen buying cocaine, unless it's for someone else, and that too never with my own money. My confession had the opposite effect. Robert wanted to tell me his story: "You'll never meet a man like me," he said, "I am black but all my blood is white with coke." I promised Robert I would call him and listen to his story.I got back and found Cocaine Cowboy pacing the room like it was a prison cell. His face was beaded with sweat. "Was he being a jerk?" he asked. "Nope," I replied, and threw the pouch at him.

Ten minutes later, cocaine firmly lodged in his brain, he asked me if I was going to go for it. More than a question, it seemed like a dare. I glanced at the white powder line staring at me. "One time won't kill you," it seemed to say. "One more time," I thought to myself. The cowboy poured more powder on the warmed plate and instead of one offered me two lines. I looked at the stuff once more. I thought of my wife and my promise to myself. Cocaine Cowboy handed me a rolled 500 rupee note. I bowed my head and shook it as if to say no. He began to laugh. "I knew it", he said, and proceeded to snort what had been lined up for me. Despite the promise I was going to keep, I felt ashamed of myself. Weak-kneed, I wobbled out of the house and took an auto home.

I woke up the next day to a text message from Robert. "Brother I hope the snow was good?" "Was great," I lied. "When will you call me next?" I did not know what to say, so I ignored the message. Over the last six months or so, I have often wondered what Robert's story is. Sometimes the reporter in me chides me, but I let the voices in my head be. As far as cocaine and Robert are concerned, I have come to believe, not knowing and regretting is far more acceptable than knowing and regretting.