“Noooo dinner,” crooned Mama Baba, “only hashish.”

He bent down and took another long draw from the hubbly bubbly, exhaling a plume of smoke that seemed to envelop the entire room. I tried to lift my head but collapsed under the weight of all that hash, giggling.

Indian Kashmere sits in the cradle of the Himalayan foothills, just before the peaks thrust themselves skyward and become truly awe inspiring. Predominantly Muslim, the region’s capitol city, Srinigar, is devoid of alcohol. But it sure does have a hell of a lot of weed. Everywhere. Growing out of every ditch like dandelions, crowding every fence line and empty lot. Towering plants dripping with big purple buds sprout from sidewalk cracks in front of mosques and elementary schools, shooting towards the jagged peaks of a mountainous horizon. It’s kind of shocking at first.

A typical street in Srinigar. Everything in that ditch on the right is Marijuana.

When I visited in the fall of 2005, it hadn’t rained in some time and all the dope was perfectly cured on the plants. You could just walk down the street and pick handfuls of it. I still smoked quite a bit in those days, and was happy to oblige. Except I didn’t have to. Because of Mama Baba.

Mama Baba worked as caretaker at the guest house where I stayed, and he smoked more hash than anyone I have ever met, before or since. From the early morning until late at night the low percolation of the Hubbly Bubbly echoed through the house as he burned down multiple grams of primo hand hash mixed with rough, unprocessed tobacco. On my second day I approached Ramazan, the guest house’s owner, to see if I could buy a bit.

“Don’t worry,” he told me. “I’ll get you a little. No charge. That is no problem here.”

An hour later he approached me on the deck where I was reading and handed me a lump of dark, dry hashish the size of a golf ball. Four or five grams at least.

“There you are!” He winked at me and smiled. “You can save it for your travels though. I will send Mama Baba out to smoke some joints with you.”

I stared at the ball of hash, slack-jawed, and nodded dumbly. This was a little bit of hash? At home it would have cost me close to 100 bucks.

A few minutes later, Mama Baba appeared on the deck and got me epically baked. He kept rolling joints until I couldn’t stand or speak, then one of Ramazan’s daughters appeared and offered me a big bowl of saffron rice with mutton and potatoes. It was amazing. I think she was Eleven. She laughed at me and walked away as Mama Baba rolled up another one.

I spent the next few days pony trekking in the Himalaya, hiking, fishing, and smoking a fair bit of hash with a swede named Sven and a German called Roger. It was fantastic. I’ll write it all down sometime.

When we returned to Srinigar a couple of others had arrived at the guest house, which was kind of strange because war-torn Kashmere is well off the tourist trail. One doesn’t see many foreigners there. At any rate, we all ended up in the sprawling upstairs room, sitting around on myriad cushions and admiring the bright tapestries that hung from the walls. Mama Baba entered with the Hubbly Bubbly: a massive water pipe, half bong, half hookah, all business.

He set it down, produced a pouch of strong, raw tobacco, and lined it’s enormous bowl. Then he pulled out a patty of hash nearly the size of his hand. He broke off an enormous piece -a couple of grams at least- heated it over the flame of a thick wooden match, then crumbled it into the bowl. We stared in shock and amazement.

Mama Baba arranged himself before the apparatus, pulling his brown, woolen poncho around himself until it encompassed him completely. His coffee colored hands handled the matches with deft precision, never missing a strike nor dropping anything. I don’t know how old he was. He might have been 38; he might have been 106. I’d believe either. He had a face like leather, dark and etched deeply with smile lines, his glittering eyes dark and deep beneath a richly patterned gold and brown felt hat that sat upon his graying head.

He lit the bowl and puffed at it steadily until a third of it’s surface glowed orange, a mind-shattering cacophony of smokey delirium. Then he passed it on.

“Do you know holy mother?” he asked, his voice high and mischievous and strongly accented. “She is living here. She is living in Srinigar.” He looked around the room and we shook our heads, awaiting an explanation. The hubbly bubbly had made its way around to Sven, seated on my right, and he puffed and coughed, and puffed and coughed again.

Like this but more.

“She is very….magic,” said Mama Baba, struggling to find the English words. “She is very much power.” He closed his eyes and nodded, pausing to let the words sink in. “She no eating. No food. Noooo dinner. Only hashish.”

Sven handed me the pipe and I took it, marveling at the enormous bowl, as big around as a pop can and stuffed with a glowing mass of gently smoldering hash and tobacco. It’s sour sweet scent penetrated my senses and danced through my head as I prepared to smoke. That first puff leveled me. The dauntingly strong tobacco reduced my world to a swirling barrage of colors, and as I exhaled the hashish began to seep in, thick and heavy and warm, into my bones where it tingled and subdued. I took another puff because I didn’t want to seem like a sissy, and barely managed to pass the thing to the left before succumbing to it’s powers and laying back into the soft mats and cushions that carpeted the floor.

For a while I lay there and watched a chandelier sparkle and turn, completely lost. When I again picked up the conversation, a small French man with dark hair, one of the new comers, was speaking.

“I have seen her,” he said. “She’s not holy. She just smokes. People go to her because they think she’s magic. They bring her things and ask her to pray for them. But it’s a scam. She just smokes hash and does nothing.”

I don’t think Mama Baba understood everything, but he picked up enough to know he disagreed. He clucked his tongue and furrowed his brow, rubbing his hash-stained hands together.

“Noooo dinner,” he repeated softly, “only hashish.” Suddenly he looked up, smiling. “You like massage?” he asked Sven.

“Ummmm,” said Sven.

He was having trouble sitting up, talking, feigning humanity, all those things. So was I. Mama Baba took another long pull from the hash pipe, which had found its way back to him, then stood up, utterly sober.

“You turn over,” he said, nudging Sven with his foot.

Sven lazily rolled onto his stomach. Mama Baba removed his sandals, revealing tiny feet. He couldn’t have weighed more than 100 pounds and stood scarcely five feet tall. Gingerly, he placed one foot on Sven’s back, then very slowly weighted it and drew up his other foot until he rested completely on the Swede. He shuffled slowly back and forth, working the balls of his feet across Sven’s spine, which cracked and popped audibly.

“Tight,” said Mama Baba, shaking his head. “Very tight. No good.”

Sven groaned and smiled, eyes shut tight. After a few minutes, Mama Baba stepped down and moved on, walking on each of our backs in turn. I went last. His feet felt like long, hard hands, toes and heels working into the kinks of my back with remarkable agility. It was awesome. If you ever get the chance to have a tiny Kashmiri hash-head walk around on your back, fucking take it.

After a few minutes he sauntered over to the Hubbley Bubbly, and busied himself cleaning the bowl. As he broke up another chunk of hash he looked around the room at all our smiling faces. We were a pretty relaxed bunch by that point.

“Okay,” he said. “One dollar. For massage. One dollar.”

We all laughed, but we all payed him, and happily. Best 45 Rupees I’d ever spent. As Mama Baba lit the next bowl, he chuckled to himself.

“One day,” he said, puffing up his chest, “I am holy father.” He took a long pull from the pipe, its gurgling going on and on, and when he spoke again smoke poured thick from his mouth.

“One day, Mama Baba, noooo dinner. Only hashish.”