Women of Grit Smoking Family Story: Beedis and Toothaches

This is a women of grit smoking family story—one rooted in quiet rebellion, rogue beedis, and the generational silence that let it all slide. My mum’s side of the family had some odd habits. Insane—but common. Because when you’ve got to, you’ve got to.

I’d see the women smoke a one-off—a cigarette, guys—or sometimes even a rogue beedi. Usually, it wasn’t chronic; it was just an occasional flick of rebellion slipping between routines and respectability.

Meanwhile, her older brother smoked all through—unapologetically and without pause.

Every year, when we made our annual guest appearance, the Queen—mafia of the city—would dramatically twist her face and yell,
“How much can one smoke, eh!”

If you’re Mangalorean, then surely you can see that face:
a slight side snigger, a deep disapproval, and yet a performance through and through.

However, what was funny—actually, what was tragic-comic—was the hypocrisy.

Her husband—my ‘foe-ther’—smoked ten packets a day.
Ten.
A man who could’ve practically sponsored a tobacco company. Still, not once did she say a word to him. Not a glance. Not a snide. Nothing.

Instead, only the brother got the annual outrage.

His defense? Inevitably, it arrived half-mumbled in mid-slang, like a line rehearsed for decades:
“I have a toothache, woman.”

Fast forward to today: while I was busy romanticising a dark Lindor sitting quietly in the fridge, I felt it—
a sharp, strange sensation in my upper tooth.

Clearly, it’s a cavity.
Inherited, most likely.
And maybe even passed down through silences and side glances.

So naturally, in a moment of questionable wisdom and poetic justice, I smoked one.
Not the ceremonial one-off, but yeah… something to that effect.

Therefore:
to the toothaches.
to the women of grit.
to selective outrage, foil-wrapped chocolate, and the rogue beedi.

Tobacco rocks.
At least for now.