Breaking Bad in College: When I “Interned” With a Weed Dealer


Breaking Bad in College: When I “Interned” With a Weed Dealer

Illustration: Shruti Yatam


arine Drive was enveloped in a sweltering humidity, and the hot air of South Bombay had begun to smell like a damp gutter reeking of piss and stubbed cigarettes. The summer of ’17 had begun, and my friends hopped on the fresher bandwagon, looking for jobs, internships, and any line of work that offered “experience”, aka shit pay. If it weren’t for my lack of enthusiasm, I would’ve joined them, but I wasn’t particularly excited by the idea of staring at a screen all day if it did not include Netflix-and-chilling. To be honest, I was looking for something with better pay, and lesser work.

My search led me to my friend Ishaan’s black Honda City, parked in a quiet Churchgate lane. A trail of smoke from his nostrils had formed a miniature cloud inside the car. “There’s no scene with dealing drugs, as long as you keep an eye out for the college staff. Teachers, watchmen, the principal, even the peons – they will fuck your happiness if you get caught,” he told me. It sounded dangerous but adventurous. Plus, Ishaan was never short on cash.