420: Udta Kerala’s new drug culture makes youth a big zero

When Hameed (name changed), a 22-year-old from Kozhikode, accidentally asked a friend for a ganja roll while still on a phone call with his father, he froze in horror. His father went silent on the other end. Hameed laughed it off awkwardly, pretending it was a joke. But deep inside, something cracked.

Months later, came the night that shattered him completely. It was past midnight. He was half asleep, high after another drug party, chatting casually — or so he thought — with a girl he had met at the party. His voice was slurred, playful, and suggestive. But the voice on the other end wasn’t hers. It was his mother.

“When I realised it was Amma I was talking to inappropriately, I felt like I had fallen into a pit. I wanted to throw the phone away, vanish and die,” Hameed recalled. That was the moment Hameed realised he was no longer in control. What began as a shared joke and a puff with friends had turned into a trap.

A bright BBA student in Bengaluru, Hameed’s life was on track until his seniors introduced him to the ‘420 Culture’, a global counterculture that celebrates intoxication, especially the use of cannabis, as liberation, rebellion, and vibe.

The origins of 420 trace back to a group of high school students in San Rafael, California, who called themselves the “Waldos” in the early 70s. Every day, after classes ended, they would gather at 4.20 pm to search for a rumoured abandoned cannabis crop hidden somewhere nearby. “420” became their shorthand — a discreet code that let them talk about smoking cannabis without raising eyebrows from parents or teachers.

But the code didn’t stay secret for long. One of the Waldos had a brother who worked with the Grateful Dead, the legendary rock band that defined America’s counterculture in the 1960s and ’70s. As the band’s fans — the ‘Deadheads’ — followed them from show to show, the phrase “420” spread quietly through the crowd, slipping into concert chatter, tour posters, and eventually popular slang. What began as teenage slang in one California town had, within a few years, gone global.

Today, 420 stands for far more than a time or a code. From western counterculture festivals to Instagram hashtags, 420 has evolved into a symbol of defiance. And now, the same symbol is quietly embedding itself into India’s youth scene, especially in Kerala, where psychiatrists say it is spreading faster than anyone realises.

“What worries me is not just the addiction,” said Dr Haider Ali Kalliyath, a senior psychiatrist from Malappuram. “It’s the culture that celebrates it. 420 Culture is entering our schools, colleges, and even homes, disguised as a trend and freedom. But most of us are yet to realise it is happening,” he said.

Kalliyath, who runs Neuro Psychiatry Centre in Tirur with over 35 years of experience, will organise ‘Dopamine Summit’ in Tirur on Friday, a campaign to expose and counter the rise of 420 Culture. The summit will feature experts from the police, defence sector, media, and mental health fields to address what Kalliyath calls “the invisible pandemic of our times.”

Hameed’s first brush with 420 was in his college hostel. “While most followers mark 4.20 pm as their ritual hour, some groups even believe in lighting up at 4.20 am, claiming the early-morning ‘high’ feels purer and more powerful. My seniors said I should try smoking ganja at 4.20 am and feel the ‘magic’. I did, and it really felt magical. I was high, focused, and full of energy. Soon, I couldn’t start a day without it.”

From occasional puffs, he moved to daily use, then to more severe drugs like MDMA. When the money ran out, he began selling small quantities to fund his addiction. “I thought I was part of something cool and global. I didn’t realise I was destroying myself,” he said.

The realisation came on a trip to Pondicherry, where he joined a dawn meditation by the sea, but this time sober. “At 4.20 am, I felt that same clarity, that same rush without drugs. That’s when I realised that the ‘420 kick’ was fake. It was hijacking what our minds and bodies already had,” Hameed said.

Back in Bengaluru, however, the pull of the culture dragged him down again. But after the shocking phone call with his mother, he stopped using drugs. The fight was hard, and he even fell into depression. One night, unable to cope, he tried to hang himself. “I thought I had lost everything. I really came out of it only after two years of treatment,” he said.

Kalliyath said Hameed’s story is one among hundreds he has heard. “I have been treating addicts for decades. But only recently did I realise how widespread this 420 Culture is. It’s not just cannabis but more of a psychological movement,” he said.

According to him, around 90 per cent of treated youths relapse, not because treatment fails, but because they return to a society that normalises the same behaviour. He shares another case — a 28-year-old from Malappuram who successfully underwent de-addiction, found a job with a major airline, and rebuilt his life.

 “But then he told me something that shook me. He said, ‘Doctor, even a cup of tea with my old 420 friends gives me a high.’ Within months, he was back to drugs — ganja, then MDMA. He lost his job, his health and is now struggling with psychosis. That’s when I realised the real danger is not the drug but the culture,” he said.

‘Culture itself is the kick’
In Kerala, the 420 Culture has found new life. Kalliyath said that secret parties and overnight trips, especially in places like Wayanad, are organised around it. Groups light up together at 4.20 hours, post jokes online, and celebrate the ritual. “Patients tell me the culture itself is the kick. It gives them a sense of belonging, and that’s the scariest part,” Kalliyath said.

He believes current awareness campaigns, including the government’s Vimukthi initiative, fail to address this cultural dimension. “We talk about substances, but not about the environment that glorifies them. Unless we fight the idea, not just the drug, we’ll keep losing our youth,” he said.

When Onmanorama reached out to enforcement officials, many admitted they were unfamiliar with the trend. Joint Excise Commissioner (North Zone) KA Shaji said the Vimukthi campaign has not yet addressed 420 Culture. “The term itself is new to most people,” he admitted. “We need to learn more about it.”

Ernakulam Deputy Excise Commissioner TN Sudheer said officers have not encountered it in operations yet. Kalliyath believes this information gap is what allows the movement to thrive silently, digitally, and dangerously. For him, the upcoming Dopamine Summit is not just an event, but an urgent call for a collective awakening.

“An addict can recover in six weeks with proper treatment and counselling. But when he steps out and finds a world that worships the same culture he fought to escape, relapse is inevitable. Prevention, not cure, is what we should be focusing on,” he said.

Hameed, who now helps youngsters who are seeking de-addiction, agreed with Kalliyath. “420 Culture made me think I was free. But it only made me a slave — to a number, a lie and a culture that pretends to love you while it eats you alive,” he said.