revisioned paragraph of short story

The leaves of the mango tree offered refuge to me from the scorching sun, as I sat in a circle with my friends in the playground near my school. My school shirt was plastered to me, drenched with sweat. Trickles of sweat rolled down the sides of my temples. I felt sticky, stuffy and slightly sick from the heat of the sun, yet I couldn’t help myself by being seduced by the fumes of smoke dancing between me and my friends. The source of the smoke laid in Halim’s hands, then in Fikri’s and round and round it went, like a twisted game of passing the parcel. When the little cylinder of “grass” reached me, I stared down at it as though I was trying to see past the paper film, the tobacco and of course the ganja which were infused merrily together to give me and my friends an enjoyable high. Perhaps, it was the effects of the high, perhaps it was my inability to escape my daily troubles, but randomly I thought of mother’s curry, of how her wide array of spices produced a delicious end product. This made me question the state of my current fuzz filled brain. Was the result of this high in any way helping me to escape my troubles at my home?