Once again it is that time of the year when full-throated cries of nostalgia looms in the air like reeking clouds of cigarette smoke. Cigarette smoke, for all you need to end up as a passive smoker is to exist. There is no escape. Mourners of the past, of halcyon days, more precisely of Onam are there. Just about everywhere. On television, radio, in magazines, newspapers. And the bunch comprises Intellectuals, Litterateurs, Academicians, Artists, Tom, Dick and Harry.
Every year these people come along with Onam reminding one of what E.V.Lucas described as the buttonhole type of bore in his essay, Bores. No matter how hard you try to get rid of them, they will simply stick to you. Paradoxically a very mention of ‘Onam’ will make them frown initially and it will be preceded by verbal diarrhoea; “Onam? What Onam? Those were the days when we kids gathered together at the ‘Tharavadu’ to celebrate Onam. We used to go out to pluck flowers. Then we would make floral patterns early morning while mom, aunt and grandma prepared Onam delicacies in the kitchen”. Then it will be followed by a long list usually begin with ‘Banana chips’ and ends with ‘Payasam’. Most often the abuse will end up with the reciting of either “Maveli nadu vaneedum kalam manusharaellarumonnu pole….” or “poove poli poove poli…” in a pathetically shrill voice. (The first one makes sense but what the hell the other is all about, no idea though I have been listening to it since I was a kid). And if it is a woman she would even shed a few drops of tears as she was taken back, by the embarrassed interviewer, from her ‘journey down memory lane’.
And if you are living outside Kerala, Oh God, Onam celebrations are just obscene. Middle aged women weigh around a ton, who hardly left a single stone unturned in their effort to look younger will be there all around, reminding one of caparisoned elephants.
Then their 555-smoking mahouts and offspring. It is just utter chaos. Clad in traditional Kerala Saree, Silk mundu & jubba with sandalwood paste on their forehead, these ‘uprooted malayalees’ will list umpteen reasons to celebrate Onam. Then they will lament the loss of culture, of the good old days and the so called bullshit like parrots. Even the nouveaux riches among them would claim of having Kudiyaans (Tenant is a rough translation) who brought ‘Vazhakkulas’ for them during Onam. Each and every ‘uncle’ would tell the story of Mahabali in his butler English to kids with a cut-glass accent and will eventually get frowned upon. Actually this chap, the pot bellied demon king with a handle bar moustache must be considering himself fortunate for being booted to the abyss for he has been spared of all these ‘blah-blahs’. But wasn’t it he who began it all and should be aptly dubbed as the unforgivable? He was so naïve to trust the dwarf and later obliged and succumbed to him. He should have denied that he made any promise. Far far smarter are our rulers.
Another ‘to-your-face-crap’ is the interview of film stars telecast on channels on Onam. Often these would be shot at their sprawling bungalows. Needless to say they too would be clad in ethnic wear with all the necessary paraphernalia around. Worst would be the scene if it were actresses, especially new ones who ‘set the screen ablaze.’ Donned in ‘pattu pavada’ usually yellow in colour, they would share their onanubhavangall with octogenarian viewers. Sure there would be a ‘sweet grandmother’, most often died recently, and whom our actress misses terribly especially during Onam. You know why? Because it was this grandmother who used to prepare her favourite pickle. And all of a sudden she is no more. What a pity!
The most tragic of them all are the ‘Onam special’ telefilms. It comes to your drawing room and take you for a ride (nothing figurative, take it literally) as the camera zooms into a big home, ‘Tharavadu’. The only residents are the aged couple. The husband is bald and stout dressed in mundu and vest where as the wife is lean and wears a cotton saree. A salt streak on hair adds dignity to her appearance. The opening scene would show the wife busy at kitchen. She is Unni’s mother. Oh let me introduce Unni. He is their only son works with Microsoft, second in hierarchy to the Chief Mr. Bill Gates. And beloved Unni promised that he would come home for Onam and Mom is just busy. After all it has been years since he came home and it’s Onam. As the camera pans we would see her cleaning the family photo in which Unni seems smiling as a five year old flanked by his parents. Suddenly the camera would even zoom into her eyes; yup it has been moistened and glistened with affection. At last the preparations are over; the husband is seen coming with plantain leaves. Both of them are now sitting on the verandha waiting for Unni and suddenly rang the phone. Mom picked it up. Her face darkens. She put the receiver on the cradle ( the speed in with her hand goes down is 1 km per day). She seems so melancholic and with welled up eyes conveyed the message to hubby darling that Unni wouldn’t come as he has to attend an important meeting. (Perhaps Bill Gates might’ve gone out of station, may be to space to set up an office there). As it ends the couple would be shown sitting on the verandha with their eyes glued to the gate. (All the characters may be fictional without any resemblance to people living or dead, but the dialect must be typically Valluvanadan)
God, once again please get me through this terrible period without getting hurt. God please help me. Please, please..
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
THE JOY OF DRINKING
“I took more out of alcohol than alcohol had taken out of me”
_ Winston Churchill
Unambiguous, crystal clear, the title leaves no space for speculation. ‘The Joy of Drinking’ is the latest work of Barbara Holland. I’ve never read Barbara Holland. In fact it is the first time I came to know that there’s an author as such. It all began with the reading of a review of ‘The Joy of Drinking’ in a magazine. And now I just can’t wait anymore to lay my hands on ‘The Joy of Drinking’ for it’s too tempting not to do so. If the reviewer is to be believed, Barbara Holland digs deep to unearth the historical/social/financial aspects of drinking. She even goes on saying something similar like this: “alcohol is the glue that holds humanity and society together”. Since I’m yet to get a copy of ‘The Joy of Drinking’ (The hunt is on) I’m not the one to say how effectively Ms. Holland corroborates her point. All I know is that I’ve immense gratitude for her to write a book on drinking and giving it the alluring title.
I love alcohol. In fact I believe alcohol is one of the greatest inventions of humanity. Of course, I know to proclaim such a statement could be blasphemous. Even the opening sentence of this paragraph may invite wrath that knows no bounds. And even I personally knew a few people who bade adieu to life prematurely because of their ‘passionate relationship’ with alcohol or a few others who were born into the lap of luxury and eventually lost everything to ‘drinks’. But is it the fault of alcohol? I think there are various reasons for this. Even a penchant for self destruction can be attributed to such falls. The tendency to use and abuse lies in oneself. If you still doubt, think about manipulated scientific formulae for destructive purposes.
Let me go down memory lane to find out the starting point of the bacchanalian urge in me. Unless affected with amnesia or Alzheimer’s, chances are rare for one to forget such ‘beginnings’. For example, it’s with immense clarity I remember the day when I first smoked. It was a beedi. I was in eighth standard. The last of the annual exams was over. We, ‘the gang’ were standing under a tamarind tree planning of some ‘adventure’. Then one among us asked, ‘anyone dare to smoke’? No one came forward. I was the smallest kid. Even the big guys were hesitant. What a chance to be ‘big’? I nodded in approval and within seconds there came one. I thought of the countless heroes and villains I saw in movies with dangling cigarettes on their lips. What a beginning it was. Since then there was no going back. I still remain a smoker trying to quit, cut down on numbers, searching alternatives…All remind me of what Mark Twain famously said of it: “to quit smoking is very easy; I’ve done it a thousand times”. I too sir, and for the umpteenth time, I’m trying it at the moment. So far so good.
To trace out when my bonhomie with intoxicating drinks started is, however, not that simple. I remember the day I hit the bottle officially. It was not just any intoxicating drink. It was brandy. Before coming to that let me go to the intoxicating drink I first got introduced to. It was toddy, the popular drink of Kerala tapped out of coconut trees. There were certain occasions when we kids were allowed to taste it, though in small quantity. Days when the deceased in the family tree were supposed to come to have a variety of delicacies along with toddy and tender coconut water. Since days like these fell only a couple of times in a year, we couldn’t solely depend upon them to taste the white fermented drink. But there was a way. At home we used to prepare ‘appam’. Though fermented coconut water can be used to prepare it, it never could match the great taste of ‘appams’ prepared with toddy, or so believed my aunt.
And we, me and my cousin, were the ones assigned for the task. Hence we embarked on the journeys to the toddy shop equipped with an empty bottle of ‘Anikspary’, the most popular ‘skimmed milk powder’ of the time which boasts of ‘podi poalumilla kandupidikkan’(not even a trace to find out). The man at the cash counter would be immaculately dressed. Actually he seemed pretty odd to the surroundings. His polyester dhothi, silk shirt, golden chain, rings and gold plated watch made sharp contrast with dingy interiors parted with thin plywood sheets saturated with graffiti. I found him years later, not in the street, but in the pages of a novel. The ‘Orange drink Lemon drink man’ at Abhilash Talkies reminded me of him. However, the resemblance was just confined to the attire. Our toddy shop owner was no paedophile. As soon as we placed the bottle on his table, he would summon a supplier. And within seconds would turn up the supplier with the filled bottle.
It is on these journeys back to home with toddy we tasted it. If the bottle was tightly capped toddy would leak through the top with a ‘shhh’ sound. Since most often I carried the bottle I would lick my fingers where it was wet with toddy. As we enter the narrow path my cousin, elder, bigger and stronger would snatch the bottle and take a gulp. Soon I too would follow suit. (Though I fantasized very hard that I got inebriated by taking that gulp, it never worked.) But this was possible only when we purchased in considerably good measure, otherwise we had to do with the tempting aroma of toddy. There were occasions when Anikspray bottle got replaced with transparent glass bottles. We were cautioned of an ‘explosion’ if the cap was airtight. On such occasions I carried it as if I were carrying Molotov cocktail and loosened the cap at regular intervals. Never did we get the ‘traditional high’ by quaffing toddy on these journeys. But the clandestine nature of it gave us enough ‘highs’ to cherish it later.
Now it’s time to disclose my ‘official hitting of the bottle’ ceremony. It was during a summer vacation I got a taste of IMFL. I was awaiting SSLC results. It was a cousin of my cousin who poured me the drinks. I really struggled to down the first two pegs. (No ‘peg’ was a later day revelation; two glasses. Remember Sreenivasan ordering ‘oru (one) glass brandy’ in a film) and wondered what would be the reason people drinking it for. I understood the reason very soon. I started to empty the glasses in a hurry and when I just couldn’t do it anymore I hit the sack. When I woke up sometime during midnight, I found myself drenched, even the bed sheets were soaked and wet, and there was an unbearable odour. I felt tightening in the skin of my head. And when I scratched my scalp I could feel the coming down of flakes. I switched on the light. Ooh! It was a terrible mess. I did puke all over and then I got rolled into it. The stench was piercing. A wonderful experience culminated in disaster. I remained wake up till the first rays of sun peeped into my room. Then I went to the adjacent room, woke up the one who served me the drinks. As he stepped in with his nose tightly covered with his palm he understood the matter. He removed the sheets and together we dumped it in the pit on the compound which was sort of a dump yard, since it was irrevocably stinking. He then sprayed all his perfumes in the room. No ‘even the whole perfumes of Arabia wouldn’t be enough’. I took a bath and left without listening to my aunt’s constant pleas to have breakfast.
I was shell shocked for a few days and I almost vowed that I wouldn’t touch it anymore. Only to be broken, proved time. Then during the next Onam, I entered in to an arrack shop along with a friend (it was yet to be banned in Kerala) and purchased a bottle. It was night. We walked along the road and it was almost empty. When we entered into a pocket road, he extended the bottle to me. I asked him whether he had it and he nodded ‘yes’. When I enquired him whether water needed to be added, he said ‘not necessary’. I removed the cap and took a gulp; ooh liquid fire went down my throat. I was able to tell where it reached exactly as it streamed down to my stomach. As I frowned with the taste I heard him giggle. The son of a bitch didn’t have it, oops. Since it was impossible to finish it dry we decided to get some water. There was his classmate’s home nearby. He made me wait there on the road and get some water; he told them that ‘his friend’ got bruised as he tripped down since it was pitched dark. He poured some arrack out of the bottle to ‘accommodate’ it with enough water to dilute the liquid fire properly. Then we started to wade through, sipping the drink till midnight. (This incident came to mind when me and a friend went to Kudajadri last year. We returned from the hill by foot. We almost walked some 25 kilometres and by 7 in the evening reached a small town. We were told that we could catch a bus from there to Mookambika. We had coffee and there was still more than one hour for the bust to arrive. It was the first of January and it was chilling. I had nothing to protect myself from the piercing winter except a dhothi. With that I covered my head and face, but still I felt damn cold. And when I saw people briskly pacing to a particular direction next to where I seated, I lifted my head. There it’s, that typical black and white board with a red zero watt bulb on top of it. Since it was chilly and my joints pained like hell the temptation was a bit high. But somehow I did over come it and headed to my direction as the bus arrived at last.)
As time passed the journey became more exciting. Beer, wine, whiskey, brandy, gin, vodka, rum…Beer is a quisling. Beware; he may deceive you, especially if your mother is one who shows the same temperament and spirit Sherlock Holmes displayed to unravel a plot, to find whether you are boozed. Vodka is a safe bet in this regard, especially ‘Smirnoff’. You can have it and just go about anywhere without the fear of being ‘caught’. Until I decided to study journalism and started to live in hostel, I was not a ‘distinguished’ boozer. I treated ‘all’ equally. At hostel I started to ‘distinguish’. In fact I was influenced by a fellow who drank nothing but rum. He went on chronicling the virtues of the ‘regular use medicine’. Though I had found it tough to drink rum - old monk, old cask, old port and celebrations rum were the most popular brands - gradually I got acquainted to the taste of it and remain a loyal follower till date. Indeed, it doesn’t mean that I don’t drink anything else. I drink whiskey, brandy or vodka, but all for company sake. Otherwise, when I’m alone or when I’m with friends who maintain a rapport with rum, I drink rum. After all who wants to get a two-day hangover just because one had a few ‘drinks’?
I drank with a lot of people. Yet I prefer drinking alone. Friends and acquaintances often warn me for they say it’s the first sign of being alcoholic. But drinking alone has its own advantages. First and most importantly, one doesn’t need to lend an ear to the blabbering of the fellow boozer. Alcohol plays such wonders for it can turn a calm and reserved guy to boisterous and hyper-active. A reason why my friend made a discovery about me. At a drinking session he opined; “dude, there’s a gap between you and this world, a gap of three pegs”. Hence, whenever I feel the gap is widening, I maintain it. For me, one of the greatest pleasures in the world is to sit in a quiet dim-lit corner of a bar sipping rum, or listening to Metallica after downing a couple of pegs, indeed rum. It’s a fine combination, and later I found Chetan Bhagat’s hero Ryan enjoying vodka along with Pinkfloyd.
How many bars I’d been to so far? No, I can’t be regarded as a drunkard. I don’t drink regularly. I don’t drink in every week. But I do drink when I feel to. I had been to the tiniest of spaces with a board on which the three letters BAR painted on and I’d been to the sprawling dim-lit rooms where they play soft music to sooth you. I vividly remember the day I first drank with my ‘own money’. It was the day I drew my first salary as a Proofreader in Macmillan India Ltd., Bangalore. We, me, Fajar Rehman and Prince Ninan Thmapi headed for the bar a few metres away from our office. The atmosphere inside the bar was somewhat okay. Once we have had enough, we went to the hip and happening Brigade Road. It was the month of August. Though winter is still a few months away, the evening breeze gave us Goosebumps. We strolled along ‘Brigade’ singing ‘buffalo soldiers’. Soon I left Macmillan and joined a publication group. My cousin with whom I visited the toddy shop years ago informed me about a bar off Brigade road. Technically it was on Residency road, opposite to the war memorial. ‘Chinglings’ or so, it was sonorous, named the bar. As he assured me I found it cheap and best. The locale was good and the crowd too. I spent my first six months in Bangalore at Jalahally. Then I shifted to Krishnaraja Puram. I visitd almost all the bars there. They were all cheap, congested and sometimes served me with substandard rum. (In Chennai you only get substandard rum even if you buy it from government run outlets. It’s a horrible place to be as far as an alcohol lover is concerned) Most of the customers were daily wagers or lowly labourers. I used to see an old woman downing ‘Raja Whiskey’, one of the cheapest brands available, in the counter itself. There I met and talked with people. Language was a problem only on the surface and often it could be surpassed with ease. Once I met a labourer. He talked in Kannada. I made an attempt to express myself in English, Hindi, Kannada and even Tamil. No I’m no polyglot. I was just trying to communicate. First he wanted to know whether I was married. When I nodded in negative, his face brightened. Never do, he said. I could see an ever-complaining wife and a couple of yelling kids in his eyes. Was it Aristotle who said; ‘if you get a goodwife you will become a good husband, if you get a bad one you’ll become a Philosopher’? Did he seem to miss anything? I offered him a cigarette. Though reluctantly, he received it. No, he was no smoker, the way he smoked it said it. After sometime he went out, only to comeback in a hurry. He extended his palm to me. Cigarettes. He was returning the favour. Though I said I had enough with me, he was so adamant I should take one. So I did. Again it was at a bar I got acquainted with my neighbour. Though we shared the same block, he on first floor and me on second, we never exchanged any words. Then one evening I met him at a bar. He graciously welcomed me and offered me a seat next to him. His name was Narasimha, a telugite. And you know how he took alcohol while he was in college? He ‘used to take it rrraaa’. He meant dry, and the word he chose was raw and the way he pronounced it, his typical accent, made it sound something else. He told me he rarely visited there since his wife would become furious if she came to know that he was drunk. And he was just doing it in her absence, she had gone home. I found this ‘rare visitor’ whenever I entered into that particular bar and we exchanged ‘oom-I-already-knew’ smile. On another occasion at the same bar I got acquainted with a group of law college students from Tamilnadu. We talked and exchanged email ids. There was correspondence between us for a while. Then, gradually, it ceased. All these conversations and acquaintances were purely built on alcohol. Otherwise I would never have befriended people, not because I’m arrogant; I’m just uncomfortable to do so. “The other is hell” said Sartre.
Though most often I drank in cheap bars, once I had been to a 5star bar where they price Rs.175+tax for an omelette, Rs.150 for a bottle of water and Rs. 400 for 60 ml ‘celebrations rum’. Ridiculous, huh? Yes , I won’t consider myself normal if I pay such huge bills. But then I hadn’t to. It was a friend who was working there, took me there. Plush interiors. Soft music. Foreigners. I felt like an alien. Then arrived the waiter with drinks. Ice cubes. Soda. Peppered ground nuts. The drink was poured from a glass bottle, the kind used in labs. He put a couple of ice cubes and then a plastic stick with a widened end into the drinks. Stirrer. I heard of it but never thought to have used it one day. When I started to sip the stirrer touched my cheek and made me uncomfortable. Since everything was arranged so neatly, if I took the stirrer out it would sure noticed as a misplaced object, so thought me. Even after 4 pegs my inhibitions refused to flee. So I fled out of the filthy rich, ridiculously expensive place.
Though there still remains a lot to zero in on, I’m too lazy a writer to do it all. Moreover, I’m not sure how readable it is or whether a reader will be even interested at all. An unpardonable omission is the various toddy shops I visited growing up, enjoying the unique delicacies exclusively available there. I think this is the longest post I ever published. For the good old ‘toddy’ I may have to dedicate a separate section. I reserve my gratitude to Ms. Barbara Holland. Jut because I read a review, I wrote this much. How much I would once I finished ‘The Joy of Drinking’?
Alcohol lovers of the world unite. You have nothing to lose but your consciousness.
(Though pathetically transitory)
_ Winston Churchill
Unambiguous, crystal clear, the title leaves no space for speculation. ‘The Joy of Drinking’ is the latest work of Barbara Holland. I’ve never read Barbara Holland. In fact it is the first time I came to know that there’s an author as such. It all began with the reading of a review of ‘The Joy of Drinking’ in a magazine. And now I just can’t wait anymore to lay my hands on ‘The Joy of Drinking’ for it’s too tempting not to do so. If the reviewer is to be believed, Barbara Holland digs deep to unearth the historical/social/financial aspects of drinking. She even goes on saying something similar like this: “alcohol is the glue that holds humanity and society together”. Since I’m yet to get a copy of ‘The Joy of Drinking’ (The hunt is on) I’m not the one to say how effectively Ms. Holland corroborates her point. All I know is that I’ve immense gratitude for her to write a book on drinking and giving it the alluring title.
I love alcohol. In fact I believe alcohol is one of the greatest inventions of humanity. Of course, I know to proclaim such a statement could be blasphemous. Even the opening sentence of this paragraph may invite wrath that knows no bounds. And even I personally knew a few people who bade adieu to life prematurely because of their ‘passionate relationship’ with alcohol or a few others who were born into the lap of luxury and eventually lost everything to ‘drinks’. But is it the fault of alcohol? I think there are various reasons for this. Even a penchant for self destruction can be attributed to such falls. The tendency to use and abuse lies in oneself. If you still doubt, think about manipulated scientific formulae for destructive purposes.
Let me go down memory lane to find out the starting point of the bacchanalian urge in me. Unless affected with amnesia or Alzheimer’s, chances are rare for one to forget such ‘beginnings’. For example, it’s with immense clarity I remember the day when I first smoked. It was a beedi. I was in eighth standard. The last of the annual exams was over. We, ‘the gang’ were standing under a tamarind tree planning of some ‘adventure’. Then one among us asked, ‘anyone dare to smoke’? No one came forward. I was the smallest kid. Even the big guys were hesitant. What a chance to be ‘big’? I nodded in approval and within seconds there came one. I thought of the countless heroes and villains I saw in movies with dangling cigarettes on their lips. What a beginning it was. Since then there was no going back. I still remain a smoker trying to quit, cut down on numbers, searching alternatives…All remind me of what Mark Twain famously said of it: “to quit smoking is very easy; I’ve done it a thousand times”. I too sir, and for the umpteenth time, I’m trying it at the moment. So far so good.
To trace out when my bonhomie with intoxicating drinks started is, however, not that simple. I remember the day I hit the bottle officially. It was not just any intoxicating drink. It was brandy. Before coming to that let me go to the intoxicating drink I first got introduced to. It was toddy, the popular drink of Kerala tapped out of coconut trees. There were certain occasions when we kids were allowed to taste it, though in small quantity. Days when the deceased in the family tree were supposed to come to have a variety of delicacies along with toddy and tender coconut water. Since days like these fell only a couple of times in a year, we couldn’t solely depend upon them to taste the white fermented drink. But there was a way. At home we used to prepare ‘appam’. Though fermented coconut water can be used to prepare it, it never could match the great taste of ‘appams’ prepared with toddy, or so believed my aunt.
And we, me and my cousin, were the ones assigned for the task. Hence we embarked on the journeys to the toddy shop equipped with an empty bottle of ‘Anikspary’, the most popular ‘skimmed milk powder’ of the time which boasts of ‘podi poalumilla kandupidikkan’(not even a trace to find out). The man at the cash counter would be immaculately dressed. Actually he seemed pretty odd to the surroundings. His polyester dhothi, silk shirt, golden chain, rings and gold plated watch made sharp contrast with dingy interiors parted with thin plywood sheets saturated with graffiti. I found him years later, not in the street, but in the pages of a novel. The ‘Orange drink Lemon drink man’ at Abhilash Talkies reminded me of him. However, the resemblance was just confined to the attire. Our toddy shop owner was no paedophile. As soon as we placed the bottle on his table, he would summon a supplier. And within seconds would turn up the supplier with the filled bottle.
It is on these journeys back to home with toddy we tasted it. If the bottle was tightly capped toddy would leak through the top with a ‘shhh’ sound. Since most often I carried the bottle I would lick my fingers where it was wet with toddy. As we enter the narrow path my cousin, elder, bigger and stronger would snatch the bottle and take a gulp. Soon I too would follow suit. (Though I fantasized very hard that I got inebriated by taking that gulp, it never worked.) But this was possible only when we purchased in considerably good measure, otherwise we had to do with the tempting aroma of toddy. There were occasions when Anikspray bottle got replaced with transparent glass bottles. We were cautioned of an ‘explosion’ if the cap was airtight. On such occasions I carried it as if I were carrying Molotov cocktail and loosened the cap at regular intervals. Never did we get the ‘traditional high’ by quaffing toddy on these journeys. But the clandestine nature of it gave us enough ‘highs’ to cherish it later.
Now it’s time to disclose my ‘official hitting of the bottle’ ceremony. It was during a summer vacation I got a taste of IMFL. I was awaiting SSLC results. It was a cousin of my cousin who poured me the drinks. I really struggled to down the first two pegs. (No ‘peg’ was a later day revelation; two glasses. Remember Sreenivasan ordering ‘oru (one) glass brandy’ in a film) and wondered what would be the reason people drinking it for. I understood the reason very soon. I started to empty the glasses in a hurry and when I just couldn’t do it anymore I hit the sack. When I woke up sometime during midnight, I found myself drenched, even the bed sheets were soaked and wet, and there was an unbearable odour. I felt tightening in the skin of my head. And when I scratched my scalp I could feel the coming down of flakes. I switched on the light. Ooh! It was a terrible mess. I did puke all over and then I got rolled into it. The stench was piercing. A wonderful experience culminated in disaster. I remained wake up till the first rays of sun peeped into my room. Then I went to the adjacent room, woke up the one who served me the drinks. As he stepped in with his nose tightly covered with his palm he understood the matter. He removed the sheets and together we dumped it in the pit on the compound which was sort of a dump yard, since it was irrevocably stinking. He then sprayed all his perfumes in the room. No ‘even the whole perfumes of Arabia wouldn’t be enough’. I took a bath and left without listening to my aunt’s constant pleas to have breakfast.
I was shell shocked for a few days and I almost vowed that I wouldn’t touch it anymore. Only to be broken, proved time. Then during the next Onam, I entered in to an arrack shop along with a friend (it was yet to be banned in Kerala) and purchased a bottle. It was night. We walked along the road and it was almost empty. When we entered into a pocket road, he extended the bottle to me. I asked him whether he had it and he nodded ‘yes’. When I enquired him whether water needed to be added, he said ‘not necessary’. I removed the cap and took a gulp; ooh liquid fire went down my throat. I was able to tell where it reached exactly as it streamed down to my stomach. As I frowned with the taste I heard him giggle. The son of a bitch didn’t have it, oops. Since it was impossible to finish it dry we decided to get some water. There was his classmate’s home nearby. He made me wait there on the road and get some water; he told them that ‘his friend’ got bruised as he tripped down since it was pitched dark. He poured some arrack out of the bottle to ‘accommodate’ it with enough water to dilute the liquid fire properly. Then we started to wade through, sipping the drink till midnight. (This incident came to mind when me and a friend went to Kudajadri last year. We returned from the hill by foot. We almost walked some 25 kilometres and by 7 in the evening reached a small town. We were told that we could catch a bus from there to Mookambika. We had coffee and there was still more than one hour for the bust to arrive. It was the first of January and it was chilling. I had nothing to protect myself from the piercing winter except a dhothi. With that I covered my head and face, but still I felt damn cold. And when I saw people briskly pacing to a particular direction next to where I seated, I lifted my head. There it’s, that typical black and white board with a red zero watt bulb on top of it. Since it was chilly and my joints pained like hell the temptation was a bit high. But somehow I did over come it and headed to my direction as the bus arrived at last.)
As time passed the journey became more exciting. Beer, wine, whiskey, brandy, gin, vodka, rum…Beer is a quisling. Beware; he may deceive you, especially if your mother is one who shows the same temperament and spirit Sherlock Holmes displayed to unravel a plot, to find whether you are boozed. Vodka is a safe bet in this regard, especially ‘Smirnoff’. You can have it and just go about anywhere without the fear of being ‘caught’. Until I decided to study journalism and started to live in hostel, I was not a ‘distinguished’ boozer. I treated ‘all’ equally. At hostel I started to ‘distinguish’. In fact I was influenced by a fellow who drank nothing but rum. He went on chronicling the virtues of the ‘regular use medicine’. Though I had found it tough to drink rum - old monk, old cask, old port and celebrations rum were the most popular brands - gradually I got acquainted to the taste of it and remain a loyal follower till date. Indeed, it doesn’t mean that I don’t drink anything else. I drink whiskey, brandy or vodka, but all for company sake. Otherwise, when I’m alone or when I’m with friends who maintain a rapport with rum, I drink rum. After all who wants to get a two-day hangover just because one had a few ‘drinks’?
I drank with a lot of people. Yet I prefer drinking alone. Friends and acquaintances often warn me for they say it’s the first sign of being alcoholic. But drinking alone has its own advantages. First and most importantly, one doesn’t need to lend an ear to the blabbering of the fellow boozer. Alcohol plays such wonders for it can turn a calm and reserved guy to boisterous and hyper-active. A reason why my friend made a discovery about me. At a drinking session he opined; “dude, there’s a gap between you and this world, a gap of three pegs”. Hence, whenever I feel the gap is widening, I maintain it. For me, one of the greatest pleasures in the world is to sit in a quiet dim-lit corner of a bar sipping rum, or listening to Metallica after downing a couple of pegs, indeed rum. It’s a fine combination, and later I found Chetan Bhagat’s hero Ryan enjoying vodka along with Pinkfloyd.
How many bars I’d been to so far? No, I can’t be regarded as a drunkard. I don’t drink regularly. I don’t drink in every week. But I do drink when I feel to. I had been to the tiniest of spaces with a board on which the three letters BAR painted on and I’d been to the sprawling dim-lit rooms where they play soft music to sooth you. I vividly remember the day I first drank with my ‘own money’. It was the day I drew my first salary as a Proofreader in Macmillan India Ltd., Bangalore. We, me, Fajar Rehman and Prince Ninan Thmapi headed for the bar a few metres away from our office. The atmosphere inside the bar was somewhat okay. Once we have had enough, we went to the hip and happening Brigade Road. It was the month of August. Though winter is still a few months away, the evening breeze gave us Goosebumps. We strolled along ‘Brigade’ singing ‘buffalo soldiers’. Soon I left Macmillan and joined a publication group. My cousin with whom I visited the toddy shop years ago informed me about a bar off Brigade road. Technically it was on Residency road, opposite to the war memorial. ‘Chinglings’ or so, it was sonorous, named the bar. As he assured me I found it cheap and best. The locale was good and the crowd too. I spent my first six months in Bangalore at Jalahally. Then I shifted to Krishnaraja Puram. I visitd almost all the bars there. They were all cheap, congested and sometimes served me with substandard rum. (In Chennai you only get substandard rum even if you buy it from government run outlets. It’s a horrible place to be as far as an alcohol lover is concerned) Most of the customers were daily wagers or lowly labourers. I used to see an old woman downing ‘Raja Whiskey’, one of the cheapest brands available, in the counter itself. There I met and talked with people. Language was a problem only on the surface and often it could be surpassed with ease. Once I met a labourer. He talked in Kannada. I made an attempt to express myself in English, Hindi, Kannada and even Tamil. No I’m no polyglot. I was just trying to communicate. First he wanted to know whether I was married. When I nodded in negative, his face brightened. Never do, he said. I could see an ever-complaining wife and a couple of yelling kids in his eyes. Was it Aristotle who said; ‘if you get a goodwife you will become a good husband, if you get a bad one you’ll become a Philosopher’? Did he seem to miss anything? I offered him a cigarette. Though reluctantly, he received it. No, he was no smoker, the way he smoked it said it. After sometime he went out, only to comeback in a hurry. He extended his palm to me. Cigarettes. He was returning the favour. Though I said I had enough with me, he was so adamant I should take one. So I did. Again it was at a bar I got acquainted with my neighbour. Though we shared the same block, he on first floor and me on second, we never exchanged any words. Then one evening I met him at a bar. He graciously welcomed me and offered me a seat next to him. His name was Narasimha, a telugite. And you know how he took alcohol while he was in college? He ‘used to take it rrraaa’. He meant dry, and the word he chose was raw and the way he pronounced it, his typical accent, made it sound something else. He told me he rarely visited there since his wife would become furious if she came to know that he was drunk. And he was just doing it in her absence, she had gone home. I found this ‘rare visitor’ whenever I entered into that particular bar and we exchanged ‘oom-I-already-knew’ smile. On another occasion at the same bar I got acquainted with a group of law college students from Tamilnadu. We talked and exchanged email ids. There was correspondence between us for a while. Then, gradually, it ceased. All these conversations and acquaintances were purely built on alcohol. Otherwise I would never have befriended people, not because I’m arrogant; I’m just uncomfortable to do so. “The other is hell” said Sartre.
Though most often I drank in cheap bars, once I had been to a 5star bar where they price Rs.175+tax for an omelette, Rs.150 for a bottle of water and Rs. 400 for 60 ml ‘celebrations rum’. Ridiculous, huh? Yes , I won’t consider myself normal if I pay such huge bills. But then I hadn’t to. It was a friend who was working there, took me there. Plush interiors. Soft music. Foreigners. I felt like an alien. Then arrived the waiter with drinks. Ice cubes. Soda. Peppered ground nuts. The drink was poured from a glass bottle, the kind used in labs. He put a couple of ice cubes and then a plastic stick with a widened end into the drinks. Stirrer. I heard of it but never thought to have used it one day. When I started to sip the stirrer touched my cheek and made me uncomfortable. Since everything was arranged so neatly, if I took the stirrer out it would sure noticed as a misplaced object, so thought me. Even after 4 pegs my inhibitions refused to flee. So I fled out of the filthy rich, ridiculously expensive place.
Though there still remains a lot to zero in on, I’m too lazy a writer to do it all. Moreover, I’m not sure how readable it is or whether a reader will be even interested at all. An unpardonable omission is the various toddy shops I visited growing up, enjoying the unique delicacies exclusively available there. I think this is the longest post I ever published. For the good old ‘toddy’ I may have to dedicate a separate section. I reserve my gratitude to Ms. Barbara Holland. Jut because I read a review, I wrote this much. How much I would once I finished ‘The Joy of Drinking’?
Alcohol lovers of the world unite. You have nothing to lose but your consciousness.
(Though pathetically transitory)
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