My hatred for alcoholic beverages, I owed to my conservative upbringing in the early part of my life. When I say 'early part' I mean my first six years, by the end of which I had started adding a certain quantity of unorthodoxy to my outlook.
But the damage was already done. I hated spirit - no, I don't allude to the moral fibre that made men of history but the ancient hallucination-inducing juice. Spiritedly, I hated all forms of this drink and its pull that has toppled many a man since time immemorial. [If you try counting how many, you may end up with numbers just less than those who fell because of the fairer sex].
In our small textile town, drinking of liquor was the only choice-hobby for the community. And being the great diagnostician that I am, I could spot them, like a dog can a parasite on its back, especially in the crowded town buses. The degraded specimens of pond life (as P.G. Wodehouse would have put it) boasting of a thoroughly misspent lifetime were there for anyone gifted with eyes to see. Of course, the not-so-fortunate could still sense the stink. Well, if you're one of those who cannot see or smell the specifics (and have never wondered at the rasping sound they make while uninhibitedly scratching their vitals and the proximate areas), here are a few tips to make them out:
Coming back to the issue of my rapport with drunkards, I can say that I always eyed them apprehensively, like some underworld rat cornered by the armed forces. Indeed, I often wondered whether they possessed about as much brains as would comfortably fit in a small size matchbox.
Curious are the ways of Mother Nature. Soon there came a time when I said, "Let the drink flow like water as far as I'm concerned!" Once, I even let myself lush up and almost entered a drunken brawl justifying the conduct of Omar Khayyam. [Or did I?] Can you beat this for irony?
In a country like India, where till a few years ago dreaming was considered an honourable profession and drinking a sin [and where every second person commits the sin], there are three common reasons for one to fall into habitual drinking. The first, the need to keep up family standards; the second, peer pressure leading to controlled addiction; and the third, the belief that it would help forget failures. In my case, it was a queer combination of the second and the third.
For a smart chap like me, if there is anything more cruel than getting the very fibre of life gashed by the squint-eyed stare of a long-nosed girl, it is being neglected by her. Remember the words of Somerset Maugham, "The tragedy of love is not in separation but in indifference." What greater occasion than such a tragedy to first taste the taste of the invincible drink! The greater occasion was the weekend get-together of an advertising agency in Mumbai. As the only trainee in the copywriting department, I was the youngest of the lot. Enough reason to have a pint more than the oldest there. The oldest was Mark, the chief copywriter, who had a smart piece of advice reserved for me, "My boy! A girl is only a girl. But a frothing pint is a drink."
If you had been as fussy about your girl as an old hen about its only chick, there is no smarter piece of advice that could make you see reality. And I saw reality now as clearly as anybody who had just gulped two pints of Black Label and two cups [can't remember the exact quantity] of Old Monk could. "If I have 100 regrets at 20, I'd surely have 200 at 40," I said to myself while attempting to push some more unspecified quantity of Old Monk into my system. The monk had no trouble, and nor did I.
That day, a new chapter in my life was opened. A new bottle was uncorked. The last of my hangups died, giving way to the first of my hangovers. However, being the purse-conscious person that I was, I made the decision that I would never buy liquor with my own money. And what a great decision it proved to be! This conscious effort on the day of initiation effectively meant that there won't be any new needless expenditure - neither in the way of indulging myself, nor in treating friends.
Of course, the only drawback was that none of my friends, who knew nothing about the deterioration of my strong-willed hatred for this dear drink, ever invited me when they went partying. And I never declared my new love for the magic potion for fear of losing my teetotaller image and to save my classroom from the ill-reputation that everyone it contained was a liquor-lover.
Thankfully, I was never inspired to drink frequently and was happy with an occasional sip which could only be grouped under 'giving company.' The trend continued even after I took up a job as journalist. I was forced by my colleagues to take a sip every once in a while on night shifts, seemingly to ease the tension but actually to partner in the crime. By succumbing to the pressure I ensured that the last witness was also taken care of.
Then one fine cloudy afternoon I received a call from Shiva, an old friend of mine who wanted advice on his matrimonial secrecy. A keen advocate of the togetherness of man and woman, I readily accepted his suggestion to travel a few hundred kilometres and meet him, along with his spouse, in a temple town. By late morning, after offering sincere prayers at one of the famous temples in the town, we settled down at a posh hotel on a beautifully landscaped hill for a neat gulp of the nasty beverages. One neat gulp led to another and it was late evening when we were sober enough to decide it was time to leave. It took some more time before we really left.
In the meantime, I managed to effect a consensus on whose parents would be more receptive of their matrimonial pursuits when the matter would be broken to their families, and how they were to behave till they did so. The tipsy couple took in every word of mine concentrating as hard as a lefthander would while shaving off the unneeded hair in his left armpit. My job accomplished, I was put on an AC bus in which only the last seat was vacant. Despite the heavy drinking that I had managed, I couldn't sleep a wink owing to the excruciating pain that had suddenly engaged my right hand. The pain continued till the next morning, when it suddenly vanished.
"Next time," I thought, "I would drink less and only beer." Unfortunately, from that day my right hand gave me trouble whenever I tried anything with a drop of alcohol in it. This disturbing trend was really disturbing, and I suspected some psychological reason. "A frothing pint is a drink alright but what is a drink if you're dead," I said to myself. From then on, I have been a teetotaller, and a reluctant one at that.
Forgive the abrupt ending, but that's just how it ended. Can tell you a great deal more about this if only you'd join me for a simple splash sometime. Are you game?
