Order! Order! None for the road there!
When prohibition was introduced in Haryana some years back, the night-population of Punjab had suddenly increased. Reason? All drinkers on this side of the Ghaggar spent their nights across the border and would return home only in the morning. Bootleggers and moonshiners then had a field day. Not to be left far behind in making a fast buck out of prohibition were the smugglers and the cops. Admittedly, some of my hithertofore forgotten relatives made a beeline to my official residence, since they thought a police officer’s house was the safest place to keep enjoying a drink, besides strengthening the relations-bond.
One would make unthinkable and funny excuses for satiating the parched throats, with a desire to line up with Bacchus-lovers outside a ‘theka’, or a pub. When the drinkers ‘sort of abstain’ for whatever reason, they cannot help but only project the count of days being so dried up. A drinker when asked as to if he had given up drinking, quibbled, “Yes, it will be three days a day after!”
Those who love their drink do not seem to have recovered from the shocking cap, recently made to fit on their skull, like a straight-jacket, making them being poked at, like monkeycapped ones—unspirited and sullen. The taverns are empty, though clandestinely even the establishments are trying to find a ‘wet way out,’ after an apex court order. These desolate places are like haunted houses where the ‘spirited’ ghosts loom large, eyeing the genie in the (unreachable) bottle, with hopes of sorts.
Those who are not known to be regulars, or even inclined towards consuming, but secretly indulge in ‘once in a while’ subterfuge, have an Urdu couplet dedicated to them, which reads: “Chhida jab zikar rindon ka to saaqui ne liye hain naam kuchh aise ki aqal hairan hai (when it comes to those who are in the habit of drinking, certain names have surfaced which intrigue the mind).”
I came across another interesting explanation given by a drinker to his being given to consuming, “It’s just on the occasions that I drink you see!” When asked, what the occasions were, he quipped, “Well, the occasions could range from festivals, guests, birth and death, weddings and celebrations, social gatherings, and whenever one feels like drinking.” Mirza Ghalib was no exception to this type of drinkers who would say, “Ghalib has given up drinking since ages, but he still loves to have it, when it’s a moonlit night with clouds galore!”
The Keatsian angst of drowning oneself feeling a drowsy numbness to be taken care of, with Hemlock, is widely known. A hardcore Haryanvi drinker was once discounted by his toiling father, in sanctioning him two kilos of ghee, since the former worked hard in the fields, saying, “This ghee will show its effect on his health the soonest,” to which his worthy son replied, “Father get me a quarter and see the instant effect on me!” At the fag end of this tipsy-tale let me admit that I began loving my drink only during the prohibition era! What say! Hic! Hic!
THOSE WHO LOVE THEIR DRINK DO NOT SEEM TO HAVE RECOVERED FROM THE SHOCKING CAP, RECENTLY MADE TO FIT ON THEIR SKULL, LIKE A STRAIGHTJACKET, MAKING THEM BEING POKED AT, LIKE MONKEYCAPPED ONES—UNSPIRITED AND SULLEN