Guess what sipping on a Bud all alone in a quaint, tacky bar holds for the drinker? Quite a mindful as you would later learn. I happened to be in the drinker's shoes last evening, and by the time I drained the glass of the last drop of Bud, I felt fortunate to have gathered the balls to step into Kit Kat despite the protestations by my now-protruding belly.
The evening began with a much-awaited trip to Sassanian, the Parsi joint in Marine Lines. Boy, do they serve good food! Fucking good one at that. While I tucked in a hideous-looking, nonetheless delectable chicken farcha, in addition to a sunny-side up and a single pav, I kept thinking if I could hold back the urge to quaff on a Kingfisher after the immobilizing meal. The answer that fought the reluctance brought forth by reason was "What the fuck! It is a bottle of beer, not sex with a whore" and I patted my mind on her back (is it possible?), or let's say I just patted her, my mind that is, not the whore.
The chicken ensconced comfortably in my tummy, I stepped out, with a big, bad dilemma to rid myself of: turn left to get to Kit Kat or turn right to catch a local home. I made the wiser move. Then i ambled looking for a trace of Kit Kat's existence, for I was led to believe it had been bulldozed to the earth. I was not to be disappointed. I found Kit Kat a few paces away, with my heart praying for it to be the same one I had been to just once earlier. My prayer answered and me content, I walked in to find the place barren but for a few souls getting progressively drunk. I positioned myself at a table with Govinda in a dark green pullover and Raveena Tandon in something equally eye-blinding, dancing to my right.
The twentysomething waiter, looking like he was going to be hunted down, handed me the tattered menu where prices of some items were hand-written. My eyes moved straight to the beer section.
Kingfisher Lager- Rs 100 Kingfisher Strong - Rs 110
London Pilsner - Rs 100 Haywards 5000 - Rs 110
Budweiser - Rs 100
Do I stick with my buddy Kingfisher Lager, whom I am loyal to at least thrice a week, or rendezvous for a change with the light-on-the-tongue stranger Bud? I opted for the latter since they both cost the same, and well, you know, familiarity breeds contempt. Sorry, King, everyone gets spurned at least once.
The evening began with a much-awaited trip to Sassanian, the Parsi joint in Marine Lines. Boy, do they serve good food! Fucking good one at that. While I tucked in a hideous-looking, nonetheless delectable chicken farcha, in addition to a sunny-side up and a single pav, I kept thinking if I could hold back the urge to quaff on a Kingfisher after the immobilizing meal. The answer that fought the reluctance brought forth by reason was "What the fuck! It is a bottle of beer, not sex with a whore" and I patted my mind on her back (is it possible?), or let's say I just patted her, my mind that is, not the whore.
The chicken ensconced comfortably in my tummy, I stepped out, with a big, bad dilemma to rid myself of: turn left to get to Kit Kat or turn right to catch a local home. I made the wiser move. Then i ambled looking for a trace of Kit Kat's existence, for I was led to believe it had been bulldozed to the earth. I was not to be disappointed. I found Kit Kat a few paces away, with my heart praying for it to be the same one I had been to just once earlier. My prayer answered and me content, I walked in to find the place barren but for a few souls getting progressively drunk. I positioned myself at a table with Govinda in a dark green pullover and Raveena Tandon in something equally eye-blinding, dancing to my right.
The twentysomething waiter, looking like he was going to be hunted down, handed me the tattered menu where prices of some items were hand-written. My eyes moved straight to the beer section.
Kingfisher Lager- Rs 100 Kingfisher Strong - Rs 110
London Pilsner - Rs 100 Haywards 5000 - Rs 110
Budweiser - Rs 100
Do I stick with my buddy Kingfisher Lager, whom I am loyal to at least thrice a week, or rendezvous for a change with the light-on-the-tongue stranger Bud? I opted for the latter since they both cost the same, and well, you know, familiarity breeds contempt. Sorry, King, everyone gets spurned at least once.
Just when the waiter poured the beer into my glass, I took note of the couple sitting behind me. The lady, wearing a gaudy red T, seemed inconsolably annoyed by the succession of cold Aquafina bottles the waiter brought her. Apparently, she wanted water at room temperature. So far, so good. Then my eventful hour at the bar began. What follows is their conversation:
Gent: So I can't talk about him now?
Lady: No, you can't.
Gent: Then what about those times in the past when you said all those nasty things about my parents?
Lady: We always fight when we come out.
Then they both stormed out. Fuckers, they should have stayed back. They entertained me better than Govinda and Raveena did.
I got back to sipping gently on my beer. To my left was a slightly stocky guy who, from the way he hurried his Kingfisher Strong down his throat, looked like he believed lager was for pussies. To my right just before the TV sat a trio of Mal men getting more hammered by the minute. Their conversation flowed like a stream, not in the least affected by either alcohol or the presence of more people in the bar with every successive drink of theirs.
At this point, when I had emptied half my bottle (I know, fucking shame on me), in walked another couple that would fit better at a Big Bazaar outlet than in a bar like the one they had just gotten into. So goes their talk:
Man: Vodka?
Woman: Hmmm.
Man: Sprite or Coke?
Woman: Sprite.
Man: Can we talk now?
Woman: Can I have the list?
Man: Now what?
Woman: Nothing, we really need to talk about it.
Man: Just listen to me.
Woman: I am not listening to you.
Man: We need talk about our marriage.
Woman: You call ours a marriage? Married couples talk, we hardly do. You know those million cases that end up in divorce. Ours is one of those sad fucking cases.
Man: Why can't we just talk?
Woman: There is nothing to talk. It's over.
By this time I had almost finished my beer. I decided to not finish it and tuned into the conversation. Back to the conversation:
Woman: Do whatever the fuck you want with her. Screw her, rape her, strip for her, fall at her feet. I don't fucking care.
Man: What?
Woman: I am telling you now, she is going to make you strip for her every night and you are going to do it.
I pinched myself, "Don't tell me you are drunk. Or is it an actual conversation between a man and his wife in their mid-thirties about (or so I gauged) the guy's extra-marital affair in a bar for post-45 regular drinkers and broke students (and the occasional business journalist)?
At this point I emptied the last Bud droplet. Should I get another Bud and see them get divorced, at least unofficially, or pay heed to my savings account balance and walk off quietly? Again, I made the wiser move (it seemed to be a day of only wise decisions). I paid Rs 105 for the Bud (I thought the menu price was inclusive of tax) and tipped the waiter Rs 5 and walked out, only to immediately call my friend and tell her ecstatically what I had been witness to.
Would I have ever run into others' marital troubles in public (and known a little more about the world beyond me) if I had not come here this night is moot. But I know this much: Much as my friends call my habit to go out to drink alone the first stop on the road to alcoholism (give me a break, you morons! this is not a fucking Alcoholic Anonymous promo), I believe it takes you on a journey in which you are just a passive, albeit enlightened-by-the-end passenger. You could end up with a goddamn PhD in sociology or behavioural science, not from any university though, but from the school of shameless observation.
Man: Vodka?
Woman: Hmmm.
Man: Sprite or Coke?
Woman: Sprite.
Man: Can we talk now?
Woman: Can I have the list?
Man: Now what?
Woman: Nothing, we really need to talk about it.
Man: Just listen to me.
Woman: I am not listening to you.
Man: We need talk about our marriage.
Woman: You call ours a marriage? Married couples talk, we hardly do. You know those million cases that end up in divorce. Ours is one of those sad fucking cases.
Man: Why can't we just talk?
Woman: There is nothing to talk. It's over.
By this time I had almost finished my beer. I decided to not finish it and tuned into the conversation. Back to the conversation:
Woman: Do whatever the fuck you want with her. Screw her, rape her, strip for her, fall at her feet. I don't fucking care.
Man: What?
Woman: I am telling you now, she is going to make you strip for her every night and you are going to do it.
I pinched myself, "Don't tell me you are drunk. Or is it an actual conversation between a man and his wife in their mid-thirties about (or so I gauged) the guy's extra-marital affair in a bar for post-45 regular drinkers and broke students (and the occasional business journalist)?
At this point I emptied the last Bud droplet. Should I get another Bud and see them get divorced, at least unofficially, or pay heed to my savings account balance and walk off quietly? Again, I made the wiser move (it seemed to be a day of only wise decisions). I paid Rs 105 for the Bud (I thought the menu price was inclusive of tax) and tipped the waiter Rs 5 and walked out, only to immediately call my friend and tell her ecstatically what I had been witness to.
Would I have ever run into others' marital troubles in public (and known a little more about the world beyond me) if I had not come here this night is moot. But I know this much: Much as my friends call my habit to go out to drink alone the first stop on the road to alcoholism (give me a break, you morons! this is not a fucking Alcoholic Anonymous promo), I believe it takes you on a journey in which you are just a passive, albeit enlightened-by-the-end passenger. You could end up with a goddamn PhD in sociology or behavioural science, not from any university though, but from the school of shameless observation.
