What ill-fortune must befall a teetotaller to be trapped in an evening of loud music, poor lighting, no company and repeated exhortation of alcohol consumption? The weary shall elaborate.
It was a farewell party of a colleague - not one I had much interaction with during my ongoing time at a film production house. The other colleagues who expressed their love and admiration for him, have on many occasions prior, theorised his actual role in the company, given his alleged lack of preoccupation in his alloted job profile (we agreed on money laundering. Yes, this is all in jest).
The venue of an emotional tipsy farewell was voted a popular eating joint frequented by film industry denizens and strugglers of a Mumbai suburb that inhabits said patrons. This place was chosen because of the fizzy needs of the colleagues and the meat-eating requirements of yours truly (an alternative was a vegetarian restaurant, vetoed mostly by the sign of our collective, horrified baulking.)
And so, here we were at The Site of the Farewell, where the loud music was not conducive for conversation and the space crunch was a tragic mirror of every Mumbaikar's life ever. We sit in contemplative silence over the order of the day - the menu - and place them. The waiter jots down the drinks with an obliging smile that fast turns mocking, when, in a flurry of Bloody Marys and martinis, comes my request for a strawbery and guava Juice. "Mocktail?" he asks. "Yes, mocktail." He gives me a glance of amused condecension. Are waiters allowed to do that? No tip for him.
The music blared on. A prominent film/TV actor sat on a table next to us with much younger boys as they proceeded to have loud, booze-fueled, expletive-ridden exchanges. In another corner, a not-quite yesteryear actress with graceful ageing by her side engaged politely with a bunch of youngsters. I had lapsed into an existential, internal monologue which is not as articulate in hindsight, but seemed profound at the time. It was difficult not to be so. Everybody around me was bonding over their drinks. When a time for shots came, one of them insisted that I partake. Another one asked me why I don't drink. Two years in this company and every office party is a fragmented voice over auto-tuned songs asking me when I will give up my self-imposed abstinence and eventually understand what I am missing out on all these years.
However well-meaning the insistence, it is frustrating to shake my head. My steadily-growing firm defiance is possibly misconstrued as a moral high-ground. An assumption that I do not partake but ferociously judge those who do (never mind that the subtle exclusion has always been the other way around). Fun fact - I hail from a Punjabi family. Fun fact deux - I hail from a Punjabi family with a military background. Both communities have alcohol as a part of their social accessory. If I choose not to drink, despite emerging from this liberating confluence of cultures, it is most certainly out of choice and not out of any sense of morality. It is slightly disheartening when my older colleagues must talk about my preference at every event instead of understanding where my choice comes from. Perhaps, that is their choice.
It may seem like a superfluous rant and I truly would not consider it necessary if I was a freelancer and had to reacquaint every disbelieving drinker with this "behenji's" needs. No, gracious host, I do not wish to drink and I do not care much if others around me do. Live and let live, yes. No means no, yes (although this seems to work more for the topic of feminism than drinking).
When I asked Judgemental Waiter for a refill, he took the 'mock' in mocktail seriously when he asked me if I wanted a margarita instead. "Do you have a problem with mocktails?" I asked him with my sweetest smile. "No." "Then get me a mocktail." The mocktail was gotten, the stupidity unforgotten.
All conversations at the table revolved around drinks (blank) and food (this, I could get behind!). But somewhere, with two years of this rodeo, this non-acceptance from a well-intentioned lot exhausted me. My thoughts wandered to how we were characters in a play. The settings may change but the dialogue and the well-worn gestures did not. It was as if we were all being wound in a timeless rewind of conduct, everyday and at every event. Why are we here? I wondered. Why do we do this?
"Are you alright?" asked a senior writer at the celebration, with an Old Monk in his hand and boredom in his eyes.
I made a half-hearted excuse about being tired and having an early start tomorrow.
He asked again, too seasoned for the lies of a 20-something ponderer.
"I'm bored," I mouthed.
His next words were encouraging - "Then leave. Social etiquette is over-rated. If an event does not work for you, you should be allowed to exit it."
A colleague decided to call it a night and I followed suit soon after. I wished the former colleague well. He shook my hand before the rest of the attendees converged for blurry selfies. For a second, I almost envied them. Conformance could be peaceful. A preference for fruity goodness is usually an uphill struggle. I have had many express their exasperation, including friends who have a taste for the good stuff but a wariness when it came to drinking with their collegues. Apparently there, the judgement was more fierce because the co-workers took it as an affront that a known drinker chose not to do so in their preference.
Such trivial issues, such major reactions. The only time we should ever be looking into another plate (or glasses) is to see if they have enough as a controversial comedian once said. While the party spirit continued unabated, I took a rickshaw home, the sea-breeze my comforting companion (and hair disheveler) on the way back. I changed, I slipped under the covers and opened Madhushala on my Kindle. To read about celebratory chaos away from an actual one is liberating. Bless you, literature and Mr. Bachchan! It is your words that provide my greatest intoxication yet.
It was a farewell party of a colleague - not one I had much interaction with during my ongoing time at a film production house. The other colleagues who expressed their love and admiration for him, have on many occasions prior, theorised his actual role in the company, given his alleged lack of preoccupation in his alloted job profile (we agreed on money laundering. Yes, this is all in jest).
The venue of an emotional tipsy farewell was voted a popular eating joint frequented by film industry denizens and strugglers of a Mumbai suburb that inhabits said patrons. This place was chosen because of the fizzy needs of the colleagues and the meat-eating requirements of yours truly (an alternative was a vegetarian restaurant, vetoed mostly by the sign of our collective, horrified baulking.)
And so, here we were at The Site of the Farewell, where the loud music was not conducive for conversation and the space crunch was a tragic mirror of every Mumbaikar's life ever. We sit in contemplative silence over the order of the day - the menu - and place them. The waiter jots down the drinks with an obliging smile that fast turns mocking, when, in a flurry of Bloody Marys and martinis, comes my request for a strawbery and guava Juice. "Mocktail?" he asks. "Yes, mocktail." He gives me a glance of amused condecension. Are waiters allowed to do that? No tip for him.
The music blared on. A prominent film/TV actor sat on a table next to us with much younger boys as they proceeded to have loud, booze-fueled, expletive-ridden exchanges. In another corner, a not-quite yesteryear actress with graceful ageing by her side engaged politely with a bunch of youngsters. I had lapsed into an existential, internal monologue which is not as articulate in hindsight, but seemed profound at the time. It was difficult not to be so. Everybody around me was bonding over their drinks. When a time for shots came, one of them insisted that I partake. Another one asked me why I don't drink. Two years in this company and every office party is a fragmented voice over auto-tuned songs asking me when I will give up my self-imposed abstinence and eventually understand what I am missing out on all these years.
However well-meaning the insistence, it is frustrating to shake my head. My steadily-growing firm defiance is possibly misconstrued as a moral high-ground. An assumption that I do not partake but ferociously judge those who do (never mind that the subtle exclusion has always been the other way around). Fun fact - I hail from a Punjabi family. Fun fact deux - I hail from a Punjabi family with a military background. Both communities have alcohol as a part of their social accessory. If I choose not to drink, despite emerging from this liberating confluence of cultures, it is most certainly out of choice and not out of any sense of morality. It is slightly disheartening when my older colleagues must talk about my preference at every event instead of understanding where my choice comes from. Perhaps, that is their choice.
It may seem like a superfluous rant and I truly would not consider it necessary if I was a freelancer and had to reacquaint every disbelieving drinker with this "behenji's" needs. No, gracious host, I do not wish to drink and I do not care much if others around me do. Live and let live, yes. No means no, yes (although this seems to work more for the topic of feminism than drinking).
When I asked Judgemental Waiter for a refill, he took the 'mock' in mocktail seriously when he asked me if I wanted a margarita instead. "Do you have a problem with mocktails?" I asked him with my sweetest smile. "No." "Then get me a mocktail." The mocktail was gotten, the stupidity unforgotten.
All conversations at the table revolved around drinks (blank) and food (this, I could get behind!). But somewhere, with two years of this rodeo, this non-acceptance from a well-intentioned lot exhausted me. My thoughts wandered to how we were characters in a play. The settings may change but the dialogue and the well-worn gestures did not. It was as if we were all being wound in a timeless rewind of conduct, everyday and at every event. Why are we here? I wondered. Why do we do this?
"Are you alright?" asked a senior writer at the celebration, with an Old Monk in his hand and boredom in his eyes.
I made a half-hearted excuse about being tired and having an early start tomorrow.
He asked again, too seasoned for the lies of a 20-something ponderer.
"I'm bored," I mouthed.
His next words were encouraging - "Then leave. Social etiquette is over-rated. If an event does not work for you, you should be allowed to exit it."
A colleague decided to call it a night and I followed suit soon after. I wished the former colleague well. He shook my hand before the rest of the attendees converged for blurry selfies. For a second, I almost envied them. Conformance could be peaceful. A preference for fruity goodness is usually an uphill struggle. I have had many express their exasperation, including friends who have a taste for the good stuff but a wariness when it came to drinking with their collegues. Apparently there, the judgement was more fierce because the co-workers took it as an affront that a known drinker chose not to do so in their preference.
Such trivial issues, such major reactions. The only time we should ever be looking into another plate (or glasses) is to see if they have enough as a controversial comedian once said. While the party spirit continued unabated, I took a rickshaw home, the sea-breeze my comforting companion (and hair disheveler) on the way back. I changed, I slipped under the covers and opened Madhushala on my Kindle. To read about celebratory chaos away from an actual one is liberating. Bless you, literature and Mr. Bachchan! It is your words that provide my greatest intoxication yet.
