Drinking it in

My wonderfully irascible boss firmly believes that I drink so much hot water because I have some kind of medical issue that mandates it. What he refuses to accept is that I like drinking lots of water and if I drank regular chilled water from the fountain, I would be very cold inside, added to being very cold outside, especially since the place I work in firmly believes that frigid is the only temperature possible and acceptable for a bunch of hot-tempered journalists. So, for that very simple reason – that is, to defrost my iced fingertips and warm the cockles of not my heart but my neck, I swig the steaming stuff like it was, in a manner of speaking, going out of style.

But my aforementioned wonderfully irascible boss will not believe me. He says that if I was indeed that cold – we are talking thermometer measurement, not emotional degree of thaw – I could drink coffee, tea or even a little something alcoholic, which would serve to warm me up. Yes, so much that I would be steaming around the hall, unable to navigate or do any work, I generally reply acerbically. Ah, but you will do so very happily, another friend comments, with her usual manic giggle. At which point I stalk off with my button nose held high to get myself another mug of hot water and try and get back to work.

It is not that I am against drinking stuff that is all about nicely fermented grapes or whatever. It is just that for one, I do not enjoy the taste; for two, I do not enjoy the effect it has on normally fairly intelligent and coherent people; for three, I am sort of allergic to alcohol; and, for four, I far prefer to cook with it. All through college I have been designated driver, handed the car keys whenever we – my friends and I – have reached our destination for an evening out, and trusted implicitly to get them home in various states of stagger. So it became another reason not to go alcoholic, one that endures even today.

Getting drunk may not be my thing, but I have no problems if it is someone else’s. My only caveat: at least be a happy drunk. So many people I know not only get silly, which is a logical part of the game, but get morose and unhappy. As they get more pickled, they get sadder, gloomier, unhappier, sure that not only is the entire world against them, but that nobody in that world and beyond has any regard, leave alone affection, for them. The music that they listen to during this process reflects that, especially in India, when the upbeat rhythms of ear-friendly pop or Indi-pop gradually yields to the most dreary of oldies from Hindi films, where death, loss and desperation are the central notes and the evening – or the very early morning, as it inevitably will be by then – fades into deep, dire darkness of the foggy mind.

A good buddy of mine is a study in contrasts. As she osmoses the gin, she gets happier, brighter, more giggly. She also gets more obstinate and obdurate, refusing to listen to reason or sanity, liking where she is and very cheerful about it, too. Which makes it near-impossible to get annoyed or even remotely concerned, since she has an infectious laugh and comes up with the most outrageous stories peppered with that insanely catchy chortle. It has been some time since we spent time of this kind together, but it was fun while it was. And may she always be as joyous about life as she was then!

A toast to that!