Thursday, September 18

Brewed

It’s difficult but not impossible. People have been known to fare better in the aftermath of prolonged onslaughts which were worse. I distinctly recall a situation when I could feel the beer in my veins. They felt bitter with aftertaste of brew. I woke up in the morning wondering if I could’ve had any more beer last night to merit wakefulness in time for work. I wondered if I should have.

Hangovers are bad. Period. On the morning after, you are in no doubt that alcoholic ones more difficult to deal with than an emotional one. I don’t remember what mom looked like when I got back home at quarter to four. She never forgets to latch the door everytime I have the keys. Thankfully, at my age, mothers refrain from playing the music so late at night. They just stare. Maybe it’s psychological warfare. Or ageing. Maybe both. But that stare means one thing and only that. ‘If you don’t get your drunk ass up for work tomorrow, I’ll make the rest of your day miserable’. Sweet misery offers motivation to sleep. Dwindling senses command it. Sobriety has been a protective mask and my passport back home after countless nocturnal excursions to the city’s nightspots that seem to be getting progressively loud and mundane.

I woke up to the blazing sun at nine, feeling like I had a beer transfusion. The sun looked brighter than usual and the usually busy road looked empty. I wondered if the cars had slowed down or my senses. My tongue felt bitter. The reflux had begun. I was never going to drink again. I thought. Not on weekdays. And not 10 pints. No. My movements and words were measured like an actor on stage. There werent’t too many. Bedroom to living room to bathroom to bedroom. I did well to not break the verbal moratorium. The last thing you want to hear with a hangover on your way to work is a question.

Cut to night. Someplace dark, noisy, bombay and bling.

At nineteen, most men claim plaudits for their drinking capacity. By twenty one they realise how ridiculous it was. And meagre. At twenty three, things turn out differently. I hear a slurring voice inside me that says Enough. I remember last night. Drinking and not being drunk. High neither. Indifferent. I wondered if I ever looked like those people on the dance floor making intoxicated sense of crap music remixed. Like monkeys let loose. Men, women alike. Maybe the idea is to submerge your cerebral hemispheres and flow with the proceedings. But when the booze fails to do it, the burp is always ugly.


Okay then. The purging is over, the cleansing is complete. A beer is all I ask for, a hangover is all I get. This bitter irony of life, I’ll live forever to regret :)