A wine shop in Ooty
I’m sitting in room 414 of the
Legends Inn hotel in Coimbatore. The fan
is going—no A.C.—and I’m pulling on a lukewarm bottle of Kingfisher premium select beer. We’re sitting in our underwear, taking turns
standing under a wash of cold water; through the flimsy window glass come the
sounds of horns, motorcycles, people talking, and dogs fighting.
To the untrained eye, this scene
might seem, well, a little sad. But peel
back the tawdry veneer and witness the beauty of small victories. Which is to say, there’s a story here.
Our train to Cochin leaves in the
morning. This town, dubbed the
Manchester of India, is something of a commercial and industrial hub, smack dab
between where we were –Ooty--and where we’re headed-Cochin. Fair enough. Our time in Ooty was lovely: bracing and cold
and pure. We had a fine homestay, walked
through incredible villages where we were welcomed into people’s homes, and
simply had an upright and sober time of it. But now we are back on the plains. And as the sweat buds on my brow, so, too,
buds the taste for a cold lager. As in
beer. Enter my foray into the streets of
Coimbatore.
But first, this: buying alcohol in India can be a rather
clandestine/guilty/seedy experience.
Which is still not quite saying it just right. Let’s start with this: to get alcohol to go, one need find a government-sponsored wine shop. That is, I assume they’re government sponsored. The thing is, especially in the south, these
places are, to put it mildly, rough.
There’s typically a wire mesh through which one passes their money and
receives their product (at least here in the state of Tamil Nadu.) Actually, it’s a bit different in the north,
and even in Mumbai there was no wire mesh.
But still, there’s this feel of
something naughty going on. Like you want to hide your purchase in
something more substantial than the flimsy clear plastic bag they sometimes provide. And, invariably,
there are people—guys—hanging around. A
bit buzzed. And they’re typically
excited to see me enter their world. The
more the merrier. Plus, this kind of validates
their outsider status. Yeah…I spent money on booze, but all the
guys were doing it…even foreigners! The
whole thing brings to mind my mornings spent smoking cigarettes in the woods
behind Berkshire junior high school with Mike Babb and Kevin Rice. Chewing gum when we finished to cover the
smell. But back to the story.
We got off the train from Ooty and had
no trouble finding our hotel across from the train station. It was still early-ish, and I thought we
might go out for a beer.
“Looks to be a bar next door…” But Rebecca was having none of it—which is
not to say she’s turned anything like a new leaf when it comes to alcohol
consumption. No, indeed. But she has learned these places, unless very
top end, are not places at which one finds women. Again, especially here in the south. In short, it would take a lot of beer for her to feel comfortable in such a place. And we were tired. So…
“I’ll see if I can find something
to take away…bring back to the room.”
“You do that. I’m taking a shower.”
On the elevator down to the street
I asked the bellhop for advice. “You
wish beer sir? I can get. Your room number, sir?”
“Cold?” This was all feeling entirely too easy. Cold beer delivered? C’mon.
“Not cold, sir. But not warm…” Ahhh.
I see.
“How much?”
“Two-thirty.” (Roughly four dollars
the bottle. Yikes.)
“Big bottle? Kingfisher?
Seems a bit steep…”
“Beer very expensive in Coimbatore,
sir. Your room number?”
“I think I’ll just have a look
around. I’ll let you know.”
“Maybe I get for one-fifty,
sir.” There it was. I reckoned if he could get it for one-fifty,
I could probably find it for something closer to the manufacturer’s suggested
retail price (MSRP)-which in this state comes in at something around one
hundred rupees.
“I think I’ll just have a look
around.” I immediately entered the bar
next door, which had a plastic red cut-out on the door of a girl sitting
provocatively, back arched, bosoms thrown out.
Hard to see why Rebecca might take offense. I was met on entry to two waiters.
“Yes, sir? You wish drink?”
“Well, yes. I do.
But I’d like to take it back to my hotel. Can I get it to go?”
“No sir.”
“Alright, then. See you later, I guess.”
“You have back-pack, sir? To put it in?” There are many reasons to like this country,
not the least of which is how its good people manage to find a way around
life’s little difficulties.
“OK. I bring a pack, you sell me beer. Fair enough.
How much?”
“Two-thirty, sir.” I was beginning to feel like a little figure
on a game board having a hard time passing GO!
“Is there a wine shop in the
neighborhood? Someplace to buy it for
less?” With this, the fellow led me out
the door and pointed down the street.
“Just there, sir. One hundred meters.” I squinted in the general direction he
indicated. I saw cows, goats, neon
signs, motorcycles neatly slicing through it all; people walking, talking together
and laughing, and even one fellow peeing on the side of a building….but no wine
shop.
“You sure?”
“Yes, sir! Just there!”
Again, the forward gesture.
Thirst being the powerful motivator it is, I bent into the fray.
About half a kilometer later, I figured
I must have missed it. Indeed, a group
of young men I stopped to ask came to the consensus that it was tucked between
two buildings. Easy to miss.
“You must be diligent, sir! Look closely!” Trust me, boys. Diligence is a skill I’m honing in your dear
country. I thanked them and set off.
And sure enough, back two or three
hundred meters it sort of shimmered into existence. Though shimmered is perhaps too strong a
word. A sure tell-tale is the gathering
of young souls with a rather conspiratorial air about them. They immediately recognized me for a drinking
man, and welcomed me into their midst.
“Whiskey, sir? Rum?
Which country, sir?”
“Cold beer? Can I get a beer to go here?” The shop was situated in a crevice between
two buildings, set back a good twenty feet from the street. It couldn’t have been more than six feet
wide, and was a simple enclosure with bottles and small paper cartons of
various spirits lining the walls. There
was a counter, of sorts, and the obligatory wire mesh. A gaggle of young men crowded the opening,
thrusting crumpled rupee notes and barking out requests. It was enough to give a fellow a thirst.
Rather miraculously, the group
parted, and the man behind the mesh held my gaze. “Yes?
You wish?”
“Do you have Kingfisher? In a bottle? Cold?” Without a word, he turned to a cooler (an
entirely too-generous term, I soon learned, for the place where the beer was
kept) and pulled forth a bottle. I
flashed on the scene in Pulp Fiction
where Samuel Jackson and John Travolta open a briefcase, the contents of which
they have just killed a bunch of guys to get.
Tarantino does a nice job of not allowing the camera access to its cargo;
only a golden light reflected in our hero’s faces. The cooler full of Kingfisher might-in an
alternate reality-cast just such a light.
“Give me three.” I paid him three hundred thirty rupees and,
beer in tow (he managed to find a small plastic bag) made my way past the
various disapproving glances to my hotel castle-home, where the lovely Miss
Rebecca welcomed me as a queen might welcome home her warrior husband,
bloodied, scarred, and laden with the treasure necessary to replenish the castle
stores.
