I don’t drink, so I’m writing these lines on behalf of friends who have narrated their experiences about drinking in Lahore.
In our part of the world, when someone consults a doctor about STDs or for virility enhancement, he almost always tells the doctor that he is asking for a friend, and not for himself.
So here’s my standard disclaimer. I don’t drink (and there’s no dearth of people who can vouch for this), so I’m writing these lines on behalf of friends who have narrated their experiences about drinking in Lahore.
The conventional thing (I am told) is that whoever calls the bootlegger takes 30 minutes to insist that the beer must be delivered chilled. The conversation usually starts with impassioned pleas to help a brother out since there’s no place to chill the beer; and ends with threats to the effect that the beer will be returned if not delivered cold.
The bootlegger, on his part, has his own solution to the possibility of returned goods. He makes the customer wait for at least 20 minutes in the designated area, so that returning the stuff doesn’t remain an option. After all, so much time has already been invested.
And when he finally arrives, he pulls two cans from inside his vest and two from inside his shalwar, soaked in sweat and as chilled as they can be under the circumstances. No one has ever returned a shipment citing these details, however. Friends don’t usually talk about this either: They just wipe the top of their can with their T-shirts and chug it.
We are not world-famous for being able to hold our drinks. This is because we go way beyond our limit whenever there’s a session. But there is a perfect rationale behind this. We feel compelled to polish off everything before the session is out, no matter how many bottles have been arranged. This has its roots in our childhood, when we didn’t have any place to keep the bottles. What was left could only be wasted to ensure parents didn’t get their hands on them. And wasting alcohol has always been a big no-no for drinkers here. So, the general rule of the thumb is to get wasted instead of wasting liquor.
One problem faced by everyone who drives at late hours is that our law enforcement agencies don’t have breathalysers. So in order to detect alcohol, they put their noses a bit too close to your mouth for comfort. The horror of this kind of proximity to policemen is shared by drinkers and teetotalers alike.
We also have ingenious tests to verify the stuff is real. For example, a person dips his thumb in the liquor and then proceeds to burn it with a lighter. If the thumb doesn’t catch fire it means it’s alcohol, and if it does, it’s nail polish remover. Again, regardless of the result of the litmus test, nobody in recorded history has insisted on returning the bottle or refusing to partake of the drink that day. With a solemn pledge not to engage the bootlegger ever again, the group shows a great collective sacrifice and makes do with what they have.
Since we don’t have much of a drinking culture, one has to google many things. But one can still go wrong.
I recall a visit by an old friend from Canada some years ago. To commemorate the visit, a bottle of wine had been procured, and sheikh Google consulted as to how the thing was best served. When the lady arrived, she enquired why the wine was so bloody hot. She was told that wine was supposed to be had at room temperature. To which she said, “In Canada, yes; but not where it’s 56 degrees Celsius inside the frikkin’ room. Go and put it in the fridge.” The wine, I must add, was strictly for the guest.
There are plusses and minuses of drinking with ladies. When the ladies think they are not feeling well, they lock themselves in the bathroom and don’t get out till they are alright again. The bathroom, therefore, remains occupied for a long time at parties.
Fortunately, it doesn’t really matter because, for some reason, men believe that whatever story they are telling is too important to be ruined by a bathroom break. So they would rather throw up at your feet and pick the thread of the story from there than use the bathroom.
Finally, a few words about the men who risk their lives to keep us safe.
Whenever you go to a hotel or any other place with private security, the guards are usually very tense while searching your car. That’s because they know that if, God forbid, something bad is going to happen, it will happen right there at the gate, since there’s no way to go past them. So, the amount of relief suddenly evident on their faces as soon as a bottle is spotted is beyond the power of words to describe. They are instantly sure that this guy is not going to explode. At any rate, not until he gets a hang-over.
PS All these experiences were shared by friends from the middle-class. There are rumours that elite functions are at another level altogether. Unfortunately, the author is completely unaware of those details.
Ali Aftab Saeed is a singer/songwriter. He also runs ‘Mishermayl Productions’ in Lahore. His Twitter handle is @aliaftabsaeed.