Alcoholism

I am not entirely sure why I feel the pull to put my thoughts on alcohol down on paper. It is probably not something I want every visitor to my blog reading, but more a way of talking this out with myself.

Looking back through history, as far as I can see, there is hardly anything that has been written about, sung about, and argued over quite as much as alcohol. It has drawn the attention of poets and philosophers alike, and in Urdu shayari especially, it has been treated with something close to reverence.

I admire that status so much that I decided not to glorify it or condemn it. Instead, I want to talk about the people who have enjoyed it, or been undone by it. The credit, or the blame, belongs to the person, never to the drink itself.

If I had to define it, I would put it this way. It takes a second to say cheers, a minute to get past the taste, an hour to feel the kick, an evening to show someone who you really are, a day of regret in the hangover that follows, and, depending on how often and how far you take it, sometimes a lifetime of consequence.

A second of cheers

At the risk of sounding nostalgic, I still remember the day I first tasted beer. A single bottle felt like far too much between the lot of us. Someone once said that ignorance is bliss, and happiness is really just a state of mind, and that afternoon proved it. It was one of those long summer days when a friend had the house to himself and made the most of the temporary freedom that came with it. At that age, you take everything a little too seriously and trust your own limited judgement a lot more than you should. That is the age when we run the first trials of our lives, without realising how much they end up shaping everything that follows. A dim drawing room, a few of us pretending the beer tasted better than it did, someone lighting a cigarette because the smoke seemed to complete the moment. A few stolen hours of freedom, followed by the far more urgent problem of getting rid of the smell before going home. Mango leaves, cardamom, a chewed lemon, pan masala, peppermint, we tried them all. I still doubt any of them actually worked.

A minute to get past the taste

Growing up in a small city has its charms, but it comes with its own restrictions too, especially for anyone still young. Even the idea of buying alcohol from a shop felt risky, let alone actually drinking it. It was an outstation trip, a reward for doing well in sports, that gave me my first real chance. Days away from home, with friends my own age and none of the usual restrictions, felt almost as heady as the drink itself. Boys drink beer, men drink whiskey, someone told me, and before I could question where that idea even came from, the fear of being teased pushed me straight to whiskey. The first sip felt like it had scorched my throat and everything below it. I remember wondering what anyone found appealing about it. Nobody had told me to add ice or water, and the only thing keeping me from embarrassing myself in front of everyone was sheer stubbornness. Getting through four pegs that night without giving myself away took more effort than anything else I had done that year.

An hour to feel the kick

I do not think there is much else in this world that can turn a person completely upside down in the space of an hour, quite the way alcohol can. I have watched the quietest people recite poetry, the shyest ones dance without a second thought, and old rivals turn into friends, if only for a night. The heaviest of feet find a reason to move, the saddest faces find a reason to smile, and secrets come out that would never otherwise see daylight. I have said things I probably should not have, and so has almost everyone I know. And then there are the ones who try so hard to appear composed under its effect, walking too straight, speaking too carefully, that you start to wonder if that performance was really the point of drinking for them all along. I am not particularly fond of the ones who lose control entirely and make a scene either, but if you have chosen to have that drink, you might as well enjoy what it does to you.

An evening to show who you really are

Has anyone ever noticed the moment they finally lived out something they had only imagined? Said the thing they always meant to say, or danced with someone they never had the courage to even greet sober? I have always believed that if you really want to know someone, share a drink with them. I have watched the most guarded people turn painfully honest. It was a drink that once told me there was a poet somewhere inside me. It was a drink that told me I could actually dance, if I let myself. It told me who I resented at work, who I had already forgiven, how much I loved my parents, and how much anger I had been carrying quietly all along. I learned a little more about myself that evening, and so did the people around me.

But I also believe, and I think most people would agree, that we are better off being that same honest version of ourselves all the time, so that we never need an evening like that just to show it. There is no formula for being good. You are at your best the moment you decide, I am what I am, and simply choose to be it.

A day of regret in the hangover

If it is true that every rose comes with a thorn, and every bright morning eventually fades into night, then the joy of an evening spent over a few pegs often leads straight into one of the dullest mornings of your life, spent entirely regretting that one extra drink. Not just the drink itself, but everything that came with it, the things you said a little too loudly, the opinions you shared with a little too much confidence, the closeness you allowed yourself with someone you had no business getting close to. A great many of life's small regrets are born in an evening handed over too easily to alcohol. More than a few of my own hangovers have cost me interviews, meetings, plans with people I cared about, and evenings out with friends that I still wish I had shown up for properly.

I have seen every version of it. From a childhood where the only high came from a swing in the park, and drinking meant apple juice, to college years spent rushing between classes and evenings with friends, to a corporate life where a drink often means networking rather than joy, an obligation dressed up as a good time. Nights out now mean expensive pubs and card swipes that would embarrass anyone if they stopped to add them up. Whatever it once meant in college, it rarely means the same thing now.

But here is what I have come to understand. No amount of alcohol has ever given me a feeling that compares to the smile on someone you love. Nothing else quite matches what your heart does at the simple touch of love. There's an old Hindi song that captures it better than I ever could, about how even the simplest cup of coffee, shared with the right person, can give you more of a kick than anything poured from a bottle.

So maybe just fall in love instead. It tends to work better.

I remain.