It’s not everyone who can hold a drink. And no, I’m not talking about the fading art of balancing the wine glass. I was talking about the less literal, more common, and definitely more fun ritual most of our town toast to. Some people have iron, rust-proof chambers in their stomach that keeps them sober even if the drinks pour in directly from the assembly line. And then there are people like me who get that tipsy feeling right after the first cocktail.

And I’m blessed enough to know people from either spectrum. I have a friend whose tipping point does not go beyond three drops of vodka. If ever she gets the courage to gulp down a bottle of beer, there is a real, genuine fear that she’ll wake up three days later with THE hangover from hell, staring incredulously at a tattoo on her belly reading “Who’s your daddy?”.

And then I know the boozeman, who has chugged down less water than beer in his lifetime; the guy you’d accept to look sober because that’s the only state you ever see him in; the guy who lives life by the motto “Booze is the secret of my energy”. Now I’ve always fallen on the sober side of the sobriety meter, with ZERO hangovers and ZERO throw-ups in my short but illustrious career in alcoholic binges. If ever that could have been challenged, it would have been this Saturday.

Semi-retired singing diva and my good ol’ friend from college, Soopzie, decided to cook up a small singing party because she believed it was high time some of the scattered buddies caught up with each other. And catch up we did. Guitars were waved about, heads were banged, old lyric books were flipped open, and the entire gang sang at the top of our lungs, possibly triggering neighborhood nightmares of a Russian invasion. Soopzie’s brand new daughter attended the fest’s early hours, before being rescued by her vigilant grandparents. And in that brief period of time, she couldn’t help but stare wide eyed at Soopzie, going - “Whoa! Are you sure that’s my mama?”

But I’m getting off track here. The headbanging reunion and the subtle motherly revelations are not the focus of this entry. The focus is more on the less celebrated talent that Soopzie possesses. In her normal life, she may be the high flying working mother of a cutsie wide eyed little girl, but when the situation is called for, she is also the Dynamic Cocktail Artiste Etraordinaire. She could go and blindly challenge any Irish pub cocktail waitress to a duel. The drinks I had were definitely the best nectar of it’s specie I’d ever tasted. And you could have easily guessed my feelings towards the said drinks by the speed at which I guzzled them down.

Most of us got hammered that night. And we were ALL people who had come there with the practiced lines - “Oh. That’s enough for me. Thank you. I have to drive back home.” Somehow, vocabulary failed us and all the “No, thanks”s that we formed in our minds got churned into “Yes. Gimme more” by the time it reached our lips.

Of course not ALL of us were affected. There was among us a man of iron will, who staunchly refused to leave the sanctum of sobriety. He had but the merest dip in a modest beer and half a cocktail before prudence kicked in. This was good, cos we immediately latched onto him to drop us back home(Thanks a lot, man). And to properly thank him for his selfless service, some of us prompty threw up on his car. The source of this unsavory projectile then entertained us for the next 15 minutes doing his version of ‘101 Ways To Say I’m Sorry’, which was entertaining for the first two minutes, after which we realized all 101 ways were eerily identical (“1. I’m sorry… 2. Oh my God, I’m sorry… 3. Dude, I’m sorry… 4. I’m telling you I’m REALLY sorry, and so on…”) And once the afore-mentioned sorry-teller was dropped back home, the rest of us rattled inane work anecdotes and sang lores on philosophy throughout the 45 minute journey back to our home.

But as with all of life’s experiences, I’ve become an older, but wiser loon. I have learned a lot from this trip, and I shall outline some of the finer lessons so that you too may benefit from them. (As you can see, I care about you)

1. Keep track of your drinks - This is not as easy as you think. You never know what happens to your arithmetic skills after a few rounds of beer. I’ve always maintained that I stop at 3. But now I wonder whether I restart the count after every third drink.
2. Get the cocktail recipes from Soopzie - This might be very difficult for you to do, particularly if you don’t know Soopzie. But I, for one, shall try to amass the knowledge.
3. Think twice before you say anything after your third round- It doesn’t matter if you are a NASA scientist in your real life, after your third drink of the kind mixed in that party, you are blabbering. But it’s ok if you are blabbering to a fellow drunk. He/she will understand you just fine.
4. Get the recipes from Soopzie - I know I’m repeating myself. But it’s worth repeating… for me, that is… For those of you who don’t know her, I’m just blabbing on about an unattainable goal… dangling the carrot forward… Sorry about that.
5. The drunker you get the more sober you feel - By the time the evening ended, I was so hammered that I was probably leaking vodka from the nose. But I felt like I could handle my bike ‘just fine’. I felt I could drive responsibly. On reflection, I’m glad my friends dragged me into the car’s backseat. Hell, I don’t drive responsibly when I’m sober. I’d hardly have done any better while drunk… and even worse, at night-time…
6. The recipe… from Soopzie- I don’t know… maybe you could introduce yourself to her… She’s a genial person. But I can’t give you her address, mostly for security reasons (MY security, to be specific). So that’s going to make it difficult. Hmm… Maybe you should just go around asking everyone you see if they might be her. But then even that would be difficult… since ‘Soopzie’ is just a nickname. Tough dilemma… I’ll leave you to think about it.
7. There are more dignified ways of asking for a refill than badgering the host - I can’t think of one right now, but I’m reasonably sure there must be some way…

Thankfully, I am still able to claim ZERO hangovers and ZERO throw-ups. But are those days numbered? Am I entering the dark side? I really, truly, don’t think so. But then again… am I in denial? Tough, deep, thought provoking questions…

I think I need a drink.

Regular readers of this site would know of the cold war and subsequent status quo between Hamish and his relatives over the quest for marital bliss. For those who came in late, I am at a stage in life where I put up trenches and shout “hold your fort” to imaginary comrades in the vain attempt to hold back the crushing force of aunts, uncles, cousins and parents, who feel it’s about time I start thinking about a significant other.

Now, I am not completely averse to the idea. Certainly, the proper life for a straight-shooting dude demands a like-minded dudette on the side, and any vision of the future I conjure up inevitably contains one of the afore-mentioned article somewhere or the other. However, these visions are decades away, and right now, I give as much thought to a wife as a bludgeon to the head, no offense to anyone here.

Now WHY does marriage seem like such a snot in the air right now? One of the more obvious reasons is the fear of ending up with the wrong person. And I’m not talking I-accidentally-married-the-brother-instead-of-the-sister kind of wrong, which, while embarrassing, let’s face it, is easily remediable, and - not to mention - a hot topic for the blog. I’m talking about the she-looked-sane-until-she-started waving-the-knife-around-in-our-honeymoon kind of wrong. This thing shouldn’t be rushed. I take time deciding which restaurant to eat in, and that decision is about something that literally goes down the toilet by the next day. So getting married to the wrong person is indeed a strong fear. But more interesting that that, is the less obvious reason… getting married to someone that happens to be… TOO right.

Told ya that was interesting. I’ve seen couples who are so in tune with each other that they are practically one person. Same thoughts, same beliefs, same expressions, same tastes, and - I strongly believe - even the same toothbrush. You’ve seen them. The mushy couple on the next table that always feed each other with teeny spoons and forks; the in-their-own-world friends who can walk into a crowded room and see nobody else but their significant other; the giggling duo from after-hours who keep whispering what we can assume to be ’sweet nothings’ while the rest of us are engaged in some discussion. Sweet. Sickeningly sweet.

Belch.

While I hold my objectivity in high esteem; and swear to myself that I will never go down THAT path, I do get jittery when some of my mushy pals blurt out the cliche, “You say this now, my friend. Just you wait until your turn comes.” I get a chill down my spine, and my inner self starts pleading with me… - “Hammy… you gotta promise me, man… No matter what happens, you will not… I repeat… NOT.. go down like that… Promise me that, man… We’re a TEAM. Go team Hammy. Just stay sober. You can do it. Say NO to mush.”

I am not arguing against romance, mind you. To a large part, that is necessary, and in proper doses, might prove to be the soul of life; the ray of sunshine that gives meaning to life; and the elixir that gives man the glimpse and hope of heaven. And I know that some of you might be thinking I am simply writing this paragraph for insurance purposes; so that the future d’amour wouldn’t one day read the rest of the article and hammer me to death with a rusty old waffle-maker. To those people, I have to earnestly and sincerely ask… Can you think of way to make that less obvious?

No, I do not object to romance. My objection is to those who take this to the next level in crime.

For instance, take my good friend M. He was a good chap; the life of the party; a solid beer chugger; and you couldn’t walk in to one of his friends’ parties without his name emblazoned on the attendees list, sometimes twice. But after one single dose of the marital juice, he’s the regular absentee from any group event. They’re so perfect for each other that they don’t have room for alcohol after they drink each other up. I wouldn’t be surprised if they keep aside four hours everyday just to look into each other’s eyes, playing the ‘who’s grin looks goofier‘ contest, and I hope he’s winning, cos the alternative is that somebody else actually sports a goofier grin, and that marks the beginning of the end of civilization as we know it.

On the plus side, I can’t wait for the very entertaining day when he’d be called to court by some ignorant lawyer with the all-too-cliched question…

Lawyer: Where were you on the night of May the 18th?

M: Me? I was home, hugging and kissing my wife.

L: Oh? Hmm… what about June the 5th?

M: Let me see. I got home late that night…. and then I stayed home, hugging and kissing my wife.

L: Err… how about July the 5th?

M: Let me save you the trouble… any date you can think of… Home. Hugging, kissing the wife.

L: How about October the 5th?

M: October the 5th? I was out celebrating a friend’s birthday. We played cards, sang songs, got drunk…

L: (Phewwwwww….) Oh? Really?

M: Of course not, dumbass. I was home, hugging and kissing the wife…

L: (Groan) My dear Mr. M. I’m sure your wife… is a wonderful lady. But was there any point after your marriage when you were not home… without your wife…?

M: Well, yeah. I had this project in America… lasted two weeks. It was an interesting trip…

L: Aha!! So, Mr. M. During this time, you were not home… obviously… So what did you do in the evenings, after work?

M: I stayed in my hotel room… thinking about hugging and kissing my wife.

L: Your honour!! I DEMAND the death sentence.

Judge: Death sen… wha?? for hugging and kissing his wife??? Seriously?

L: Not HIM…. Just… please… just shoot me.

Now, the one solace I had was the belief that it takes BOTH the parties involved to be equally mushy to get such a path going… So I shouldn’t worry, right? But then again, I am petrified by another friend of mine… AQT… AQT, who seemed relatively sane enough… one who kept her mind on a logical plane.. AQT, who didn’t have a mushy bone in her body… until she met her fiancee…

Today she’s the grandmommy of goo-goos, ga-gas, and giggles; the Mush Queen of Kerala; the go-to gal for slushy pet names; the darling of long distance telephone service companies; and the newly added butt of my jokes.

Maybe I misjudged her earlier self… Maybe she was always this mushy; never found the right person to mush around with… at least I hope so… cos the alternative, that anybody can succumb to the apparently coveted bug, is simply too frightening…

Those who know Hamish Joy are qualified to testify under oath - “Hammy? Oh, he’s Christian, I think, but he’s not really that religious, if you know what I mean.” Sure, I say ‘God’ and ‘Jesus Christ’, pretty often, but it is more frequently used as stress busting expressions than actual words of prayer. And just to make the record clear, I do NOT use the lord’s name in vain! The stress DOES get busted most of the time.

It would, therefore, make some people raise their eyebrows all the way up to their bald spot if they learn that Hamish was thinking of attending two or three mass services a day for a few days… as many as possible, actually. No, it wasn’t a mid-midlife crisis, the kind that affects people in the late twenties… It wasn’t a guilt trip or a bid to let me ‘back into the fold’. It was just that it seemed to be the only source of alcohol in this town.

For those of you lucky enough to have been elsewhere, let me clarify. It was election day in Bangalore. The powers that be laid down a decree that it was in the benefit of society to have not one, not two, but THREE dry days when the citizens should not have access to alcohol… at least no legal access.

Bold initiative? I am not really all that sure. Given the choices people have in politics these days, people need to be as drunk as a skunk to make a sober choice. Ironic, I know. But let’s all get on the popular notion here. Water good. Alcohol baaad. Election and alcohol do not mix. Basically two important reasons…

1. Alcohol clouds judgment - You may end up not choosing the bad guy and give power to the really bad guy… But on the plus side, you don’t get to moan over the choices you get.

2. Alcohol causes riots - Yeah, if you are drunk enough when you find that ‘your guy’ has lost, the theory is that you go around with grenades, guns, knives and sticks looking for soft spots to shove them in… Of course they don’t have trouble accessing THOSE stuff, but hey, at least they will be in the right senses if they stay sober.

Ok, so the ban is justified. Possibility of crime is reduced by, I say, 20% or so, and that’s pretty good. So boo hoo to you, Mr. drunkard. No swigs for you. But the the innovative geniuses running our government decided to rule by extension.

“Hey, maybe we should have THREE dry days before the election. Makes the election go THREE times as safe. All in favor, say aye.”

“Eh???”

“Close enough. Motion passed”

I’d call them idiots, but I don’t want to be unoriginal.

They think the alcohol consumed three days before election would have inebriating effects on people? That’s just idiotic and I protest the idiocy… or maybe these guys know some REALLY potent mixes, then I protest that they’re not sharing it with the rest of us. What were they thinking? Maybe they thought - Hey, having single day dry day is useless. People would just stock up on liquor the day before. But doesn’t that affect three day dry days just as much as the one-day dry day? Do they think that the average Bangalorean is so bad at math that he can’t figure out he has to stock liquor for TWO days more than if he were facing just one dry day?

Some of you are thinking “Oh, no. He’s ranting against alcohol prohibition. I didn’t realize he was that hooked on it.” No, I am NOT. Like any self respecting alcoholic, I severely and unanimously deny an addiction of any kind. (It’s so much easier to be unanimous when you are alone). I am not that pissed off about the ban. I’m more annoyed that the city is once again trying to plant nonsensical rules in my gray tissues.

The alcohol dispute is actually pretty funny, especially if you are high on three rounds of vodka…

“Alcohol is bad”

“Seriously??”

“Absolutely. It could kill ya.”

“Sheesh. Maybe I should stop drinking, eh?”

“Uhm… Well, yeah. You should. It’s better for you”

“Hell, if it’s that bad, we should ban it completely, eh?”

“Oh, hold on. Let’s not overreact on this. You just have to be responsible about it. If people just take some simple precau…”

“But you said it is bad for people.”

“It IS bad. Really bad. Awful, actually.”

“Then let’s get rid of it.”

“No, no, wait.. I… I got a better idea. Let’s just charge more tax on it. That way, we get to make money on this.”

“What? You’d put people’s life at danger just to get money…??”

“Hey, hey, hey, it sounds really bad when you put it that way… It’s not like we’re sitting idle doing nothing here…”

“Oh? What have we done then?”

“Well, for example, we’ve put restrictions on advertising.”

“Oh…kay? So they can sell beer, but just can’t talk about it? So it’s ok to do bad things if you don’t preach what you practice? If alcohol is as bad as you say it is, it is poison. You’re condoning suicide provided people don’t advertise the fact?”

“What? I… I did NOT mean… Well, and there’s the age ban. You can’t drink until you’re legally an adult. Once you are old enough to make your own decision and pay for your own…”

“So there’s an age barrier to suicide now. That’s all you’ve accomplished?”

“Look here, it is NOT the same as suicide. There are different grades of bad. Alcohol is bad, but it isn’t SO bad that we have to ban it completely. Plus, remember, we get money out of this thing.”

“?? So it’s not completely bad… It’s bad only if people use it irresponsibly? So why should responsible people suffer because of a few bad apples? Why can’t…”

“Oh, God. I need a drink.”

Now, don’t jump to the insane conclusion that I don’t know about the ill effects of alcohol. I’ve read the popular stories of drunken retards using their wives as punching bags; of people trading in their day jobs and wealth for a career in gulping whiskey at the local pub. But surely, you can’t be two-faced about the situation… You can’t blame the whole shebang on alcohol and still allow it to be sold. Alcohol isn’t the only culprit. There are usually other factors at play. Without doubt, some people need help. Give it to them. And some people need to be locked up. Lock them up. It’d probably be a good idea to make sure you don’t mix up the two, though.

Right now, I am pissed over the three day dry day. I am not really proposing that I regularly transfuse my blood with vodka and gin, and normally, I could have gone for a month without a drink without much problem. But right now, I wanted to get some of of the slow poison running through me. But the bars were closed, the wine shops were barred, and the malls had restricted access to the wine section.

The only place left was the Christian mass, where they dip bread in wine and serve you buffet style. And yes, I do realize that if God doesn’t have a sense of humor, I’m cooked. But really, I think his sense of humor is divine. The wine-dipped bread, like most things in life, had two sides…

Pros: Service is excellent; you get it served right into your mouth. Also, it is free, so hurrah…

Cons: It’s just a measly little dip into wine. Gotta attend several masses in rapid succession before you feel any effect at all… And even worse, no seconds. Try asking for a second round, and you’d feel like; and be treated like Oliver Twist asking for more gruel from his workshop masters.

Maybe I could try my hand at disguises… moving back in line after putting on a false beard; back again after putting on some cooling glasses; and back again after putting on a blonde wig… and so on. And I would certainly not be above using strategically timed phrases like “Come on, Father, you can dip it deeper than that”, “Maybe I should dip the bread myself. Just give me the wine cup”, or even “Hey, look, everybody. Is that Moses?… … …(gulp) … Oops, my bad. Must have been a reflection.”

At least… that was the thought back then… Right now, the prohibition’s been lifted, and I’ve gulped down two cocktails. And now, on retrospect, I do admit that the church idea was not a great one… It was downright stupid, even… The irony is that I was sober when I thought it up.

It’s really been no mystery… He’s had it in for me ever since the puddle I slipped in during high school. He has been a nameless foe fighting from afar, laughing in my face for I-don’t-know-how-long, but this is the first time I am documenting one of our fights. And I’d urge you to read very carefully. Because unlike most of my posts, there is a moral to this story, and it might help you sometime in life.

The Rain God has been a faceless opponent hitting me with showers every chance he got. You may be thinking “Oh, come on, Hammy. That happens to all of us”; Well, it doesn’t. Sure, a lot of people FEEL that they’re targeted, but they’re just paranoid. I’m the real deal. Back in college, I used to carry an umbrella everyday… at a time when an umbrella was one of the most uncool thing you could carry, followed by glasses. And it used to rain EVERY SINGLE day i forgot to take the umbrella. Lest you think I am just being paranoid, there was an incident when I walked out of my building umbrella-less, enjoying the sunshine… Five minutes into my walk, it started pouring. I ran back into the building, and took my umbrella. The rain stopped. I repacked my umbrella and put it back into my bag, and presto… it started again. So, no. I can’t accept these things as coincidences. The Rain God was out to get me.

I decided to read up on the chap. It is important to know one’s enemy, as some great man once said (SOMEONE must have said it… It sounds cool enough). The chap turned out to be quite elusive. He was poorly documented. The earliest mention of a Rain God was in the Mayan civilization. The guy was called Chaac. I decided to ignore this. Hey, it’s not cool to wage wars against people called Chaacs… Besides, he looked like this!! The guy has enough problems without me writing blogs about him. Then I stumbled on good old Zeus. I always knew he was a kingpin among the Gods. But what I didn’t know was that he was in charge of the sky, rain, lightning and thunder.

To be fair, he hadn’t been fighting with me after my stint in college. Maybe he just didn’t like me doing my MBA. But the hiatus has apparently been withdrawn… Last night, as a part of the reduce-the-Hammy-blubber movement, I decided to walk back from work. I was about ten minutes away from home when ol’ Zeus decided to throw the sucker punch. It was a mild, but sneaky attack. A sudden burst of rain. And he timed the attack perfectly. I had a stretch of road with no cover in sight… I had to run a kilometer before I reached a small grocery store which was already more or less full with other refugees from the rain…

The fight had begun.

The sudden rain was a shrewd and well timed move, I’ll give him that. Despite the sudden offset of rain, I managed to find some sort of shelter in the grocery store. So we were more or less even at that point…

But I wasn’t quick enough. I was pretty much wet all over. But my major concern was my laptop. I had it on my back, and so far, I was able to keep it dry. So I was feeling pretty good at that point. I smirked.

He probably saw the smirk. You know how ol’ Zeus can get mad over smirks… He decided to up the ante. The rain turned into a storm. Thunder and lightning riddled the sky. Stupidly , I felt safe under the thin tarpaulin sheet hanging over the grocery store. While the other masses crowded further to the back of the store, I exhibited an ill placed bravado and stood right in front, calmly ignoring the raging tempest before me.

Of course Zeuse boy wasn’t impressed. He started blowing his trumpet loud and mighty. He sent lightning bolts out nearby, breaking branches off trees. One couple was rushing into the grocery store and almost got their head caved in by a falling branch. The road was flooded with a river of dirty mud-water. I shook my fist in the sky, saying “Bring it on, buster.” My co-refugees from the rain moved in closer… I’m not sure whether they were moving away from the rain or away from the madman shaking his fist at the sky.

It started getting cold now. I wasn’t frayed. I like the cold. And I felt safe under the guidance of Science, which promised me that rain falls straight down, and that as long as the roof over my head did not collapse, I’d do ok.

And then whoosh!! The wind got really strong. So strong that it was almost traveling horizontally. Mayday!! A direct attack to the chest. Science had forsaken me. The cold intensified. My right hand got rigid. It was difficult to move my fingers. Over the sound of crackling thunder, I could hear Zeus laughing.

I wasn’t willing to let it go. If there’s one thing my friends know about a Hammy, it is that he tends to be stubborn. I started waving my arms up and down to get the blood-flow working. I started rubbing my hands together like a villain from the cheesy old Batman TV series. And I fought the cold as I said “Is that all you got, buddy?” The crowd started getting agitated. Some people started moving away from the shelter, reasoning that they were better off at the mercy of nature than sharing a roof with a hand-rubbing, smirking, shivering lunatic who had started mumbling rubbish…

So I wasn’t winning any popularity contest, but I had Zeus by the beard and by Thor, I wasn’t letting go…

By this time, Zeus was pretty pissed off. He sent what I can only guess were a bunch of his cronies in a big jeep with specific instructions to splash me with the water flooding the road. They did their job. They rode right in front of me, splashing me with the water from the road. And they didn’t even stop to look. They were obviously drunk with power granted by a higher authority… Zeus. And it was specifically aimed at me. I was the only one who got splashed all over. Maybe it was because the rest of the refugees were huddled together away from me, but I’d like to believe it was all part of Zeus’ master plan.

But I wasn’t impressed. It would have been demoralizing if this had happened five minutes abo, when I still had some dry patches on my person. But as it stood, I was already drenched without an inch to spare. All I did was shake my head and laugh at how futile mighty Zeus was being.

At about this point, some of my co-refugees were already calling the paramedics to report the laughing crackpot. But I didn’t care. I was winning. And HOW!! Zeus huffed and puffed, but decided he couldn’t rely on fairy tales to win the match…

Just when I thought things were turning ok, Zeus got into one of his blitzkreig moods. The rain intensified… and he sent over a hailstorm! I was suddenly pelted with a load of hailstones. It hit me on my chest, legs and arms, and it stung like crazy. I even got one right smack in the middle of my right cheek. I’m sure some people might have expected me to turn the other cheek, but I preferred to wave out my arms in unconditional surrender.

The scoreboard was going haywire. Zeus was scoring left right and center. He was basking in the limelight. He pelted me with a few more hailstones, wiped his hand, smiled at his victory, and walked off…

He wasn’t done with that, the vindictive son of a deity. He also took out the power supply, strategically putting me in a dark inactive void for the rest of the night. The battle was over. I limped back to my place, defeated.

I learned my lesson. And I think it’s time for you to learn the moral of the story. Never, and I mean NEVER… start fights with Gods. They kinda have an upper hand. The battle just won’t be fair.