We all commit follies; the inebriated state makes us commit more!
I am not bibulous—tea and coffee is a preferred choice. I find it scary to be drooled in the intoxication of vibrant delusions, which often dance a folly on the intemperate mind; attention deficit seems a threat and the Sibelius staccato of irrelevant gup-shupis a complete fiasco. Enter a club or a house party where grandeur and pageantry twist and twine at every corner stone; the aroma of succulent food and a smorgasbord of Vodka, Rum, Beer and some unpalatable cocktails of estrangement, loneliness and ennui.
“How are you?” I am asked with the vicious smile. Alcohol does probe the drooping eyes and the jerking shoulders to look serpently into the eyes of the guest.
Yes, I am the guest, presumably a difficult one to handle as I would be handling their follies by the end of the day. I am asked for the drink. Imperceptibly, I feel the need to conquer this war of errors with a candid reply, “I don’t drink.”What I just see is the iris peripatetically frisking me to validate if I am a saint in their world. It would be an honour to be labelled as the saint as long as I find my pleasing gulp of coffee. Or juxtapose to the iridescent crowd with the hand courageously holding a porcelain glass filled with bucolic Bacardi, summoning my mind to justify the inequalities of my life and finally retreating to a hallway of palimpsest memories.
I am a pusillanimous saint, I guess, still mustering the courage to ask for my choice of drink. “I prefer coffee, if it would not be a trouble to get one”. Milk would begrudge to being the only valuable deployment, but I would take care that I finish it to the core to not let it feel like an island in a large sea. I still have second thoughts! To avoid the prevaricate; a glass of borscht would be a soft beat on the drum—pleasurably masquerading red wine.
Coffee is served with élan! But, not without a reflective glance. I am applauded for being a punctilious pie and not a banal pressure cooker that placidly torments itself to proffer a ratatouille of sordid complexities and pungent follies. I garner attention due to my non-alcoholism; leaving behind my beliefs and ideological spirits that are too infectious to break the hegemony of alcohol lovers.
With the sacrosanct mug of coffee, I stand to stare at the irrevocable blithe of the flamboyant alcohol spirit. The messy cauldron of gibberish fiesta steers a backlog of poignant scrutinises and dilapidated relationships. The cascading flow of liquor in the glass is a placebo joyride invoking a sensory pleasure to draw curtain to the ambiguities of life.The faltering feet and fragile egos echo to replenish my cup of tea; every sip a witness to the perplexity of minds joined together like craniopagus twins.
The famous poet “Mirza Ghalib” too enjoyed expensive wine and some of his favourite couplets revolve around alcohol. The profligate Ghalib with a tragic past resorted to alcohol and immersed himself in reflective poetry, unapologetically carving a silhouette of life perching on disillusionments and dishevelment.
Not to say that Alcohol is the only pre-occupation of the nomadic minds, it has gradually become a system to breathe in what is yet to be achieved and breathe out the incessant paradoxes of illegitimate desires. It drives our pinched nerves to stoically demystify the galloping shadows of accomplishments and bereavement. Tea/coffee drinkers are conspicuously treated as a lethargy of being Spartan and “out of the circle” mavericks.
My contemplation of the crowd at the party is reflective of their pugnacious laughter; my coffee still close to the palms of my hand and is a benefactor in my assessment. The precipitous laughter hides an innocuous charm of belongingness, reflective of deep fissures that humans seed in them to confront their own insecurities. Their bodies and mind held together insouciantly holding a plebiscite on life’s chagrin and consternations; alcohol did the trick, tempestuously bargaining on the mediocrity of life.
I plan to take leave as I somewhat feel disorientated or have been made to feel. Maybe, it’s a culture that goes with the proverb “Birds of same feather flock together.” The distinction will always remain like the ineluctable divide between Hindus-Muslims.
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