I swear I will never drink again.
Not even a swig. Ever.
Even if I’m in a bar and under the expectant looks of my friends
The waiter asks, ‘And for you, ma’am’,
I will make a solemn face, and unnerved by my peers’ views,
Say, ‘I would like some orange juice’
Or a mojito perhaps, when my palette needs the taste to differ,
But it will have to be one without any liqueur.
You see. I’ve sworn I would never drink again.
Even if it is that bubbly beer mug in the gent’s hand there,
Or the fine rose wine that the lady is swirling there,
I will pay no heed, and sip from my meager alcohol-less treat.
You see, alcohol seeped in my life through ink
Even though I had found, to much dismay, that butterbeer was clean,
There was still mead, and taverns and tweeny dwarfs chugging down mighty jugs
And there were barrels and ships and swanky pirates draped in rowdy music cheering rum
And in case you lean more to the quieter and pensive side, you’d still find
the bookish guy with toppled glasses sipping a red blood wine.
And even as I held them bound in my hands,
This emerged as the one aspect I could live of these fairy lands.
You see, I am a little of romantic. And I love to glorify things
With characters as numerous as the number of letters in a book.
So I’ll order a whisky, a Johny Walker preferably,
assuming I had enough money,
And sit on a bar like Tony Stark,
The loner who has everything and is yet somehow sometimes distraught,
And act the part.
Until, I bring the shining glass to the edge of my mouth,
And take a whiff.
And scrunch my nose.
And keep the damn thing back down.
You see, I can’t help it. My friends don’t get it,
“Why do you have to smell it?” they ask.
But how are you supposed to not?
I can’t help that the effective radius of my nose,
Kind of covers my mouth
And when I tilt the mug
The rim of the glass and the tip of my nose may get a bit snug
And you really can’t take a sip while breathing out!
So I guess I’ll put the perfect Iron Man imitation on hold. Indefinitely.
But you see, I still like beer. And other alcohols – mostly the colorless ones.
And the sweet wines. Those still work.
And I’ve had rum before, but it terribly screws up my stomach,
So I’d eliminate that option.
And hence we gain peace.
Until I get home, and sleep.
You see, I hail from a family of careful eaters.
Imagine my stomach as the newbie in the gym
where others of its kind have honed their strengths
by pulling up on spices coached by packaged meals.
Now give this stomach an overexcited brain
which cannot accept that ‘getting high’ and ‘the amount drunk’ are two different factors
each having its own tracker.
So not being drunk (yet) does not mean that I have not drunk (much)
or that it’s not affecting my (over-nourished) stomach.
You see. The drinking part is fun.
As is the trying out different tastes part.
And the I can feel the world spinning as I pee part.
And the I still feel I’m the most sober part.
And the occasional ‘what the fuck are those guys doing?’ part.
And the ‘Okay. Let’s carefully check the bill (as if)’ part.
It’s all fun!
Until I get home, and sleep.
And my poor stomach can’t hold it in anymore.
You see, I feel my body in its entirety reject
All the shit that it had been forcefully fed
And with each tremor and retch
Tell me of the utter torture it underwent.
I try to reason with it, still.
With water, sugar, ORS, juice,
But it does not listen.
And has forsaken all trust on my judgement.
One whole night it continues the toil
And I, forced to resort to aid packed in silver foil,
complement it, as if to not draw attention, with a small swig of water.
And with that, finally, it starts getting a little better.
Through all this I believe I’ve finally learnt my lesson.
I swear I would never drink again.
Except maybe a little sip.