Kishore Singh: A dry state of affairs

My sister, who lives in Ahmedabad, has been liberal with her invitations to the family. But no one seems to have given anything but superficial consideration to her repeated offers to visit. “We can always go to Ahmedabad,” one of us will suggest when we’re in the thick of a disagreement about where to take the next family break, but it’s a submission invariably accompanied by derisive laughter and a collective shaking of heads. “Seriously, dude, it’s the 21st century, and they still have prohibition there,” says my son.

“There’s more alcohol consumed in Gujarat,” my cousins in that state like to boast, “than in any other state in India,” which is the kind of thing Indians say about the consumption of scotch in the country exceeding its production in Scotland. I have, of course, travelled to Gujarat — at first when its tourism department had hosted a bunch of travel writers. This was long before it picked Amitabh Bachchan for its brand ambassador, and as we were driven from fort to seaside to jungle, our victuals were preceded by a supply of alcohol, though its service was restricted to our rooms. Drinking in Gujarat is a lonely business.

An uncle disinherited of his princely privileges insisted on our visiting him in his former royal state, maintaining that there was no shortage of liquor in either the state or his cellar — though he did have to wangle himself a doctor’s instruction declaring him an alcoholic to be able to buy his daily tipple. I confess to feeling uneasy about drinking from an alcoholic’s prescription, so that trip remained unmade, but on assignment at different institutions or organisations, room service took on an altogether different meaning. Even friends who hosted extensive bars made sure to serve it only after the gate was barred against unwelcome gatecrashers from the local authority.

I presumed, thus, that so long as you were willing, there was alcohol for the asking. It was a myth shattered when a former colleague and budding entrepreneur travelling through Gujarat called a few days ago. “I’m a resourceful guy, right?” he asked. I agreed. “But six days here and I haven’t been able to find myself a drink,” his voice quavered, “not one.” I remembered rapidly diminishing levels in his bottles from when he had lived in Delhi, but he was in search of intoxication, not commiseration. He was not so much detoxed as dehydrated, he said, and I had to help.

I’ve never thought of myself as a bootlegger, and Gujarat is far from my arc of influence. “You might,” I suggested, “want to go to Diu,” but the union territory where Gujaratis go to drink by the busloads wasn’t anywhere close to his itinerary. He could, of course, have taken a quick flight to Mumbai for the purpose but I was given to understand that he didn’t have the leisure to take a half day off in chase of a snifter. But six days without fermented juice had made him chafe: he’d even asked around for a doctor who would sign him an alcoholic’s recommendation but without success. “Godammit,” he said, “you have to do something,” though, frankly, I didn’t.

I was surprised he’d experienced so much trouble since the first call I made yielded satisfactory results, and was followed by a relieved – though abrupt – call from him. While that story might have ended well, I’m not yet convinced of a family outing in a state where one can’t relax with a beer or a glass of wine — without calling for, er, room service.