Young Modern India
(Yo’Mo’In) paused in mid-saunter. No point in wasting a good saunter, a
considered saunter, when the place was empty. Well, not empty, per, as it is
said, se. There was a returned son of the soil, version Old, (rss vO) in
earnest converse with an attentive bartender. Loathe to draw attention to
himself, Yo’Mo’In scanned the bar for any other server capable of helping
alleviate what was turning into an epic case of cotton mouth. Experience, that
bitter, not to mention censorious, teacher, had taught Yo’Mo’In that the rss vO
breed needed to be engaged, if at all, with caution, garrulous opining being
only one of the dangers, most particularly when one is baked.
The place was empty in the
sense that there was nobody from Yo’Mo’In’s demographic, which is to say,
employed, disposable income and not living with Ma and Pa. Nobody, in a word,
worthwhile.
One of the hazards of
arriving too early to the party; lesson learned.
Yo’Mo’In, shrugged, and striding
rather more purposefully, stationed himself a few barstools away from the duo. The
bartender didn’t notice, his face turned away from Yo’Mo’In, his attention
concentrated on what seemed to be a detailed, not to say persnickety,
instruction on the architecture of the drink rss vO was ordering.
“Boss” said Yo’Mo’In, his
tone a well considered mixture of authority, courtesy, and impatience; a tone
well schooled in the methodology of reminding the serving classes of their
place in the scheme of things.
Rss(vO) stopped in his
instruction and gestured the bartender into complying.
“Whiskey, ‘fiddich, large,
no ice, iced soda chaser “said Yo’Mo’In, his speech clipped and precise.
“I’m sorry sir, I didn’t
get you” the bartender said, the ‘my bad’ etched into the silhouette of his
servitude.
Yo’Mo’In took a deep
breath, the Thar desert like condition of his mouth making it difficult to
talk.
“I believe the gentleman
would like a large Glenfiddich with iced soda on the side.” Rss said.
A crisp head bob and the
bartender transformed from obsequious to efficient; the efficiency somewhat
compromised by his inability to find the Glenfiddich.
Yo’Mo’In sighed and
switching to the vernacular and pointed.
“Alli” he said, “ah red
label batli pakka dalli” – There, right next to the bottle with the red label.
Speech, authoritative
speech, Yo’Mo’In realized, required a fair degree of moisture, very much in
short supply in the mouth. His mouth needed moisture, as in, now. Perhaps he
should have led with a request for a glass of water.
The bartender interrupted
his hunt for the Glenfiddich and started looking for a red label which, it must
be said, is easier to pronounce, and spell. Things were not going well. Any red
labels extant seemed to be hidden in the multi-hued, seductively shaped bottles
of high end spirits management had seen fit to store on the topmost shelf. The
bartender wished he could ease the crick he was starting to get in his neck.
Yo’Mo’In wished he hadn’t
thought about water, a glass of which was visible to his peripheral vision;
just sitting there, unattended, unconsidered, a slap in the faces of all gods
of all oases everywhere, beads of condensation making their sensuous ways done
the glass, ice cubes that would no doubt tinkle when the glass was raised, as
it should be, not just left there, while a veritable sirocco of sand storm...
The glass was moving
closer to Yo’Mo’In and it took a moment for him to realise that rss vO was
sliding it towards him.
“Water” rss vO was saying,
“soaks that cotton up to much greater effect than does scotch or any other
alcohol for that matter. Trust me on this”
I knew it, Yo’Mo’In thought, trying not to
spill any of water as he raised the glass, garrulous opinions.
