intoxication and alcohol in general has been a bit of a question mark for the past nineteen years of my life. with a mother who looks down upon on a bottle of anything but water or fresh juice as a punch to the healthy body and a father who is a common recipient of hard liqour but drinks thrice in a bluemoon, alcohol has never passed the boundary of an acquaintance with me. this is probably the primary reason for my curiosity about it, a recurring question being ‘oh what’s it like to be very tipsy or, god forbid, even drunk i wonder?’ inebriation is supposedly a rage and i wanted to know what it felt like to be on the other side; but in the past few months, i’ve never gone past two beers which just made my head hurt, nothing worse.
i’m going out on a limb here, hoping that my parents or any of my adult relatives for that matter, don’t read this blog of mine anymore because i’ve got an experience to share which they – Indian parents who claim to be modern and are truly so in several fields, are in actuality not very open about other important things that may matter very much so in my future – might not necessarily be happy about.
a week and a half ago, my friends and i were prepared to test our tolerance level – we downed about six beers each. you needn’t be alarmed – we were at home, with every level of security and with the comfort of being able to use the loo seven times, if need be. with four beers down, we were just a little over tipsy and it was turning out to be a very good and fulfilling evening, spent with the best of my friends. with the sixth beer gulped down, i was very proud of my tolerance level.
besides the many voice recordings riddled with drunken guffaws and sloppy chuckles we sent to our other good friends and the spilling of a few sips of beer onto the floor in a tipsy haze, we seemed completely sober. when i had to leave my friend’s home to go pick up my mother (my driver uncle was around, still no reason to be alarmed; also i don’t know to drive yet) from her friend’s place, i like to think that i did a very good job of putting up a sober act; that was until my mother – who has the nose of a bloodhound, apparently – asked me, “did you drink anything, what’s that smell?” and while my heart went berserk and plunged into panic mode, i replied, “no we just drank lemon juice, and that smell is victoria secret beer – i mean, victoria secret perfume, the new one i got, remember? ha ha ha.” my stars must have been beautifully aligned that evening for my mother was too distracted to understand my rushed words.