Friday, October 19, 2012

The Drunken Bacchanalia

Finally the first year of college was about to end and the ragging was over.  And from a ragee we were on the way to become a ragger, just as a minute tadpole on the way of become a filthy frog. The air was free, the sounds were lilting and the birds were again chirping with a zest. We were up and about in town ready to take up new challenges; the first and foremost of which was alcohol. We consulted the seniors as to where to get and where to wet. We got the place we had the bottles and we all were all suited up for a drunken bacchanalia.  We were fifty young nincompoops with 35 bottles of whisky. Nobody knew how to drink and most importantly, how much to drink. An amiable waiter in the highway dhaba guided us like a father helping a toddler to walk. The first sip was horrible, the second was less so and from the third sip onwards we bally well didn’t give a damn of what we were drinking as long as the glass was filled. Young boys were enjoying the much awaited manhood. After a few drinks we stood up to get some air, the heads were high, the chests were broad and the legs; well the legs were staggering. The one thing we never took into consideration was that alcohol has an aftermath, named pee. 35 bottles of 750ml each, while being emptied by fifty people would generate a lot of pee. After a while our outflow was more than our inflow. As a result the loos were jammed; people were standing in lines to wait their turn to pee. Some of us couldn’t wait in line and went for an al fresco approach. One of them was Roy. I saw him with my heavy eyes, oozing out liquid from wherever it was possible anatomically. Then I went blank, the next time I could open my eyes he was sleeping against the wall and as I was fumbling with my zipper I spotted a light in his eyes. I traced his line of sight and found a filthy black swine lying in the mud that was when I went blank again. Next morning somehow we woke up in hostel and Roy was nowhere to be found. We traced back and reached that dhaba. There he was lying beside the marsh, one leg in the mud, one hand on the pig, smothered in his own vomit and moaning with a headache. This was the beginning of his association with alcohol and the interesting effects it had on him.

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