Sloshed!

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A couple of weeks back, I was in conversation with a group and the topic was memories of getting drunk. It’s ironic how I contribute during such conversations, owing to the fact that I have never tasted alcohol till date. Thanks to my creative brain and fantastic college crowd, I've heard and seen such amusing incidents, that I never had to taste it to know what it is to get high.

Rewinding to the 1995-2000 era - many a conversations around those cups of coffee, or beneath trees revealed so many funny stories…

S: Yesterday night we went outdoors with a few bottles. We went over these rocky hills and had a blast. It was fun.
I: Don’t you always have fun over drinks? What's the difference whether you have it indoors or outdoors?
S: The experience is much better outdoors. It's sheer bliss - fresh air, drinks and voices of nature!
I (slightly sarcastic): Umm… the fresh air and the rotten alcohol – nice combo!
S: You won’t understand
I: Umm... I’m sure. So, what happened yesterday?
S (chuckling): On our way back, D slipped and fell.
I (startled): Goodness!
S: Nothing to worry lady. We were drunk. It's normal and magical. It doesn't pain at that time.

My eyes were wide now, trying to understand.

I: The magic wears off the next day, I suppose?
S: Yea, all magic is time-bound, isn't it? You must know what it is to get drunk someday…
I: To experience magic when you don't even realize it and then suffer all that pain? No thanks!
S: Listen to the rest. We were trying to get back to our room. Absolutely no worries or concerns about when a bus would come that way. We were singing old movie songs at the bus stand. Bindaas!

I was giggling thinking what a sight a set of three boys would have made, singing songs as loud as they could (I was sure), some time close to dawn.

S: And then a bus stopped in front of us. When we were boarding the bus, I noticed D carrying a banana plant.
I: A BANANA PLANT? You mean a bunch of bananas?
S (laughing out loud): No da, an entire banana plant! I am not sure from where he uprooted it. To top it, he insisted the conductor to barter a ticket for a banana – one ticket for one banana.
Me (laughing out loud): Atrocious!
S (guffawing):  What's more hilarious is that we didn't find anything wrong with his demand, at that point in time.
Me (laughing out loud): Why am I not surprised!
S: Finally when we had settled down in the bus, I was baffled that my bike's tire, for some reason, was lying in that bus!?! I even told X about it. As soon as he heard it, he gave the conductor a dirty look for stealing my spare tire and began trying to lift it up for me.”
Me: Gosh S! You mean the stepney wheel of the bus?!?
S: Hahaha! Yes.

That was an anecdote stored in my brain by virtue of my ears. Next, I’d like to tell you a few other instances – those that were stored by my eyes.

First let’s go for the long sight.

To give you a little geographical background, there was a little road that lay behind the ladies’ hostel, which led to the boys’ hostel. And so, it was a common sight for our drunken guy pals to dedicate songs to many a pretty ladies residing in the girls’ hostel, on their way back to the boys’ hostel. It’s not just that our room faced that road; it was neither too low nor too high. Which meant, spectators from within the hostel wouldn't have just a hostel wall to see, neither was it a sight where they couldn't make out who the guys in the crowd were! Needless to say, the spectator rush in our room was pretty huge to witness these drunken dedications. On one such occasion, our drunken pals decided to take a head count. They were amazed that there were too many heads at the windows of our room. Comments from across the wall…

The handsome he: Look at that! So many heads… Are we drunk or has their room size increased?
The spectacled he: Let’s take an attendance and check.
The discoverer he: Halt guys! Look. There’s a guy in the girls’ hostel.
All the hes: Where? Where? Where?
The discoverer he (pointing carefully): There. Look - a Sardarji!

Our tipsy pal sounded so convinced, that we girls ourselves looked around wondering whom he was referring to. That’s when all of them, from down there, cried in unison – “Oh yes! It’s true”, and they helped each other spot the so-called Sardarji.

The pimple-faced he (courteously): Excuse me Sardarji. What is your name?

There were others who got protective of their fair friends that they yelled out, “You there, Sardarji! What are you doing in there at this time? (Like it was ok for a guy to be in a girls' hostel at other times of the day) Get down and get out of that room immediately or else!”

And suddenly it dawned on me whom they were referring to. It was me – I had done up my hair into a bun and set it on top of my head. My silhouette would have probably made up for a perfect Sardar. We burst out laughing and dispersed from near the windows.

The comments from across the wall continued…

Now for some visuals in close up – the one that I have always termed ‘my favorite’!

Gliteratti! (I hope I remember the name right) The season when colleges were at their cultural best! 1999 – the year when our college was hosting the show. As the days neared, the classes, the audi (college slang; short for auditorium), even the ground was a happening place – day and night! However, our focus doesn't lie in any of those places. Follow me as I enter the gates of the ladies’ hostel in the dead of the night, post practice sessions. Come in through the entrance grill, up the staircase, and through the narrow passage way lined with gray and blue walls. I am surprised at the locked door. Were the rest of my roomies already in? Did they lock me out? That’s strange - it can't be. I keep knocking. A sixth sense says that the lights are switched off but nobody’s asleep yet. And then, as a justification to my clairvoyance, I hear hushed whispers. Slowly the door slightly opens, just enough for a head to pop out. It’s A.

A (grins): Shh...! B, there’s a secret in here. If you are not comfortable, can you sleep in the other room tonight, please?
I: What is the secret? I gently push the door open.

At first I only notice silhouettes of buckets and a lot many inmates from neighboring rooms in there. There’s just a small dingy bulb that’s switched on.

I: Why you all so silent? Why are these buckets in the middle of the room?

They all just stare at me and then at a table placed next to the door. I follow that stare. Bottles and a plastic measuring glass! As my eyes get adjusted to the dingy light I see the buckets filled with ice.

I figured what’s going on.

A, P, and all others: B, you wanna go next door?
My mind, brain and soul shouted out to me in unison: You kidding me? Leave a party that’ll help photograph a lot of cute memories within the shutter of my eyes and sleep next door? No way!
I (maintaining calm): No, I’m fine.

It took a couple of minutes more for even the booze to convince them that I was truly okay.

In a few seconds I realized that R was kinda sloshed already. She kept pouring vodka into the plastic measuring glass, which was already overflowing with the intoxicating liquid; all the while wondering where all the markings had disappeared!

Don’t worry about any lost vodka. There was an angel on her knees, right beside R, channelizing all that ‘precious’ water into herself via her cupped palms.

Some wanted to dance and pump up the volume of the music playing the background; another was busy keeping caution every once in a while that everyone should be quiet. There were a couple of them who pretended to be mature in the act, but could hardly sit up straight.

Then there was our cutie pie Q seated on the bed, away from all this humdrum, talking to the walls, “And under the stars, on the road, we - me and he - will walk and drive away, away and away…” This poetry was going on and on, in a loop.

I am grateful for the company of one among that lot, P, who was in reality, not drunk. The coffee mug (yes drinks were served in coffee mugs that night) in her hand remained at the same level when I first walked in.

“Are you not drinking?”, I asked
“Not really; just a few sips. What’s going on in here is too much fun to miss.”

I couldn't agree more as we laughed into pillows lying nearby.

Somewhere in between, there was a knock on the door. Those firm knocks were an instant disclaimer that it was our warden.
The two of us - one with hardly any and the other with nil alcohol intake - looked at each other, not knowing what to do.

R, who was totally sloshed by then, was lying on the ground screaming, “Let her…”

We don’t know what she intended to say because surprisingly the rest of the sloshed gals tried pushing a dirty slipper into her mouth to hush her. I was amazed at this act of unity and display of drunken sensibility to keep the room as quiet as possible. One of them had even placed a hand over the lips of the tipsy poet.

Within a few alarming seconds, our warden, probably dismissed any questions she may have had because we sensed that she had left. I slowly opened the door just to make sure she left and there goes a tipsy A like a rocket on her toes ahead of me. Thankfully, I didn't have to do a lot of work to get her back in. Back in the room, I was surprised at all the sloshed shes reprimanding the super sloshed R for being so ‘senseless’.

The night wrapped with R puking out a lot of the so-called ‘precious’ liquid. Thanks to P, my hardly drunken amie, we were successful in pushing her under the shower. It was hilarious to see R as she frowned under the shower, remarking that that water was totally tasteless!

Owing to a lot of booze theory bestowed upon me through movies, I suggested that I would get some buttermilk from the kitchen, while P helped R into bed. Our hostel kitchen was left open with the leftovers from dinner, if any, at the counter for anyone who needed to snack at them in the middle of the night. And so, I sneaked down into our mess hall to get a glass of buttermilk.

The best expression of the day was when I asked our super sloshed gal to drink the buttermilk. She sniffed at the fresh curd garnished with ginger and coriander. Her face then twisted into a frown and she remarked, “Whew! That smells really bad and rotten.”

College! The age, the ambiance and even the winds give you a certain freedom. Irrespective of gender, you get so comfortable with the folks around that you get ample space to clear so many things in your head.

Those who have tasted it, I know, would bet that the participant’s experience would far exceed the one of a spectator. But fun is fun, nevertheless.

Thank you, all of you, for all these memories of bottled poetry!

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