What’s in a Drink? by Sushma R Doshi

They call me an English movie addict. True that. I watch every movie, web series and show streaming out of Hollywood. Not watch. Binge watch. Everyday. Till my eyes ache and my head hurts. I watch those images on my television, riveted by those pretty houses and manicured green lawns in what they call the suburbs, the crowds in…what they refer to as downtown, walking briskly to work, women in heels, men in blazers and overcoats…. the glamor of beaches, blue oceans and snow capped mountains. Even the sunlight seems different…. a golden hue showering gently on the landscape. Basking in the sun was a term invented for them. Here it is a blazing sun scorching the earth and burning us. But out of these pictures, it is that of a woman driving to a bar for a drink that I’m addicted to.

Addictions are mostly used to escape from reality. True again. But most people would point out that my reality doesn’t warrant an escape. I should count myself as fortunate that I belong to the top five percent of the population of the town in the developing country I live in. I live in a house…house, not apartment. Of course,  we wouldn’t have been able to afford a house in a metropolitan city like Mumbai. But even then…we have a reasonably big house in a small town. We have a maid and a driver. I’m convent educated. So is my husband. He runs a restaurant and makes good money. I am a housewife. No….a homemaker…isn’t that the new…the politically correct name for a housewife? I cook, take care of the house and the family…which includes the in-laws, the husband and my three children. As is evident, I don’t really feel, apart from my children, anything is mine. But I don’t complain. It would be sacrilege to do so. Blasphemous. My mother says some women would die for a life like mine. I have a washing machine, dishwasher, shop online and attend kitty parties. I travel during the holidays and I’ve been abroad a couple of times. But traveling isn’t the same as living abroad. And living abroad as an immigrant isn’t the same as a white or black woman driving to a bar for a drink.

In the movies, a woman, when she is disturbed or wants to think, drives to a bar and enters it…a splendid lounge awashed in dim lights….sometimes with a pool table at one end. She perches herself on a stool, alone and orders a drink. She is confident, flicks back her hair and while taking a sip of her drink, stares into space and ponders deeply about her life and problems.

I think of myself arguing with my husband at night. Hmm…around 10 PM? I have an irresistible mad urge to change out of the demure salwar kurti I am wearing and don my jeans ( of course, I have jeans…several in fact but I only wear them when I travel to a metropolitan city or abroad ), take the car out to a bar and have a drink. I dream of giving in to temptation.( I’ve taken driving lessons…I do know how to drive) But this is a small town. The moment I go down to take the car out….a controlled pandemonium will be unleashed. My in- laws will rush out accompanied by the domestic help…a hysterical narration of the kind of women who go out at night will ensue…meanwhile my children will join in to ensure a melodramatic climax …where my husband will storm in, order me not to create a scene and return to our room.

Let me imagine myself as a brave woman surmounting these obstacles. I ignore the theatrical display, take out the car and then…go where? The roads are deserted at night. I get nervous and fidgety. What if the car breaks down? Is there enough petrol in the tank? Should I stop at the petrol pump? The man at the petrol pump gives me strange looks. A woman driving aimlessly at this time of the night is queer all right.

So…where should I go? I park in front of a swanky restaurant. I enter it nodding to the uniformed guard who salutes me. A waiter with big eyes, dressed in black and white and a red bow tie, respectfully ushers me in.

“A table for one,” I tell him. His eyes grow bigger. I find myself a table in the corner. I sit down erect and the waiter hands me a menu now not so respectfully. They haven’t handed me the menu for cocktails. I don’t have the courage to ask for it. I just order a plate of fried rice and chili chicken. The waiter vanishes. I wait for the food to arrive. I extract my phone from my bag and bury my head in it, pretending to be engrossed in reading something madly interesting. The waiter, after what seems to be an eternity, returns with the food in shining white crockery. He sets it on the table and serves me a portion of the fried rice and chicken. This is going to be the most difficult meal to finish. I feel judgemental eyes burning through my back. Perhaps I’m imagining it. Is it my guilt for not being an obedient wife that is making me feel the cynosure of all eyes? Families whispering amongst themselves. Men in groups shooting furtive looks. Probing questioning eyes. Presumptions. A Madamji. Alone. Wearing jeans. Suspicious. Fishy. I gulp down the food and signal for the bill. I fumble to take out the cash out of my purse and the waiter eyes me surreptitiously. I tip him and he acknowledges it with a nod. I swiftly move outside. The guard at the door stares at me curiously. I walk towards the car park. It’s quiet and still. The roads are deserted. Where do I go? Best to go back home. I’ll feel like a fool but I don’t have any other option. I go home to derisive scathing glares.

I snap out of the morbid contemplation of a rebellion that is never going to happen. I sigh. I stare at the flashing pictures on my television. A blonde woman brushes her hair, puts on a dress and goes out to a bar for a drink. I suppose I will continue to fantasize about doing it everyday. I change into my nightgown, brush my hair and take out the bottle of whiskey I have stashed behind my clothes in my cupboard. I pour out a glass and relax to watch the rest of the movie.

Sushma R Doshi

Image: Pixabay.com – Interior of a bar with stools, and drink bottles on shelves