Braving the Back Room in Chandigarh
Braving the Back Room in Chandigarh
Indian parties are all-encompassing affairs. In the days before, the house becomes a staging ground worthy of a military campaign, with countless suppliers and their assistants filling the household relentlessly with sights, smells and sounds of all manner. Indians don’t need much of an excuse to throw a full-fledged party, but the introduction of a new baby certainly qualifies.
This past November, my wife and I made the 14-hour flight from EWR to DEL, then another connecting flight to Chandigarh, the capital of Punjab state, with our 1-year-old son in tow. Ravi was to meet most of his Indian family for the first time, including my wife’s Nanaji and Naniji—his great grandparents.
No matter the joy of the occasion, one toddler plus a dozen in-laws, multiplied by jetlag, is not a formula for sanity.
Fortunately, I had an escape. My in-laws live in a very nice part of Chandigarh, where spacious houses are in walking distance of well-kept public parks and local markets. Down the road from Nanaji’s home, in what’s essentially a strip mall, an unmarked, unfriendly black door actually hides a tiny locals-only bar—my oasis.
I’m actually using the word “bar” generously. Indians are enthusiastic drinkers, but they wouldn’t know a proper bar if it fell from the sky. In the big cities, you’ll find Indian approximations of British pubs; and in the nicer hotels, you may find a gorgeous bar that recalls the Raj.
My particular local is a sparse 15-by-20-foot space attached to a liquor store known only as “Wine Shop” — and itself unnamed — where simple Indian fare (chicken tikka, dal makhani, veg pakora, all under $3.50) is washed down with beer or whiskey (Indian brands, or Johnnie Walker for big spenders). The air is thick with smoke, and Bollywood movies blare from the TV. The menu includes an 80-rupee “vomiting charge.” Which is more than fair—who wouldn’t pay someone $1.30 to clean up such a disaster?
I’m a friendly enough guy, but I don’t make friends here. When I visit, I sit down with a book or the paper, and enjoy an hour on my own. My beer of choice is Kingfisher Strong, served in 650ml “quart” bottles. There’s no tourism to speak of in Chandigarh, so I’m always subject to curious but well-meaning stares. Still, I love this place. At least once on every trip, I’ll sneak away while the family naps or runs errands.
This past November, I invited my wife to join me. If the local drinkers were perplexed by a Western guy invading their shady saloon, my wife’s presence nearly gave them aneurysms. Indian women just don’t do this. But once we’d put down a bottle each, we were just two people who needed a few drinks.
Neena and I sat in that smoky room and played cards for two hours, working through several bottles each, occasionally stopping to watch a catchy musical number on TV. As much as we love Ravi, and as much as I love my in-laws, we needed some space. India runs unevenly, on first or fifth gear: Either you’re languidly waiting for dinner, say, or you’re dashing across town, fighting traffic, to make your train. There’s no third gear here.
Thanks to Kingfisher, calm and peace were restored. We strolled back to the family home with that familiar warmth running through our veins. The full-bore chaos of party-planning—India in fifth gear—was no longer stressful. We probably snuck a few bottles back with us.
That night, for unrelated reasons, I became violently ill. Fortunately, I reached the bathroom in time. My wife never would’ve helped clean up, not even for 80,000 rupees.