Everything Is Good, Everything Is the Same
Everything Is Good, Everything Is the Same
Beer in Mumbai
The second plate of naan arrives, flecked with strands of cheese and spots of black sesame. It’s 11 p.m. on a Tuesday night at Gokul, the kind of night when a tall, cool glass of Kingfisher would do quite nicely.
I happen to have that tall, cool glass of Kingfisher right in front of me, and the sweet taste of bitter is exactly the kind of thing I need. Not just because it’s the kind of muggy night that merits beer-soaked fun, but also because I haven’t drunk here at Gokul in a year.
Personal prohibition was brought on by jaundice; no drinking for at least six months after recovering. The path to good health is lined with abstinence, but having ridden out that curve I am back now and Gokul—a habitual port of call since 2006—is as good a place as any for a beery comeback.
Tucked in a lane behind the Taj hotel, the vibe is equal parts seedy, iconic, cheap, convenient and comfortable. It is always in danger of passing from genuine dive into appropriated cool, but on balance it seems to do quite well, staying this side of pretentiousness.
There are bars like this one through Mumbai; dimly lit watering holes offering inexpensive liquor and crunchy treats like masala papad and chakli with Schezwan sauce. I have heard tell that even on dry days—holidays in the state when alcohol is prohibited—Gokul is the one place you have always been able to go to. It has moved through various iterations; as a tiny restaurant, an unofficial gay bar, a Lonely Planet recommendation. Its clientele demographic is all over the map.
Even though smoking indoors is prohibited, Gokul is free from the constraints of reality and the air-conditioned ground floor room is permeated by a tobacco fug. The pomfret arrives; a flat, red slab. We tear off hunks off it. All the while I remember it was probably a shady dish in a shady joint like this that gave me jaundice in the first place. But now is not the time to dwell on quibbles over hygiene; especially not when you’re after things like “character.”
I look around for familiar faces, but tonight there seem to be none. We are seated in one far corner, lit up by the iridescence of the television in a place whose approach to lighting is the less, the better. The show switches from kabbadi to Ian Botham stroking a boundary in a cricket highlights reel from 1981. There are ghosts everywhere, and not just on the television. The taste of Kingfisher is comforting, and it is good to be reunited with it. But nostalgia is the refuge of the unimaginative, and I am here to make new memories.
“What’s new on the menu since I met you last year?” I ask the man in charge, simply known as Anna to D, who invokes the authority of a regular.
A fellow with a standard-issue moustache, Anna is non-committal. “Everything is good, everything is the same,” he says, with a half-smile.
Glad to be back.