Almost every other Tamil film features bacchanalia, if not in a starring role, then certainly as strong supporting cast

In Tamil Nadu, more than any other State, it’s hard to tell if cinema mirrors life or if it’s the other way around. For instance, both Tamil cinema and society seem to have an alcohol problem that everyone pretends to be concerned about, but no one quite wants to take the trouble of coaxing the patient to rehab.

Almost every other Tamil film features bacchanalia, if not in a starring role (Idharkuthane Aasaipattai Balakumara, Va: Quarter Cutting, Naveena Saraswathi Sabatham, Madhubana Kadai), then certainly as strong supporting cast (Iraivi, Karuppan, Veeram, pretty much all films directed by Venkat Prabhu, and every film with G.V. Prakash in the lead).

Eight of 10 iconic comedy scenes since the turn of the century seem to involve quarter, cutting, communal bonding and brawling at a Tasmac (Tamil Nadu’s government-owned liquor corporation) outlet, becoming mattai (passing out), remaining ‘steady’, the many experiments on imbibing alcohol with or without ‘side-dish’ — the list goes on and on to the point of making you reach out for a stiff one. The statutory warning about alcohol being injurious to health can be seen permanently affixed on 24/7 Tamil comedy TV channels, quite popular among children.

Love and liquor

In the 80s and up to the mid-90s, the amber liquid remained a visible metaphor for villainy. Under its catalytic impact, vanilla villains acquired bare-fanged evil. At other times, it was a constant companion — along with a freeloading comic sidekick — of the well-to-do village wastrel (usually Sathyaraj) whose social conscience would subsequently be stirred up and nursed on to the road to redemption by his love interest. And, of course, the cocktail of failed love and liquor occasionally lets even the unlettered leading man break into Marx-meets-Mimansa rhyming verse, set to music by Ilaiyaraaja. Along the way, we learnt a thing or two about mofussil mixology such as elaneer (tender coconut water) in saarayam (alcohol) — a semma combination (Maaman Magal, 1995).

By the late 90s, when the nectar of economic liberalisation began trickling down, the hero and his horde of friends, bored of hanging out at Spencer’s Plaza or that evergreen Tamil film shooting spot, Egmore’s Alsa Mall, began to have their “treat” in his bachelor pad, or went to places like Sangeetha Bar and picked up fights with other patrons over the last available plate of rabbit curry (Harichandra, 1998).

Bottle placements

Liquor-laced double entendres that were verily a Venniradai Moorthy speciality (sample this: “I took my daughter to Dr. John Exshaw who treated her for a full day, then I consulted an Old Monk for quarter day… Every day I end up spending ₹2,000 to ₹5,000.”) were now staple fare. Brand names were so frequently woven into comedian Vivek’s dialogues (remember “Monitor paakkalama?”?) that all of it seemed cleverly designed “product placement” strategy by the marketing mavens at alcobev companies.

Despite his pioneering efforts at mainstreaming the “quarter-cutting-boiled-egg” brand of comedy, Vivek, without a trace of irony, was hailed as “chinna Kalaivanar”, after 1940s film and theatre star N.S. Krishnan, known for advocating progressive values in his works with his trademark wit.

The late 90s and early 2000s also witnessed direct advertising of liquor brands, primarily through “item” songs (‘May Masam,’ Jay Jay, 2003), making a mockery of the ban on such advertising. Meantime, Tamil Nadu merrily continued with its hypocritical socio-political attitude towards alcohol.

In a 2003 essay titled ‘Drinking in Chennai’ in Man’s World magazine, author Bishwanath Ghosh, a staffer at The Hindu, captured the city’s put-on piety rather delightfully. “No one can scandalise Chennai with their drinking. If anything, it’s Chennai that scandalises you. No matter which part of the city you live in, there’s always a booze shop round the corner. It opens when you are returning from your morning walk, and it shuts at 11 p.m., though you can try your luck even after that. And during those 15 hours, you drink, drink and drink,” he wrote.

Happy hours

In the 15 years since, not much about Chennai has changed, except that the “happy hours” have shrunk a bit. But the city more than makes up for it by pulling in far bigger volumes. The period also coincided with the State’s desire to make the most of the burgeoning demand for alcohol. And cinema, Tamil Nadu’s most trusted instrument for statecraft, continued to be utilised for maximum mileage.

In 2003, the government re-nationalised liquor retail arguing that this “vice” business needed the state’s firm paternalistic control. Tamil Nadu today is by far the biggest alcohol market in India accounting for 18% of sales. Tasmac has an income of about ₹27,000 crore, roughly a third of the State’s overall revenue. Some seven million tipplers are estimated to make a trip every day to its 3,800-odd outlets. According to a national survey, nearly 47% of Tamil Nadu’s men consume alcohol compared to a national average of 30%.

Prohibition, of course, has played a major role in Tamil politics. In 1937, Madras Presidency, under the premiership of C. Rajagopalachari, became the first State to impose a blanket ban on alcohol. To plug the revenue hole, Rajaji introduced the sales tax. The Dravidian movement too was totally committed to temperance. C.N. Annadurai, founder of DMK and the first DMK Chief Minister, described revenue from liquor as “buying butter from the hands of a very sick leper.”

How Tasmac began

The first public policy disagreement between AIADMK founder M.G. Ramachandran (MGR) and DMK’s M. Karunanidhi was, in fact, over prohibition. When Karunanidhi, as Chief Minister in 1971, was toying with the idea of lifting prohibition, MGR asked for a nationwide referendum among women on the matter. When the DMK government did lift prohibition on August 30, 1971, MGR termed it a sad day and proceeded to Anna Samadhi to publicly renew his party’s pledge against alcohol.

This prohibition policy flip-flop continued until 1981, when MGR himself lifted the ban, never to be imposed again, and formed the State-run firms, Tasmac and Tasco, to monopolise sales of alcohol. The latter was shut down by 1987, but Tasmac turned to be a cash cow with a turnover of ₹900 crore over the next seven years.

In Tamil cinema today, the depiction of alcohol consumption is perhaps less disconcerting than its glorification and normalisation. When friends meet, no matter what time of day, drink they must as if it is akin to cutting toenails (Kanna Laddu Thinna Aasaiya); joy and sorrow are not emotions to be encountered with equanimity but always bookended by a drink (Boss Engira Baskaran); ideas and creativity flow uninterrupted under influence (Mankatha); we now have seasonal “bar anthems” (Mugamoodi); drunken jerks eventually win the girl because they have a heart or gold and irresistible charm (insert any recent Tamil film).

This could make even the Honourable Galahad Threepwood of Blandings Castle, pickled to the gills and always preferring liquids over lunch, blanch with envy. Carry on, Kollywood.

The Bengaluru-based writer, translator, classical music addict and fountain pen freak makes the world’s best rasam.