Our attitude to drinking is the same as it is to sex. We don't do it. But, like sex, we do it all the time. And some states of the union, it seems, do it more than others.

The states with solid drinking reputations are Uttarakhand, Punjab and Kerala. I realised this when I emerged back into the "real" world after spending several years in Dehradun drinking 8PM whisky. My first port of call was Mumbai. I went to a party and drank too much. A friend turned to me and said, "What's with the drinking, Palash? Uttarakhand, eh?" In Delhi, I went to a doctor with a stomach bug. He asked me if I drank. I said yes. How much? I told him. It was way above the NHS-recommended daily intake. He asked me where I was from. When I said Dehradun, his eyes lit up. "Ah. We've had this problem with boys from Uttarakhand." Though I'm far from being a true blue pahari, I suppose some stereotypes have their roots in reality. It was the writer Advaita Kala who once told me about a saying common in the hills, 'Surya-ast/ Garhwal mast.'

Punjab is the Ireland of India. Drinking is more than acceptable. In fact, in Punjab, it's those who don't drink who are considered suspect. Prices are among the lowest in the country. If you're a guest in a sardar house, liquor will be forced down your throat. It was Punjab after all that gave the world the Patiala peg.

Kerala, the state of melancholic Mallus, is also my favourite place to drink. I love dives (more on this in a bit) and Kerala has plenty. Apart from the local tipple, toddy, Kerala loves its brandy. This came as a pleasant surprise. Coming from the north, I associated brandy with older people. My grandmother always had a shot before dinner. But in Kerala, everyone drinks 'braandee'. Here's how you do it: bite into a boiled egg and a piece of bitter gourd pickle, raise your index finger and wash it down with half a glass of Honeybee mixed with water. Have another bite; drain the glass. Now you're a man.

For many Indians, drinking is taboo at home. Which is why the quart bottle remains a runaway bestseller. It's something that can be consumed quickly and discarded. We drink everywhere  on trains, outside liquor vends, in our cars, but rarely at home. It's important to maintain appearances. Those without cars also find a way out. In Allahabad, my hometown, people hire cycle rickshaws by the half hour. The rickshaw puller's brief is to keep pedalling until the booze runs out.

The car drinkers come in two categories. Those who drink and drive at the same time, and those who park outside a tandoori chicken joint and open a bottle. I have a school friend in Allahabad who cannot drink at home, not because his wife minds, but because he lives with his father, mother and elder brother and they would throw a fit. On Sundays, he takes his wife and kid for a drive, and drinks while he's driving. It's three pleasures in one, he told me, "Drinking pleasure, wifely pleasure and driving pleasure."

I was once with another friend who likes to drink while driving. I was frightened out of my wits. I invited him to my place  why not sit and enjoy a drink? He had an explanation. "I get sozzled quickly if I have my rum sitting down. Driving keeps me sane."

Indians like doing things their own way. America eats Big Macs. We eat non-beef Maharaja Macs. Americans prefer to choose their own life partners. We go in for arranged marriages. Americans have strict laws for drunken driving. We have taken drinking and driving to an entirely new level.

We drink on trains, even though it's banned. You can be fined for smoking on a train, but you'll rarely be penalised for drinking. In our tipple tradition, drinking is always done on an empty stomach, before dinner. In the old days, when Rajdhanis had chair cars, the attendants would come around with soda and soft drinks an hour before dinner was served. You chose your mixer, tipped the bearer and settled down into the cocktail hour.

Then there are the efficient, organised types who board the train having done their homework. This man will start getting restless by six in the evening. He will look at his watch every few minutes. At seven, he will cast guilty glances at fellow passengers, then stick his hand into his duffle bag and pull out a Bisleri bottle containing a yellowish liquid that looks like Morarji Cola but is actually whisky mixed with water. Since he's well prepared he will, in all probability, also be armed with a ten-rupee packet of Haldiram's sev. A sip of Bagpiper. A mouthful of sev. Sip again. Feeling sociable and warm? Good time to call home. "Beta, how was your exam? Aaj ghar pe khana kya bana hai?"

On long-distance trains, you don't even have to carry your liquor. There's a system in place. On the Rajdhani to Guwahati, they will get you as many quarts of McDowells No.1 whisky as you want, though at a slight mark up. All you need to do is ask the right attendant. A regular on the route gave me some sound advice. "Don't pay a rupee more than two hundred. The tip is included in the price."

We like to categorise things as male and female. So mango drinks like Maaza are for women, while colas, like Thums Up, are for men ('Taste the thunder'). Motorcycles are for men (Pulsar's tagline is 'Definitely male'), while scooters are for women (Scooty's tagline is 'Why should boys have all the fun?'). Similarly, whisky and rum are considered masculine drinks (the tagline for Imperial Blue whisky is 'Men will be men'), while wine and vodka are for women, and, well, sissies. Beer occupies a grey area. Women prefer foreign brands like Heineken and Corona. Real men drink strong beer with names like Knock Out and Haywards 10,000.

Gin is another "sissy" drink. After liberalisation, we've seen foreign liquor brands flood our shops. There's been whisky, rum, beer and vodka, but no gin. Blue Riband, the old staple of socialist India, is still around, and there's Blue Moon, but little else.

Another liquor that Indians have rejected is stout. Guinness hasn't dared enter India. (They've been in Nigeria for years). It seems we can't let go of our love for glycerol-laced lager. Haywards launched their indigenous stout in test markets like Gurgaon but it soon vanished from the shelves.

I like to drink in dives. Home is boring and familiar. Delhi bars are overpriced and I cannot stand fawning waiters who keep refilling your glass, even though the previous beer is far from over. But Delhi doesn't have any real dives. Mumbai has plenty, and, of late, so does Dehradun. My local in Dehradun, Meedos, is splendid. It's dingy, and dank, and by seven in the evening, it's packed with grim-faced men. Surly waiters bang wet glasses and beer on your table and walk away. It's very matter-of-fact. By eight, people are abusing their bosses; by nine, they are building castles in the air; by 10, they are heading home to their inquisitive wives. And dinner.

The writer is editing an anthology on drinking for Tranquebar.

ALSO READ Light as Air, Just as Fast

Please read our terms of use before posting comments