Jai Ho

- Sudip Roy -

Dear All,

This was one of those leisurely weekend evenings tailor-made for idling. A few close college mates were present at my place. “Jai ho!” I said, to all present and not present, holding up my glass of scotch. Others responded gleefully. My wife brought in a plate load of kebabs, and the mood was perfect for an enjoyable evening.

But why did I say “Jai ho!”, and not “Cheers!’ or “Ullas!”, as is popular nowadays? You will soon know that.

First, a small preface

I hope you will agree that there are not many good things in life where the British islanders have beaten the rest of the world hands down in terms of quality. Scotch whiskey is one such exception; and thankfully so. Boy, what a marvelous product they created! But, unfortunately, as I mentioned, this is an exception. Take their culinary arts, for example. Except for some solitary bakery products, most British dishes are bland and taste horrible. I have always maintained that the British women, compared to their French, Italian or Spanish counterparts, are in general far less graceful. But, come to the world of whiskey. There you are, dear me. The British are at the top! Scotch whiskey is miles ahead of all other alcohols, and beat the other nations any day, anywhere. I have no doubt taken a bit of liberty in considering Scotland as an integral part of the British Isles. Many Scots will not like this idea, I know. But, thanks to their legendary distiller John Friar, who in late fifteenth century mastered the art of brewing, and offered the world something to replace the French Cognac on the English dining tables.

Those of you, who appreciate the good life without any prejudice, will surely endorse what I have just said.

My first encounter with this legendary drink took place many springs back, in England, where I was on an official visit. I was then working for an upcoming brewery in Rajasthan that introduced canned beer in India for the first time. My employer thought it would be a good idea to send me abroad for first-hand experience of modern breweries. Therefore, they sent me to our collaborators in England via Greece, where our English partners had a modern can manufacturing unit. After my scheduled visit to the can factory in Athens, I spent most of my time exploring the Greek metropolis, especially their wineries. I was not much of a great devotee of spirits at that time, and in my short sojourn there, I mainly relied upon Greek wine and draft beer. Scotch was still an entity unknown to me.

A few days later, in a rain soaked evening, I landed at Heathrow. As I landed, my host and good friend Mike (Borst), who had come to receive me at the airport, greeted me warmly, dropped me at a hotel near Hyde Park, and told me he would return at seven in the evening to take me to dinner. That was my first visit to London where our collaborator was headquartered. On the way to the hotel, I had had a taste of the notorious London traffic. By the time Mike left, I was quite thirsty. After the longish wait at Athens Airport, having a cup of hot tea seemed a good idea. I found some Tetley teabags in the service tray in the room. I picked up the phone, and smartly asked for some hot milk. The room service man at the other end was quite surprised, as if I had asked for some strange thing. He politely told me that milk was only served cold. I insisted that I wanted it hot. Saying, ‘Sorry sir, we do not have any provision for hot milk’, he put down the receiver. I, however, discovered a tea maker in the room, and prepared my cup of garam chai with refrigerated milk. Later I learned that milk is not a preferred additive to tea among the British, and they, unlike us Indians, prefer to drink their milk cold rather than hot. I concluded that they were crazy people, who just did not know how to enjoy a good cup of tea.

After my first encounter with the mundane British tea, I did not feel very excited about the possibility of a satisfying dinner. Therefore, when Mike took me to the appointed place for dinner, my expectation was at best of a mediocre gastronomical encounter, rather than an enthrallment. Mike asked me whether I would like to have some scotch. I just said “It will be fine” in a listless voice. Mike ordered for some fish-fingers, and started exchanging pleasantries in typical British fashion. When my drink arrived, I was feeling a little sleepy due to jetlag. In a perfect copybook style, the bartender serving us the first round asked me a few questions about my preferences. I did not really know how to answer them, but somehow managed to, by relying on common sense.

You see, I have this habit of drinking the first peg neat, followed by the second one ‘on the rock’ – thanks to my stay at a project site in Andhra Pradesh in my younger days, when our project manager imbibed this habit in us. The boss is always right. So, all of us subordinates, copied it in no time, like the most obedient servant. That great lesson of my ex-boss saved me this evening, and I passed the test of etiquette at that London Pub. The Bartender was quite pleased to serve me my first peg neat. Mike, who had earlier spent a couple of years in India, and was aware of the Indian habits of drinking, endorsed my jara-hatke style of drinking scotch neat. He told me that in Scotland it is considered almost a criminal offense to mix scotch with either water or soda. “Scotch is like a young lady, very delicate, who must be treated with standalone respect”, he said.

My first sip of the Scottish water gave me a mixed feeling. It was a ‘Black Dog’, if I remember correctly. Slightly sweetish though, it was perfect to set the ball rolling for a thirst slaking evening. The aroma of the golden liquid was so very special! I saw Mike take a long sniff of it, before having the first sip. “Follow me”, he said, “if you really want to enjoy this very special drink.” I did exactly as he did. A mouthful of this ‘water of life’ (that is what ‘whiskey’ means in Gaelic language), followed by quickly swishing it around in the mouth, toned me up with great expectations. My second sip, after a couple of minutes or so, proved to be an absolute pleasure. The famous drink, with all its aroma and texture, offered me a very different drinking experience, quite unlike the Indian whiskeys. Smooth and silken, the scotch opened up a thrilling arena of titillating, but soothing nevertheless, sensation down the nerves. One can perhaps compare the movement of the liquid down the throat with those effortless square cuts, which our very own Sourabh used to unleash on the green carpet. Or, should I say, it was like listening to Pandit Ravishankar playing his favourite raga Shivaranjani on the sitar. I had known Mike for some time by then. He had been in India on behalf of our collaborator, and been the resident representative of the company in New Delhi. We were quite buddy. Mike said, “Scotch is like your lady love. Love her, respect her, and enjoy her company!” “Of course, you’re right Mike”, I nodded. I had always wondered what was so special about scotch whiskey. Now I knew the answer!

Mike told me, “It is the water of the Scottish highland, and the very special wood of the casks that is used to mature the liquid. They bring out that special aroma. The combination is very special.” Indeed the combination was special! By the time I had my third peg, I had the first feel of that famous ‘scotch kick’. Mike explained, “Scotch never gives you a kick. It pulls you in like your loving companion does when you are in love. You love to stay with it.” My ex-boss, the project manager, used to say, “Like a piece of reshmi kebab served at the Bukhara restaurant of Maurya Sherton hotel in Delhi, scotch whiskey is succulent, juicy and mouthful.” I found how right he had been. I just loved it. After my third peg, feeling light, I was floating in a pool of divine pleasure. Something was soothing my nerves with a never-before felt caress. The dimly lit bar seemed like a heavenly abode. The London girls present in the pub looked like beautiful angels. The food tasted better. The last sip tasted fuller and the most satisfying. Gleefully, I said to myself, “Jai ho!”

Next morning, when I got up in my hotel room I felt wonderfully fresh. There was no sign of a hangover, nor any trace of jetlag left in my body or soul. Again, I said to myself, “Jai ho!”

Today, numerous pegs after my unforgettable first one in London, whenever I drink scotch (which is very limited now because of health reasons) I always wish to myself, and to all I know around, cheering for them with a loud “Jai ho!”

Is this not apt, and absolutely patriotic?

Good Night pals, before I sign off …

Sudip


© Sudip Roy - Member WaaS