I love and hate Diwali. Diwalis are, at the same time, heartwarming and infuriating for me. On the one hand I love the lights, the getting together, the dressing up, sharing food and on the other there is the the unacknowledged labor. Patriarchy and gender always play a roll in the household, it only becomes blatant and garish around festivals. Food, preparation and consumption, merry, making and cleaning up after are all gendered.
I am expected to help out in the kitchen, make rangolis and serve the elders and the men like they are incapable of doing so themselves. The papads, onions, the million equi-sized chapatis, the reheating of food is all a woman’s work. I am praised for my chapatis, for their soft round-ness. Things I do not care about. But I have never been praised for a career move, my driving, the way I help manage mental health. The pigeonhole of gender norms is suffocating. It makes me furious before it makes me sad.
So, I feel revolted by the idea of cooking or feeding right now. But for the first time, the revulsion is not jarring or paralyzing. I am able to see the food as a medium not the message of the oppression. I have discovered a handle to the steaming hot bowl I was struggling to carry to the dining table. I discovered that when I do things volunterily, with eager consent, the same tool makes my life more comfortable.
Today, I picked up the knifes, the blenders and the ladles. I turned them from ‘tools of oppression’ to tools of dissent with my consent and some Vodka.
My experience making, drinking and feeding Bloody Mary
- I cannot say “this is my favorite” about any food. While the food may stay beloved, its favoriteness (1st rank on my list of liking) does not stick through phases. Bloody Mary is the only exception to this rule. It was my favorite when I first discovered it 8 years ago and it is now. Any other mint Julep is only measured in comparison to Bloody Mary and never consumed after it fails, which it inevitably does.
- Chilli’s in Viman Nagar makes the best Bloody Marys. If I could, I would go there twice a week. But it burnt a hole in my students’ pocket when I lived close to it. It was a saved and savoured treat, like the chocolate at the back of the shelf and the expensive bottle of wine. I would go there at the end of days that felt like war. When I got a job and could afford it without guilt I moved so far off from Chillis, it became impractical to go there often.
- I have since tried Bloody Mary at any bar I went to. Nothing came close.
- And yet this is the first time I made it at home. Not that I made elaborate cocktails ever, but one would expect to want to make something they love. I guess I never thought I could get close to making a Chilli’s Bloody Mary.
I did.
My love story with Alcohol and consumption is very Bollywood one. In it, love happens after blatant hatred and then the protagonists fight with their parents to make love win. Then they happily go to the cinema and temples together.
I felt an aversion towards the idea of alcohol all my childhood; mostly because my mum connected it to addiction, violence and immorality. I only saw real, responsible, non-mafia adults drink a harmless social drink at a party when I was 18, living away from parents for the first time. My first drink was made for me by an adult/guardian. I was told to never drive after drinking, to drink with people I trust and drink a lot of water after. I would then preach the “abstinence leads to obsession” gospel to my teetotaler friends and family.
Back home, my fathers and uncles though love themselves a drink, still like to pretend that the younger people and women do not drink. So drinking is often done in secludes spaces with set friend circles. Everyone avoids that space and pretend it doesn’t exist.
I decided to break the 4th wall with my uncle. It took me putting him in a hostage situation and making persuasive, almost adamant arguments to convince him to drink with me. Once we were over the rubble, we became drinking buddies. He got me the best whiskey I ever drank, I made him the fanciest gin cocktail of his life.
When I shifted home, I told my parents I drink, which is big in a Marwadi conservative household. It has never been done before. The confession was followed some bickering and my well prepared presentation full of research, emotional arguments and logical statements about my safety. Reluctantly they accepted. During the lockdown, I took a bottle of whiskey from my father. Which is only a stepping stone to my lifelong dream of drinking with my father like I can with my friends’.
It feel like a veil was lifted from my face. I could be more of myself, which helps me not run away from home.
Before the pandemic, I took my uncle to our favorite rooftop bar after much reluctance on his part. We drank and he told me he feels like I am a friend, which puts him on the top of the world. He drank brandy for a sour throat, I drank a whiskey from my mangled heart.
