A bottle of rum, none too glorious

Nagraj Rao

It is Christmas time. How could I not remember my encounter with the Christmas (Plum) cake? About four decades back, we were residing in a comparatively conservative (at that time) part of Bengaluru. My wife decided to bake a plum cake. One of the important ingredients, rum, was not readily available at home.

Well, the rum essence could have served the purpose but she wanted the “real” thing and that too immediately. So we had to buy it from a wine store in the neighbourhood. Asking my wife or daughters to go and fetch it was ruled out so the task had befallen on yours truly. But then my daughters had serious misgivings about my going because if I happened to be found loitering anywhere near the bar by any of their class mates, the next day whole school will be agog with the news that their dad goes to the bar (‘Ek bar’ could easily be interpreted as ‘bar bar’).

One ingenious suggestion that came my way was that I could go there with my face covered. But I put my foot down about this atrocious suggestion and refused to go in a fancy dress.

But the task had got to be done. It was approaching dusk so I was less likely to be recognised. I took my chance, hopefully unobserved, to the wine shop. After entering the shop, I asked the man at the counter to give me a bottle of rum. That bloke had seen me at the nearby bakery a number of times but never at his bar. He gave a meaningful look as if to say, neevu kuditheera antha gotthirlilla (Did not know that you also drank)!

“Sir, ille beka?” (roughly translated to do you want to have it right here?), he asked. I looked at him blankly and then the penny dropped. He wanted to know whether I wanted to gulp it down standing right at the counter. I shuddered to even imagine myself doing so. Then he picked a bottle from the shelf and showed its label to me for my approval.

I snapped, “My wife wanted only Old Monk.” He gave a startled look.

I was irritated but asked him to pack it quickly. I rushed home with my booty covered in an old newspaper, fervently hoping that I managed to get home without being spotted and placed the packet triumphantly before my wife. She eagerly opened it and her face dropped, disappointment writ large on her face.

She face-palmed and blurted, “Ayyo, idu tumba chikku sizu. Idaralli
moneyplant hakokke aagalla.” (This is too small a size. One cannot plant a money plant in it). So much for all my efforts.

Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.