He was the most handsome gentleman in our locality. A simple but well-dressed man. Many young turban-wearing lads would envy his wrinkle-free, well-pressed turban layers. Many a time he would be standing at the ironing shop, right in front of our house, in his sparkling white pyjama, half-sleeved vest, and top-notch turban with his well-tied beard, reading a Punjabi newspaper, gossiping and laughing his open freestyle laugh, while the man with a heavy iron pressed his dress of the day.
Every morning, while going to school, we would see him in a tailored-fitting formal trouser with a tucked-in shirt and a matching turban, riding his cream Bajaj Chetak scooter, which remains the oldest yet scratch-free two-wheeler of our locality to this day. By profession, he was a pharmacist. After working with many big pharmaceutical brands, he started his own pharmacy shop, where he was training his son and nephew to be professional pharmacists.
Because of his pleasing personality and jolly nature, he was a friend and ‘Chacha (uncle)’ of every child in the locality, funnier than Kapil Sharma can ever think of himself.
Apart from his love of dressing up and playing with children in the streets, he was very fond of alcohol. He was very much aware of the chemical formula of alcohol and its effects on health, but he couldn’t resist having his daily quota without fail.
In the evening, while playing in the street, he would slip a few currency notes into my pocket and ask me to bring a bottle of his favourite brand to his terrace. And there was a silent pact that I wouldn’t go to his terrace through his house’s main entry gate. I would bring a bottle, go to my house’s terrace, crawl up and down the half-back wall, walk slowly on the terrace of the house right behind mine without making a noise, then crawl upon another half wall and jump onto his terrace.
He would be waiting there with a steel jug of water and a glass in the dark. I would hand him his bottle and a pack of peanuts. He would quickly make his drinks and gulp them down. In between the two drinks, he would stop for a few minutes, munching on plain salted peanuts (offering a handful to me as well) and making a few funny observations. Later, I would slip back to my home in the same manner I had come.
I had just crossed the threshold of adulthood when one evening, he slipped money into my pocket and whispered to bring a bottle of beer along with his daily quota. I reached the terrace with his quota and a beer. He opened the beer with his teeth and offered it to me. I was surprised and reluctant, as I had never tasted alcohol and did not even want to. He asked me to enjoy as much as I liked and leave the remaining.
Sipping slowly, I gulped it down in half an hour till the last drop. Soon after reaching back home, I slipped under the sheets and slept. Later, I left my hometown for my professional journey.
Since then, I have remained a moderate drinker, having a drink or two on the weekend for a few weeks and then having no alcohol for months, even years. But ‘Locality Chacha’, despite strict restrictions by his religious father and a neighbourhood friend-turned-wife (his wife and sisters were my nursery school teachers), kept on stealing his share of alcohol on this earth.
Decades passed in a flash, but whenever I would visit my hometown, we would stumble upon each other in one or the other corner of the street. He would interact with the same warmth and humour.
He was still in his late forties when his organs refused to take more alcohol. Doctors advised him to stop, but he couldn’t be stopped by anyone, not even by his (late) father earlier, and not by himself now. He sipped on his quota until he was admitted to the hospital. I was not aware of his condition till today. One evening, as soon as I entered home, my mother told me that he had breathed his last this morning. I whispered in my mind, “The man who bought me my first beer has gone forever…”
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