The Black Label Man

Krishna Bar is quite an oddity but only for alcoholics like me who can still identify oddities. It’s a dimly lit restaurant in Vile Parle East, quite close to the station. It has backlit glass mosaics of under sea life and also murals of Emperors and fighters who seem to be a cross between the Greeks and the Mughals.

From the moment he walked into the bar, he stuck me as odd. His shirt was not right. It was just too white. He looked like a banker or a currency trader with some multinational firm. The only thing that cast a shadow a doubt was his stubble. Though the banker and currency trader types had started wearing khakhis off late, a stubble was just out of the question.

Actually I was myself a bit of an oddity for Krishna Bar, which catered strictly to lower middle class clerk types. Though I had seen better times, the past decade had not been a part of those better times.

Alright, precisely 11 years ago, I had won the Filmfare award for the best original screenplay but that was 11 years ago and a lot changes in 11 years. What had not changed was the fact that I could pass judgment on a person the instant I saw him. After all, I did go to Doon school, so that gave me a right to be condescending and look down upon just about everyone. The fact that I currently proof read back of pack copy on soap and shampoo labels at a not so happening advertising agency is quite besides the point.

I had just finished a quarter of whiskey. I had long stopped distinguishing between the good, the not so good and the downright putrid. What I drank was purely a question of how much money I had in my pocket. So Red Knight it was these days, though I drank it the same way that I drank single malt in the good old days.

The 'Banker / Currency trader' was sitting alone. Johnny, the bar tender approached him and asked him what he would like to drink. The words that he uttered were pure music to my ears, "Do you have Black Label?” he said.

No he did not say it in Hindi or Marathi. He uttered those words in English.

"You mean McDowell's Black Label?” clarified Johnny.

The man in the white shirt started had at Johnny's name tag and said, "No the one that is named after you."

"Yes sir, Johnnie Walker Black Label, large or a small?"

The man in the white shirt was quite exasperated. “Just get me a whole bottle will you".

I could not help but think what this guy was doing here, among guys who were drinking Gilbey's Green Label and Alcazar Vodka? Anyway, this presented me with the opportunity to drink Black Label. You see I did have a friendly face and was A1 when it came to conversation.

I took a large gulp from my drink, and stared at the White Shirt. Just them he happened to notice that I was looking at him. I picked up my glass and said, "Cheers". He smiled back and mouthed the same. I knew that this was my chance to help him finish his bottle of Scotch. I picked up my glass and walked up to him. "Satyajit Majumdar", I said extending my hand. He shook my hand and looked at me wondering what was it that I wanted.

I read his mind and couldn't help but laugh and sang out, "What was it you wanted...", a not so known Bob Dylan song, not that anyone in Krishna Bar could tell the difference between Bally Sagoo and Bob Dylan.

The White Shirt's response left me astounded. "Tell me again so I know", he completed the lyric that I had started.

"Well, you have me at a loss of words", said I.

"Ranjan, Ranjan Singh", he said and pointed to the vacant chair in front of him.

A moment of uncomfortable silence followed. I drained my glass empty and gently placed it on the table.

Without asking me he picked up the bottle of Black Label and poured me a rather stiff one.

"Thank you", I said

"I must say I find it quite surprising to see someone who can quote Bob Dylan here", he said.

"What's your excuse", said I.

"Just killing some time", he answered. He picked up his glass and it was then that I noticed the odd way in which he picked up his glass. His forefinger did not touch the glass at all.

"What are you saving the forefinger for? The wife or the mistress?” I said knowing that obnoxious statements could be potent ice breakers.

He laughed, "Neither actually, I am saving it for better things", he said.

"Didn't pick you up for one who swung that way", I continued the jibe.

"Aren't you getting a bit too cocky?” he replied coldly.

"Cocky! Pun intended there?” I laughed.

He looked straight at me. For a moment I could not tell what was going though his mind and then he burst out laughing. "You're a funny guy", he said and poured me another drink stiff drink though my glass was not yet empty.

"So what do you do? Ok let me guess, you're an investment banker who lost his job a few days ago. The market crash got you?” I said

"What did you say your name was? Mr. Knowitall?” he jeered.

"Come on, it's just something I do to amuse myself and incidentally that's what I do for a living. I am in the business of knowing people...in advertising you see", the moment I said it I knew that it must have sounded really pompous.

"Advertising! That must be cool. Let's just say, I do what I do to amuse myself", He said coldly.

"That's a good job to have and I must say you must be doing pretty well", I said

"Yeah I am not complaining", he said and picked up his glass again in the same peculiar manner the forefinger pointing at me as though he was going to shoot me with his make believe pistol.

"Why do you pick up your glass that way? Trust me you'll get a much better grip if you just use that forefinger too", I said.

"I have a pretty good grasp, even without my forefinger and how I hold my glass should not make any difference to you", he seemed a bit irritated.

I was quite tipsy by now. He poured me another drink.

"OK why don't you guess what it is that I do? Let me give you a clue, my forefinger plays a huge role in what I do", he said.

"You are a cricket umpire. You raise that finger and out goes an aspiring young batsman or a has been or a wannabe at Shivaji Park or Cross Maidan", I was most pleased with being so articulate.

"Impressive but not correct", he said and smiled and poured me another drink.

"You're, you're, you're a gig gigolo and impotent gigolo sho all you have left as tool of the trade are your fingers", I laughed.

He laughed loudly.

"Professhional...kite flyer?", I slurred.

I was now seeing double and the bottle in front of us was almost empty. I knew I had to be heading home now. So I drained my glass and without asking him emptied the rest of the bottle and finished the drink that I had poured myself in one quick gulp. I tired to get up but felt dizzy so I thought I''d just sit for a while.

"Spuriush stuff....made in Ulhashnagaar I think", I said.

"It tasted alright to me, maybe you should not drink so fast", I vaguely heard him say.

From the corner of my eye, I could see one dada / state corporator type walk in and being given the full treatment by the waiters. Even the owner of Krishna Bar had come up and was personally attending to him. My head was spinning. The white shirt in front of me was looking even whiter than before.

The marble top of the table felt cold against my cheek. And I was suddenly woken up by a loud noise. My head throbbed as I looked up and saw blood oozing out of the dada / state corporator's head. The chair in front of me was empty. I thought I saw the guy in the white shirt look at me and point his forefinger at me just as he walked out of the glass door which had a dolphin painted on it.