This piece originally appeared as a chapter in my book in 2013, but this version below has some edits for clarity, typos and other inconsistencies.
If it weren’t for the time spent at places like these, I wouldn’t have been half the traveller I am now. As my friend Shashanka once wrote:
And not just any bar, but shadiest bar that the town has to offer. Because that is where the true flavour of the city can be seen – that’s where the nomads, vagabonds, the scoundrels and all other interesting people gather. All you need to have is a little bit of time and a cast iron stomach.
These shadiest of bars is where the crazy ideas were hatched and the unplanned detours imagined. All aided by some of the worst beer (and one case, local spirit) that one can buy in the country. Alcohol so bad and foul, that it can only be termed as good.
So, if you ever find yourself in these towns and want to get the most local of all experiences, visit these bars, and partake of all they offer.
Atul
Alcohol is prohibited in Gujarat without a valid (and expensive) permit, but that hardly bothers anyone. People always find a way to get the maal. For people who live in the southern areas of the state (around Valsad and Vapi), there is always the welcome escape to the Union Territory of Daman. But not everyone wants to drive 100 kilometres for a bit of beer and chicken.
Enter Maasi ka Adda. Situated right behind the police station (not in the least bit surprising, isn’t it?) on the Atul-Valsad highway, this hole in the wall is just that. One first squeezes out through a perfectly sized gap in the compound wall of the police station to hit another thick, tall wall guarding a small haveli. You stand in front of a milk booth like opening guarded by cast iron railings. Hanging by this booth are some scraps of paper and a pen. Just as you write down what you want and how much, a woman’s hand will miraculously extend itself out and collect the scrap and the required money. Twiddle your thumbs nervously for a minute or two when the railings open out a bit more and out comes your supply.
Take it 20 meters down the path towards Ahmed chacha’s butcher shop where you’ll get the finest kheema samosas in that part of the country, lay out your spread and share ribald jokes and equity market wheeling and dealing with a bunch of contended and drunk Gujarati middle aged men.
Beer to order: Cobra Strong
Shadiness scale: 8/10
Firozpur
Firozpur is a typical garrison and border town. Chaotic traffic in narrow streets lined with huge, old trees and lovely, pretty buildings.
As with such towns, the grimier side doesn’t take long to reveal itself. Heading towards Azadi Chowk from the Cantonment Railway Station, you’ll find an ancient, nearly in ruin place called International Beer Bar and Restaurant.
Once you enter, it is as dark and dingy as it gets, with an overpowering smell of fresh desi ghee being used liberally to cook everything. Forget the peeling yellow enamel paint on the scraggy walls, forget the broken and clearly worn blue, cheap Nilkamal plastic chairs, forget the chipped tables with Sunmica tops from the 1950’s.
Simply sit down and ask for a few bottles of Thunderbolt beer, order a casserole of Butter Chicken and rotis as they are flicked out of the oven. You are guaranteed the finest Punjabi dhaba experience for less than 200 rupees.
Beer to order: Thunderbolt
Shadiness scale: 7/10
Koraput
Koraput is one not most people’s tourist map and for that one must be thankful. Nestled in the valley of the Kolab and surrounded by lush, green forests, it is one of Orissa’s hidden gems. Like most of India’s small towns, it is full of character and has an amazing, crowded and thriving market. At the end of the cacophonous street that leads away from it is the bus stand.
And at the back of the stand, smelling absolutely rotten with dried, caked urine turning the road a ghoulish yellow and lined with shacks selling “Gob Sooye”, “Needles” and “Briyani”, is the Sun Bar. In two parts.
First is the shop where you buy the alcohol – this is very typical of such establishments found in rural India, shuttered from top to bottom with a small opening in the grill to pay and receive. Next to this shop is a small tunnel about five feet wide and about the same height. This is the second part of Sun Bar.
Crouch into this tunnel and proceed for about ten metres where the ceiling suddenly rises to twenty feet and reveals a large room with fluorescent tube lights wrapped in red and green translucent film. With beer (or whatever you’ve got) in hand, make yourself comfortable on wicker chairs or thick floor mats and order mutton chops. Enjoy the surreal, trippy lighting and let the haze of country cigarettes and plain old rolled joints permeate your senses. Cheers!
Beer to order: Jungle King 12000
Shadiness scale: 9/10
If one wasn’t enough to whet your appetite, Koraput is home to another equally shady bar. Unlike the easy discoverability of the bus stand bar, this one is a bit of a hit and miss affair. About five kilometres after leaving town on the Jeypore Road is a largish two storey house painted in a mellow sandstone colour. Outside the house, there is a big, painted board that says ‘Beer’. That’s the only indication of the nature of this place. Since it is well outside town, it is best if you hire an auto-rickshaw for the up and down trip.
On a dark and wet evening, a bunch of us did the very same thing. On arrival, the over eager owner will ‘welcome, welcome’ you and usher you into what looks like a bedroom stripped of any sleeping arrangements. Instead, you’ll find ubiquitous white plastic chairs circled around a really dirty, maroon tea cloth covered table. Don’t ever put your hands on this table.
As soon as you are comfortable, a couple of young boys will appear and generally fuss around until you decide what to order. Beer will do, thank you. What to eat, you ask. Confusion will reign and you will be pointed to the kitchen where a person with an omelette pan and a dangling chicken leg is busy making something. Along the way to the kitchen, you’ll start noticing the ‘house’. And then it’ll hit you. Bedroom upon bedroom! If the owner sees you noticing these things, he’ll give you a skimpish and coy look. This way, sir, for special service. It is best to bottoms up your beer and leave as quickly as possible. Beware if you want to pee. The back of house leads to a hundred foot drop.
Beer to order: Kingfisher Strong
Shadiness scale: 9/10
Manuguru
Unless you are a coal miner from Telangana or a crazy railway enthusiast, this place wouldn’t resonate one bit. Home to one of the country’s largest open cast coal mines, it is a dusty, one street, two bit town with a small ground fire raging underneath. It probably has the the shadiest bar in the country.
Two kilometres from the centre of town is a large open compound simply called ‘The Dhaba’. Outside this compound, in a detached building is the ‘Foren’ liquor store. Inside the compound: half a dozen round mud huts with palm frond roofs. One of the larger huts acts as a kitchen. Also inside the compound are slabs of concrete – both square and round — arranged like tables and chairs. Just make sure you don’t sit on them in summer, unless you want very red and sore buttocks.
Towards the far edge of the compound is a raised plywood stage. On a typical day, one can on this stage find four or five women and a dozen men, rasping loudly in that peculiar Telangana lilt about this and that. In their hands will be a joint and a bottle of gudumba – spiked toddy – milky white with greyish/yellow bubbles at the top. You might also find lots of well eaten chicken wings and drumsticks.
With you sweating in the heat, the rakish looking waiter will take forever to come around for the order. Gudumba, you pay later. ‘Foren Beeer’, you go out and buy yourself. Now onto the food: fresh masala chicken, fried peas and you guess it right, veg. manchurian. Except for the peas, everything else will look like it was soaked in a combination of raw blood and chilli powder. A two-inch layer of oil will float on top.
One of the drunk women will almost certainly get up and threaten to disrobe and implicate one of the men.
A flutter.
Calm will be restored by the man getting up, tendering deepest apologies and rolling her another joint.
The walk back to the centre of town will be filled with a sense of ethereality and awe. Clouded with the swirling smoke of hash in your head and the strangely acidic, bile of the gudumba in your gut.
Beer to order: Canonball 10000. Gudumba preferred
Shadiness scale: 10/10
Guntakal
Like many places in this list, Guntakal is not a well known place. Unless you happen to be a frequent traveller between Chennai (or Bangalore) and Mumbai. This is the place where you stock up on food — the canteen on platform six of the station serves up delectable pongal, vadas and uthappams at almost all hours of the day. But that wasn’t the reason why I get off the train one, hot, fly-blown and dusty summer evening. It is to find out if there really was a town outside the station and if so, what type of a drinking hole it would harbour.
Exiting the station and crossing over the wide road bridge and into what seemed like a garbage dump, I enter the town proper. An obligatory direction board, which I later learn, had turned ninety degrees, shows arrows to the bus station, the town’s circuit house and the office of the chief irrigation supervisor. A few meters down the road to the bus stand is a wide circle with roads converging from four directions. I spot a ‘wine shop’ across the road coming from the east. It seems like the best place to ask directions to a bar and I am not disappointed. “Yes, Yes, saar, just take the first right here”, the fellow manning the shop says pointing down the road.
Walking past shops selling outlandishly bright sarees and other dress material, I hit the bar. Except that it isn’t what I expected. Dozens of people in varying stages of drunkenness milling around a large store with the obligatory iron grill front. I find one person who seems to be interested in helping out and ask him where the bar is. He circles his hand once and said “Ide”. This is it. Now, I’ve had a drink or two in all sorts of places but this is a first – out in the open and as I turn around, right in front of a beat of policemen.
Making my way up the queue, I ask the shop assistant what was on sale. “Kalyani Black Label”, comes the reply and I know I have found my heaven – right here and now. For me, it has long been the strong beer of choice. It pours well and has a thick, off white but quickly diminishing head. It is also spicy in a way that can’t be described well. And that spiciness is what would come in handy soon. Any apprehension of drinking this big a bottle out in the middle of a town is quickly dissipated by the sight of one constable swinging a couple of tumblers of amberish liquid down his throat.
“Sikken.. you will get oppojit”, comes a voice from behind. Turns out the man offering the advice is a policeman in mufti (or off duty. I couldn’t gather the details as he spoke with a pronounced drunken lisp). Across the street, the sight of bright red pieces of chicken greet me. Marinated for a better part of the evening in oil, diesel fumes and dust, they look brilliant. I am tempted to buy a few pieces, but I am too chicken!
As I watch and hear, the watering hole becomes busier and louder. Chatter is about everything – Chiranjeevi’s politics, the success of a film, the miserliness of the mother-in-law, the lack of horniness in wives, the bastard money lenders and so on.
Very soon I am swimming in the beer myself. It is time to leave. Steadying myself as I get up, I ask the policeman, who now absolutely reeks of sweat and cheap country rum, if it was like this everyday. “Yes, saar. Everyday. This is Guntakal’s best and cheapest bar”.
Shadiness scale: 7/10
Beer to order: Kalyani Black Label
Quilon
“Ah, there you are”, greets the professor as I get down from the train onto an overcrowded platform. Dressed in a starched white dhoti and a sky blue shirt, and with his considerable moustache oiled and straightened, he looks quite dapper.
“Shall we proceed for a drink?” Boom! Just like that.
But not before a whirlwind tour of the beautiful station, with its tall clock tower and elegant waiting rooms, harking back to the glory days of Maharajahs and stately elegance. We walk out of the station and past a busy intersection to get into Hotel Sudarshan. Why is that hotels like these paint their walls in that hideous urine yellow?
Time: 3:10 P.M.
The professor twirls his moustache and with a sheepish grin booms
“So what will you have, boy?”
“Hmmm”
“That’s the bloody problem with you young people, taking too long to decide. It’s a fucking drink for god’s sake”
“Waiter, waiter”, “Oi, idiot waiter”
At this point, I am seriously wondering if the alcohol fumes inside the confined space have already gotten him drunk.
“Oru Green Label Whisky… and soda?”
“Hmmm”
“Shit. Leave the soda, get me just water”
In the two minutes it takes for the order to arrive, I sneak a few looks around the bar: typical South Indian setting. Sweaty men in various states of shirt undress, with blood red eyes drinking like there was no tomorrow. Serious drinking with absolute concentration. Broken only by murmurs of elections to be won and politicians to be sidelined.
The whisky arrives. It’s not Johnnie on the label. It’s Gilbey’s.
A peg is poured…and poured…and poured. The amber stuff reaches almost half the tumbler. Gulp.
“Omelette?” I hesitate for a second.
“Ok…waiter, the boy and I will have an omelette. Also, a chicken manchurian”
And the drinking begins in earnest.
Time: 3:20 P.M.
Two pegs down for the professor. My eyes are swimming in incredulity.
The omelette arrives, flat and full of green chillies, which I carefully and deliberately, pinch out.
“You are a pussy and a disgrace”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me”
Time for me to gulp down a couple and get myself drunk.
Meanwhile, the manchurian arrives, floating in coconut oil.
Time: 3:25 P.M.
One entire half bottle has been consumed and one more half is requisitioned. The incomprehensible ranting continues but I am too drunk and too numb to give a shit. All I want to do right now is to take a piss and get on the next bus to Punalur.
Time: 3:40 P.M.
Time to leave. At last. A couple of pegs still remain, but the old man has gone far enough on the drunk’ometer that he doesn’t care. Both of us stagger out and I bundle the professor into an auto rickshaw.
My adventure has just begun. For I need to walk across and take a Kerala State bus over the hills into Tamil Nadu. Thank god I am drunk.
Shadiness scale: Beyond the scale. Surreal
Whisky to order: Gilbey’s Green Label