Rosalyn D'Mello: Whisky? I'll drink to that!

There are few things that can beat cruising in the high skies with a fine single malt and a classic movie to keep you company

On the morning of my birthday last week, I woke up at 6 am to the thrilling patter of moist leaves and the ominous clamouring of clouds. Delhi was already beginning to flood, so it seemed, and I hadn’t even had breakfast. As I lolled in bed soaking in the consuming wetness of the earth, I found myself introspecting about the year past that had brought me here to the brink of 31. The high point of my life as a 30-year-old, I realised, was in January, when, because I was on the jury of the prestigious Prudential Eye Art Awards in Singapore, I was handed a business class ticket on an Air India dreamliner.

It is no secret that I love single malt. I never imagined when I had my first sip of Laphroaig, how indelible the memory of it would prove. Pic/Thinkstock

It was an evening flight, and an hour after we had begun to cruise the high skies, the air hostess emerged from behind the curtain, drinks trolley in tow. I’d decided I’d probably ask for a glass of red. Having been to the lounge at the airport where they had a clear sign informing Indian passengers they were only entitled to two drinks each, and having seen their rather poor whiskey menu, I imagined red to be safer. But then I spied an unopened bottle of Talisker in the corner of the trolley shelf. I restrained the ecstatic heart-leaping-inside-me, convulsive fit I was in and calmly asked for a glass.

“On the rocks, Ma’am?” she asked.

“Ice on the side, please,” I replied.

She gracefully acquiesced. Before I could dedicate myself to my drink, I decided to run through the in-flight entertainment menu. It seemed like the perfect moment to finally watch An Affair to Remember. When the air hostess returned with a plate of chicken tikka kebabs for me to snack on, she noticed I’d been sipping my drink like a miser, desperate to prolong the sanctity of each sip. Without asking, she poured me a second glass, almost to the brim, and handed it to me.

“So you don’t need to ask again,” she said.

I was euphoric. I could now savour my Talisker as I watched the classic film. Sleep was for businessmen. I’d catch up on it in the hotel room.

It is no secret that I love single malt. Ever since I was first introduced to it by a dear friend and long-time collaborator. I never expected to fall for it so steadily and irrevocably, especially since I was never a whisky drinker, always preferring red wine instead of grain. I still enjoy red wine, and delight in spending hours poring over labels to locate a good harvest and a great blend. But I never imagined when I had my first sip of Laphroaig, how indelible the memory of it would prove. As I said to a friend a few days ago, I can understand why a wine connoisseur could spit out a draught of red after rolling it around the contours of her mouth , swirling it around to extract its complex flavours. Red wine dances along the tongue, the textures sit upon it long after you have either swallowed it or spat it out. But the mysteries of single malt are only revealed after it has glided past your throat and you can trace its foray into the pit of your stomach. The roof of your mouth detects the subtleties of peat, the smokey, redolent flavour that seems almost intangibly delicate.

I performed the same ritual I have recently appropriated as part of my routine whenever I find myself with a glass of single malt. I ask for ice on the side, and a cocktail stirrer. I make do with my fingers in the absence of one. I dunk a single cube into the liquid, then I install the leg of the stirrer, or my finger tips to swirl the ice around so that it marginally chills its contents while unveiling its densities, opening them up so they are better revealed. Then I extract the ice and abandon it.

Yesterday, as I was reading the introduction of House Spirit: Drinking in India, by the anthology’s editor, Palash Krishna Mehrotra, I felt first disappointed, then just annoyed that the book had contributions by at least 25 men and just two women. The only reason I’d bought it, apart from my personal and academic interest in the subject of alcohol, was to read Manohar Shetty’s essay, ‘Conduct Unbecoming’. Manohar has been a dear friend for many years, and I love his poetry. He had often told me about his decision to quit alcohol, and I was interested in reading his essay about the struggle. But I wasn’t prepared for the gross underrepresentation of women’s relationship with alcohol. As a corrective, my next two columns will be dedicated to non-teetotalling women, and what we mean when we say, “Let’s get a drink!”

Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D’Mello is a reputed art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx. Send your feedback to mailbag@mid-day.com

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