As his bar faces closure in Kerala, Sajeevan, who earns rs 6,000 a month after doing this job for 19 years, wonders whether it is time to shift to mahe in puducherry It’s 7.30 am, and the Kozhikode beach is at its pristine best — the sun is just beginning to shine, the visitors are yet to trickle in. The beach-side bars are shut too, and won’t open before 8 am. But groups of men can be seen already waiting next to the various bars. Outside the Panchangam bar, run by the two-star 124-year-old Beach Heritage Hotel, about a dozen men are in the queue. Among them is a young executive in a shirt and trousers, a middle-aged man in a white dhoti, and workers in lungis. Slowly, more men crowd outside. As the doors of the bar remain shut, the regulars start knocking with increasing frequency. But ‘senior bar waiter’ 50-year-old K R Sajeevan, turned out in a crisp white shirt, black sleeveless jacket and jeans — his uniform — doesn’t give in. After five years of working at this bar, he has got used to hearing these desperate knocks and ignoring them till the clock strikes 8. He knows what the men want even at this early hour, brandy or rum — whiskey is not popular in Kerala. At the scheduled time, Sajeevan opens the bar and quickly steps aside. He is also used to what happens when those doors are thrown open. The men barge in and Sajeevan knows better than to stand in their way. A few of the customers rush towards the counter, gulp 60-90 ml in one go, and quickly pay the bill. “A few of them were in the bar until it closed the previous night. I am not surprised to see them so early. A morning peg is required to overcome the hangover,’’ shrugs Sajeevan. Panchangam is a mid-level bar. It has dim lights, airconditioning, wooden ceiling and a chandelier in the middle of the 12-table hall. Bottles of various brands are neatly arranged on wooden panels fitted to the walls. Sajeevan replaces the table covers and dusts the chairs. “The early morning customers can’t wait until the tables are cleaned. We only manage to clean the floor before letting them in,’’ he smiles. Even as Sajeevan is busy arranging the chairs, customers give their orders. A middle-aged man walks in alone, takes a seat near the door and raises his hand to draw Sajeevan’s attention. Sajeevan is at the other end. He paces towards the customer to take down an order of four pegs of brandy and two soda bottles. He heads to the counter, and comes back with the order in under five minutes. Soon a group of four men walks in, and place their orders. They talk business to each other, and over the phone to their partners. “They are from the nearby fish market. The owner and his workers come here every day,” Sajeevan says, nodding towards the group. An hour and a half later, the lone middle-aged man is still at the bar. Suddenly, an autorickshaw driver walks in and confronts him. The man had hired the auto and said he would be back soon and pay the fare. The driver demands his fare. The customer, by now fairly inebriated, calls Sajeevan, asks him to pay Rs 150 to the auto driver and add the amount to his bill. He continues his drinking spree — 90ml of brandy, 60 ml of soda. Finally, he asks for the bill, but on seeing how steep it is, begins to criticise the dim lights in the bar, looking at Sajeevan with scorn. Contempt written on his face, he orders a bottle of beer. By now, he has spent three hours in the bar. Through the episode, Sajeevan maintains calm. “Whatever be the provocation, I have learnt to remain calm. The bar staff don’t befriend customers, only know their bottle of preference,” he says. Over the years, he has also got used to customer behaviour. “After people are drunk, they often start suspecting the bill amount,’’ he says. Despite his outward composure, Sajeevan is a worried man. The bar he works at faces closure as per the Kerala government’s new excise policy of closing bars below five-star category. The Supreme Court has given a breather to the bars till September 30. “I am 50 and look at the uncertainty I am facing. The only job I know is that of a bar waiter,’’ he says. Sajeevan, born to a toddy tapper in Thrissur, began working as a bar waiter 19 years ago for a monthly salary of Rs 750. For the first nine years, he worked at a bar in Mahe, a small Kerala town which was later merged into the Union territory of Puducherry. He then worked at a bar in Kochi for five years, before joining Panchangam, where he earns Rs 6,000 and a tip of Rs 450 a month. He supports his two school-going children and wife on this income, and if the court gives a go-ahead to the closure of bars, he says, he “wouldn’t know what to do”. He may shift to Mahe like several other bar waiters in Kerala who are heading there. “I have past connections in the industry in Mahe, and that may help me find a job there,” he says. Sajeevan believes the government’s plan of enforcing total prohibition over the next decade would boomerang. “Hooch would become abundant, along with several jobless people,” he reasons. Sajeevan can’t let the uncertainty affect his work though. He clocks two shifts — 8 am to 2 pm, and then 7 pm to 10.30 pm. The latter gets extended by an hour, like most days. “Many late-night customers hang around for more drinks. It’s a tough task to force them out,” he says. “Customers are allowed to finish their drinks till 11 pm. But some just don’t leave. We politely tell them to leave, but when they don’t listen, we have to push them out. Even after we shut, people knock at the door and shout abuses for not letting them in.” He sees customers of all kinds at his bar — labourers, government employees, police officers and politicians — he adds. “There are many who come with family. They drop their wives and children at the restaurant and sneak into the bar. They drink only vodka, which does not smell.” Despite the fact that he needs his job, Sajeevan admits drinking is on the rise, and the average number of pegs a customer takes has doubled from three to six. He also suspects the young are hooked to drugs. “When they enter the bar, they smell of ganja, and become agitated even before drinking. They drink one or two pegs so that they don’t smell of drugs,’’ he says.
