This is a modern folklore. The lovers of fermented barley decided to travel across towns to taste delight, handcrafted. Some background information, a few fanatics were unhappy with the horse piss that they were subjected to all their lives. Herein, started a rebellion; a personal rage that went ahead to benefit the society. “Freshly brewed holy water shall be poured in every glass in here”, were the words of the maker, Aye Pitcher. Returning back to the hopeless romantics, herds from different parts of two cities left their abodes with empty stomachs and total hope. The anticipation was unnerving. Thoughts of William Anderson passed a few minds. Has India got its ‘real beer baron?’ Early afternoon, through the blistering heat, came a flock of thirsty souls. The original place looked inviting and promised to evoke a memoir by the end of the day. Unfortunately, a few who had experienced the beauty, expressed their wrath to onlookers as they greedily took the entire place. The brewhouse may have shut the doors, but the brew hadn’t. The alterative was thought of, and the enthusiasts were accommodated at a Mexican shack above it. The spread on the table looked scrumptious, and later it also tasted the same. But the sole purpose or rather the soul’s purpose for the visit was the spread of fermented barley. After wry humour that surrounded the table, Rye beer followed suit. Impulsive reaction: heavy, strong, smooth and the thickness could be felt. It went down well, the table nodded in affirmation. This was followed by Apple Cider. The women on the table and a few sweet toothed men welcomed this with wide mouths, while the others like its true nature, found it too sweet. There was anticipation about the ‘Vice Beer’. Since the pitcher didn’t cover the entire table, the excitement on the other end was escalating by the minute. Talks of it being smoky were running around the table. A fresh glass was served and with it a fresh brew of wheat. The talk of the town lived up to its hype and how! Four glasses down, the enthusiasts soon turned expert conversationalists. When the beer had established its supremacy and had become a reliable companion, the rummies came into their own. From musicphiles to sitcom addicts, from comics to humour, from areola to pubes, from horse genitalia to dogs, from catching up with old pals to meeting new ones; a new bond was brewing within future scholars who held brewed holy water in their hands. While conversations were rampant, walked in the maker himself, Aye Pitcher! The deep voiced entrepreneur soon settled down amongst fellow hopeless romantics. After scattered scholars dispersed, the crème de la crème took the party to the rooftop. Under a huge bell, thoughts gonged loud and its sound resonated with every soul present there. Laughter was the theme, rye and wheat being the accompaniments. The evening ended with a promise of igniting another one sometime soon. Aye declared he’d instore surprises for the next visit, beerwise. Slipped tongues, slapped minds and slopped bodies ended the excavation. Findings: If you don’t go doolally, you don’t like real beer.
Ok, this piece reads very abrupt to me now. But then I’m posting it anyways.