Every dog has a day

 

Those were almost decrepit establishments, almost filching with moralistic shame. Even the most liberal person would pass by them with a judgmental smirk. There seemed to be something incoherent about it, a kind of ashen-faced entity, almost embarrassed by its very existence. And its clients would seem to be trying to guzzle all their conscience and commiseratively—shoring up courage—approach the prison-like bars on a front defined by stale paint and peeling plaster.

The interior was laden with stifling privation in semi-darkness. Dispirited and caught in miry ruts of social chastisements. The racks inside—cold, plain, blackish shelf-racks—staring icily. A sort of implacable tragedy held up in the musty dim-lit interior. And the shop attendant behind the grills seemed a prisoner, sullen and brooding. But the bottles contained the magic potion of riotous revelry—alcohol.

That’s how the wine outlets of the last decade looked in the towns. Almost facile and nauseated. Then the number of drinkers busted the ceiling. The spirit had a temporary puddle to douse the scum of life for a few hours. And with a plum glee (like rain pattering on lush green foliage), the wine merchants prospered. Alcohol and spirits acquired mainstream position to douse the scab and slut of life. The ill-boding, nit-wit image was gone. The cloth wallet changed to fashionable Gucci purse.

The ultra-posh, shiny wine outlets are now making up for all the undemonstrative, ragged past. They glitter like jewelry showrooms with fancy lights and plush interiors. The bottles gleam with naughty assiduity in fancy illustrious displays. No longer the squeamish and morose attendant. It’s confident staff behind lovely counters. Of all the trades, alcohol industry has made the loudest mark in terms of change in the shape and look of their outlets. It just shows how much money is now pouring into its coffers.