A life with an old monk
For seven years you’ve been blended to a taste so fine
You’ve always been around for us at any time
A good companion, who comes at a very low price
You bring people together from sunset to sunrise
We bang on the shutters for you when the shops are closed by night.
We care a damn if we are unable to get a coke or sprite.
You’ve brought feeling to our lives, at moments of desperation.
For most of us, you have been our mentor and our inspiration
We drink to our pain or joy, one peg at a time
But no matter how much we drink, with no hangovers, things are just fine
They talk of Gandhi being the father of our Nation
To us you are, the father of our thoughts and creation
We don’t give up on things, even if we think our lives have sunk
There’s always a solution to a problem when we have you dear Old Monk
No, I didn’t write that. It’s By Glenn Satur, one of the internet’s unknown poets.
As you can tell, it’s an ode to India’s favourite rum, Old Monk. Some website has an unsubstantiated claim that it’s the world’s third-largest selling rum. What are the first two then?
I don’t know about you but I’m one of those millions addicted to Old Monk’s dark, smoky charms.
Everyone has an Old Monk story.
How I drank my first Old Monk.
How I drank a whole bottle.
How I mixed it with beer.
How I found it in Canada (though in the province of Ontario, they suspended sales two years ago when glass particles were found).
My favourite Old Monk stories revolve, unsurprisingly, around food. I drink it, of course; the traditional way, with a dash of Coke, sometimes with a slice of lime (I always say that you will find the truth at the bottom of a peg of Old Monk-I can’t remember the number of times I’ve been indiscreet while drinking the darn thing)
But I have always liberally used Old Monk with roast chicken, pork, meat, even stir-fried vegetables. A sprinkle with veggies, a half cup with a roast chicken. Smokin!
The other day, I went out to buy a bottle of Old Monk and for the first time found its premium version. It’s aged 12 years, unlike the normal seven, and is unimaginatively called XXX.
Funny, I’ve never drunk this before.
As you can see, it’s a pretty oddly designed bottle. The monk’s head comes off and doubles as a peg measure-though it seems substantially more than 60 ml.
I’m waiting to open it up this evening.
What are your Old Monk stories?