The Wet and the Dry by Lawrence Osborne

Author:Lawrence Osborne [Osborne, Lawrence]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-7704-3689-6
Publisher: Crown Publishing Group
Published: 2013-07-22T16:00:00+00:00

Nowhere in Pakistan is this more evident than in the one place where it’s legal to have a nip of Satanic distillate: the Murree Brewery in Rawalpindi. The brewery, for years the only one in Pakistan, was founded in 1860 by the British to produce beer for the troops stationed in Rawalpindi. Murree is high in the hills, and in the age before refrigeration, its location was ideal. With the coming of cooling technologies around 1910, the British moved it down to the hotter plains. Rawalpindi, meanwhile, became the headquarters of the Pakistan Army as well—and a sprawling, dangerous city filled with radicals. In December 2009 five suicide attackers stormed a mosque used by the Pakistan Army and shot dead thirty-seven retired and serving officers inside it. The Taliban claimed responsibility. To put it mildly, it’s a bad neighborhood to be making beer and flavored vodka.

The Bhandara family, who are Parsis, took ownership of the brewery in 1961, when they bought majority shares in it. The present owner is Isphanyar, whose celebrated father Minoo ran the brewery for decades; Minoo, who died in 2008, was the brother of the noted novelist Bapsi Sidhwa, a remarkable writer afflicted by polio who wrote a beautiful book called The Crow Eaters, which I read years ago.

They are a cultured, literary family, and I supposed it was because they were Parsis that they were allowed to run a plant that produces a bewildering variety of drink. Aside from all the vodkas and gins, they malt their own whisky as well as turning out Pakistan’s most famous beer, Murree. The beer’s logo is known everywhere, even though only 5 percent of the population can drink it: “Drink and make Murree!”

Isphanyar is one of those youngish Pakistani go-getters who never seem to be able to sit still for a moment, as if everything needs to be done instantly in case—for some mysterious reason—it’s too late. I met him in his office at the brewery, where he sat restlessly behind a huge desk, blinking, pressing buzzers and bells, and casting a watchful eye on the video security monitors. He wore a ring on each hand, a pink-striped shirt, and a Rolex. The walls were hung with regimental British Raj calendars with vignettes of mounted Hussars, and the desk itself was dotted with garish little beer mats showing Pheasants of Pakistan. A small desk sign read “Don’t Quit.”

In wall cases stood rows of Murree products: Kinoo Orange Vodka, Citrus and Strawberry Gin, Vat No. 1 Whisky, clear rum, and beers. There were also the fruit juices and fruit malts that Murree sells to Muslims, foremost among them a thing called Bigg Apple. When Isphanyar spoke rapidly on the phone, his Urdu was mixed with urgently crisp English words: “maximize,” “incentivize,” “target,” and then “look after him!” From time to time he paused to sweep a deodorant stick into his armpits and laughed a little nervously. He was handsome, quick, and on edge.

I asked him if running a brewery in the world epicenter of Islamic extremism bothered him.

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