IN LIQUOR WE TRUST: WHY THE GOVERNMENT SELLS WINE BUT NOT VEGETABLES
- Madhukar Dama
- Jun 3
- 6 min read
A Cold Hard Look at Warm Drunk Realities
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I. INTRODUCTION: THE HOLY SHOPS OF THE STATE
Every morning, a line forms.
Not outside a hospital.
Not outside a school.
Not at the ration shop.
But outside a government liquor outlet.
Men wait patiently, almost prayerfully — as if salvation lies behind that iron shutter.
And it does, in a way.
Because the state has declared, without saying a word, that it believes in three things:
Tax revenue,
Addiction as stability,
And the art of avoiding responsibility for actual nutrition.
So while farmers throw away tomatoes because they can’t recover transport costs,
and a mother walks 3 kilometers to find clean spinach,
the local government-endorsed liquor shop stands strong — fully staffed, fully stocked, fully profitable.
India: the only country where the government is both the priest and the bartender.
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II. THE MATH OF INTOXICATION
You see, liquor makes money.
Every ₹100 bottle generates ₹65–80 in taxes.
It’s predictable.
No rainfall needed.
No pesticides.
No Minimum Support Price.
No middlemen protests.
Just one warehouse, a few permits, and a loyal customer base.
Compare that to vegetables:
Perishable
Seasonal
Prone to rot
Vulnerable to floods, strikes, pests, and the occasional farmer suicide
Most importantly: no guaranteed tax
So if you’re a government balancing your budget —
would you rather deal with angry vegetable vendors with wet burlap sacks,
or peaceful, half-drunk customers who never demand anything except “Quarter packet, anna”?
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III. MORALITY IS A BUSINESS MODEL
Now, some might ask:
Isn’t alcohol harmful? Doesn’t it destroy families? Create domestic violence? Increase road accidents?
Yes. Of course. Everyone knows.
Even the man drinking it knows.
But that’s not the point.
Because in politics, harm is not judged by impact — it’s judged by revenue potential.
Let’s be honest:
Cancer doesn’t make money.
Diabetes makes some.
Addiction? That’s the goldmine.
Repeatable. Predictable. Loyal.
And what about vegetables?
Onion doesn’t get you addicted.
Cu doesn’t cloud your judgment.
Tomatoes don’t make you forget how miserable your job is.
They just keep you healthy, calm, and aware —
which is bad for business, and worse for politics.
An aware man asks questions.
A drunk man just sings.
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IV. THE CONSUMER PROFILE
Let’s look at the customer.
Vegetable Buyer:
Asks for price.
Complains about inflation.
Picks and rejects.
Argues over quality.
May walk away.
Liquor Buyer:
Accepts the price.
Doesn’t ask questions.
Never haggles.
Buys the same brand for years.
Returns like clockwork.
Who would you rather serve?
One comes with complaints.
The other comes with a wallet and a smile.
No wonder the government offers loyalty-level service to the drunk
and leaves the vegetable buyer to bargain in dust.
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V. POLITICAL BENEFITS OF SELLING LIQUOR
Let’s list it down clearly:
1. Revenue – ₹2.5–3 lakh crore annually across states.
2. Control – Licensing means control over who sells what.
3. Election Funds – Liquor is the unofficial sponsor of every major election campaign.
4. Distraction – Drunk citizens complain less.
5. Low Cost of Maintenance – No need to refrigerate. No expiry. No complaints.
6. No Logistics Chaos – Unlike vegetables, you don’t have to wake up at 4 a.m. to move crates from a mandi.
Meanwhile, subsidizing vegetables brings in:
Zero votes
Zero photo-ops
Infinite logistic headaches
And a population that becomes healthier — and therefore harder to fool
So again:
Why sell okra when you can sell Old Monk?
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VI. CULTURAL POSITIONING
Liquor has prestige now.
Wine-tasting events. Whiskey festivals. Craft beer startups.
You drink, you’re cool.
Vegetables?
Still seen as poor man’s necessity.
You don’t see influencers posting reels about buying brinjal.
And let’s not forget:
A drunk man is economically active — he drinks, he eats, he fights, he spends.
A healthy man might just meditate.
That doesn’t help GDP.
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VII. THE TRUTH NO ONE WANTS TO SAY
There’s no mystery here.
There are government wine shops because they bring profit.
There are no government vegetable shops because they bring problems.
Problems like:
Having to actually care about nutrition
Keeping stock fresh
Making sure poor people can afford healthy food
Uplifting small farmers
Planning a fair distribution system
Avoiding rotting vegetables in godowns
Empowering people to rely less on hospitals
That’s all way too much work for no guaranteed votes.
So we just leave vegetables to the informal market
and protect liquor like it’s national infrastructure.
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VIII. THE PUNCHLINE
You can get a permit to open a liquor shop.
You can’t get a permit to open a government-run vegetable co-op.
A man who drinks every night will be served by a system designed to keep him that way.
A woman who wants clean greens for her child will be asked to wait till next week’s market.
That’s not neglect.
That’s policy.
Because numbing people is easier than nourishing them.
And you thought governance was about welfare?
No.
It’s about managing fatigue.
And nothing numbs fatigue faster than a shot of government-approved alcohol.
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FINAL WORD
Governments sell liquor, not vegetables, because:
One builds dependency.
The other builds dignity.
And between those two, the modern state always chooses what keeps people distracted and paying.
Vegetables make you alive.
Liquor makes you compliant.
Guess which one works better for business?
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“WINE FOR THE BROKEN, ROT FOR THE FARMER”
(A Bukowski-style Poem on a Nation’s Real Priorities)
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they opened the shutters at 10 a.m.
the men were already lined up
like they’d come to collect pensions
like they’d been summoned by gods.
but they weren’t old.
they weren’t retired.
they weren’t drunk — not yet.
they were just
tired.
broken.
predictable.
some wore lungis,
some wore factory shirts,
one had a school badge around his neck
because he drove a van for someone else's child.
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the government wine shop —
a holy temple of the tired.
run by the state.
funded by habit.
justified by math.
on the other side of the street
sat a man with a sheet of torn plastic
and some leftover vegetables
from someone else’s field
from someone else’s hunger.
nobody lined up for him.
his spinach wilted.
his eyes sagged.
his tomatoes looked embarrassed.
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in the land of 1.4 billion,
there is no guarantee you’ll find clean greens.
but you will always find a bottle
sponsored by the state.
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they say
“liquor is dangerous.”
and yet
they sell it better than electricity.
meanwhile
vegetables rot.
cabbage dreams of cold storage
but dies in the sun
next to a man who’s forgotten
how to sell hope.
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“why don’t they make vegetable shops?”
a child once asked.
because
vegetables don’t vote.
vegetables don’t protest.
vegetables don’t dull your pain.
vegetables don’t fund elections.
vegetables don’t beg for another round.
vegetables can’t be taxed ₹70 on every ₹100.
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liquor is loyal.
liquor never argues.
liquor returns daily.
liquor numbs.
vegetables, on the other hand,
ask for respect.
ask for soil.
ask for freshness.
ask for care.
and worse —
they keep you awake.
and governments don’t like
awake people.
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so here’s the formula:
break their backs with inflation
drain their guts with packaged crap
flood them with noise
give them nowhere to sit
then offer them
the bottle.
it’s not a mistake.
it’s the plan.
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I once asked a cop,
“why are all the wine shops government-run?”
he laughed.
then he coughed.
then he said,
“they say it’s for regulation.”
then he bought a bottle
and didn’t show up for duty.
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a farmer once tried to set up
a state-backed veggie cart.
he had graphs, spreadsheets, a loan plan.
they rejected it.
“Too unstable,” they said.
so he sold onions on the roadside.
three months later,
he hanged himself
under a board that read:
“Drink Responsibly.”
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you can’t make this shit up.
but you can drink it down.
and the state counts the coins.
and the vendors count the flies.
and the farmers count the clouds.
and the doctors count the cancers.
and the wives count the bruises.
and the children count the hours
before their fathers return
with empty pockets
and full breath that smells
like state-sponsored rot.
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there are no queues for spinach.
no protection for gourds.
no ad campaigns for carrots.
but there's always a scheme
for another bottle
to help you forget
how it feels
to be robbed
while everyone claps
for economic growth.
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and the saddest part?
they’re not drunk.
they’re just exhausted.
and that bottle
is the only thing that
doesn’t argue
doesn’t delay
doesn’t ask
doesn’t preach.
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and somewhere
in the far back
of this loud, choking silence,
a vegetable vendor sits
like an unwanted truth —
quiet, ignored,
and rotting slowly
in full view of a nation
too drunk
to care.
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