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IN LIQUOR WE TRUST: WHY THE GOVERNMENT SELLS WINE BUT NOT VEGETABLES

  • Writer: Madhukar Dama
    Madhukar Dama
  • 2 days ago
  • 6 min read

A Cold Hard Look at Warm Drunk Realities


Governments run wine shops but not vegetable shops because alcohol generates massive tax revenue, predictable demand, and political funding, while vegetables require care, perish quickly, and don’t make money. Selling liquor creates dependency, distraction, and profit — all useful for state control — whereas nourishing people with fresh food builds awareness, health, and dignity, which are harder to manage and don’t benefit the system. In a country where numbness is easier to govern than clarity, wine gets a storefront, and vegetables are left to rot.
Governments run wine shops but not vegetable shops because alcohol generates massive tax revenue, predictable demand, and political funding, while vegetables require care, perish quickly, and don’t make money. Selling liquor creates dependency, distraction, and profit — all useful for state control — whereas nourishing people with fresh food builds awareness, health, and dignity, which are harder to manage and don’t benefit the system. In a country where numbness is easier to govern than clarity, wine gets a storefront, and vegetables are left to rot.

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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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