The dark side of the Monk

Old Monk equals happy times. Mostly. My earliest memory of the dark side of the Monk is not entirely clear. It vaguely involved heaving violently on the shutters of a sleeping footwear shop on Brigade Road in Bangalore. I remember being grounded with a purple eye and a head that thumped like a rickety sub woofer.
But Old Monk takes me back to a better place. Of friends and styrofoam cups, of burnt and abandoned cigarettes rescued from ashtray prisons, of boyhood dreams and boyish crushes, of Robert Plant and David Gilmour.
How many milestones have I marked with that rum called Old Monk. La Chaim!