Liquor, Lessons, and a Crash Course in Public Policy

I joined as Sub-Divisional Officer in Alipurduar back in 2009, a young and ambitious greenhorn bursting with zeal to change the world—and fast. Within a week of my arrival, the Excise Inspector sauntered into my office, radiating confidence and brimming with the promise of action. He proposed a grand raid to tackle the rising menace of illicit liquor in town. A night raid sounded thrilling—like stepping into a Bollywood script.

The raid began as we descended on pan shops along the highway. Almost every shop turned out to be a treasure trove of liquor bottles, neatly stashed without the faintest hint of a license. My inner hero swelled with pride, brimming with the fiery resolve to “jalakar raakh kar doonga” every shred of illegality. But my cinematic moment was rudely interrupted. To my utter astonishment, the Inspector seized a few bottles and left the rest untouched, casting me a look that seemed to say, “Relax, rookie. You’ll get it soon enough.” And thus began my crash course in Excise 101.

Napoleon, when asked about his leniency toward alcohol, reportedly quipped, “Show me a virtue that fills my coffers better than this vice.” Channeling his inner Napoleon, the Excise Inspector later explained his selective bottle-picking: “These bottles paid their excise duty; those didn’t. My job is revenue collection, not moral policing.” Still clinging to my idealistic handbook version of governance, I asked, “But what about liquor permits and shop licenses?” He chuckled at my innocence, patiently delivering a masterclass in balancing government ledgers.

Every year, excise revenue targets rise by 20%, but opening new liquor shops is political dynamite—cue opposition outrage. The ingenious workaround? Allow pan shops to discreetly sell duty-paid liquor. Everyone wins—except perhaps the voters, blissfully unaware of these innovative revenue streams.

But excise isn’t just creative accounting; it’s also a public safety tightrope. Humans have brewed alcohol since time immemorial, but some enterprising souls go the extra mile by adding "innovative" ingredients. Illicitly brewed liquor often produces methyl alcohol instead of ethyl alcohol, causing blindness or even death. In 2011, I witnessed this firsthand in Magrahat, South 24 Parganas, where 143 people tragically lost their lives to poisoned liquor. And, in true Bollywood fashion, the tragedy stemmed from a domestic squabble—two wives of a local liquor baron trying to settle scores.

Public policy on excise is a delicate dance. No government wants to appear as though it encourages drinking, yet none can afford to lose the revenue it generates. Each state has its own approach: Bihar chose prohibition, losing revenue while overburdening courts. In five years, 8.69 lakh people were arrested under the liquor law, clogging the criminal justice system and turning everyday citizens into criminals. Meanwhile, Uttar Pradesh played the fiscal game, raising excise revenue from ?17,000 crore to ?50,000 crore annually in just eight years—a masterstroke in public finance.

Excise remains one of the most tightly regulated sectors, with governments micromanaging every aspect—from production to sale to the permissible percentage of ethyl alcohol in bottles. In the West, buying liquor is as mundane as picking up bread from a supermarket. In India, obtaining an excise license is like scaling Everest. The red tape is staggering, and corruption lurks at every corner. Every rule is open to interpretation, and every interpretation is open to negotiation.

Small innovations have emerged, such as allowing restaurants to sell bottles as shops or granting restaurant licenses to excise permit holders. But the quirkiest twist in liquor policy came during COVID-19 in West Bengal. With everything shut for months, including liquor shops, governments faced a revenue drought. When lockdowns eased, the sight of long queues outside liquor stores became the defining image of the pandemic. Alcoholics, unintentionally, became ambassadors of social distancing—or its spectacular failure.

Enter Swiggy and Zomato, now authorized to deliver liquor alongside groceries. This was a masterstroke of public policy: no queues, no drama, and no opposition protests. Revenue flowed smoothly, and today, West Bengal’s spirit lovers can legally order their favorite drink from the comfort of home. In fact, these platforms ensure better rule enforcement, requiring valid IDs to verify legal age and restricting purchases to permitted quantities—something physical shops rarely bothered with.

Excise is a love-hate relationship for India. Alcohol companies can’t advertise openly, yet their products dominate celebrations. Governments continue to devise ingenious ways to maximize revenue while minimizing backlash. Allowing restaurants to sell liquor or opening “dry” bars with discreet bottle counters are just classic examples of jugaad.

Excise policymakers would surely find solace in this sher:

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That’s excise policy for you—a heady cocktail of pragmatism, politics, and public revenue.

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