The news that India’s drinks industry—its so-called ‘blue gold’—is booming, with UK investors circling a $1 billion opportunity, ought to fill any discerning Briton with a peculiar mix of envy and dread. Envy, because this is precisely the sort of colonial-era bounty we once plundered with impunity. Dread, because our current ruling class seems determined to repeat the mistakes of the East India Company, albeit with less nous and more bureaucracy. Let us examine the parallels, for they are as instructive as they are infuriating.
First, the facts. India’s beverage market, from packaged water to soft drinks and alcoholic spirits, is expanding at a pace that would make a Victorian railway baron blush. Foreign capital, particularly from London, is pouring in. Whisky exports alone are set to double by 2030. A billion dollars is whispered as the sum soon to be at stake. This is not just a commercial opportunity; it is a geopolitical one. India is a young nation with a thirst for branded consumption, and its middle class is growing faster than a monsoon flood. To ignore this is to be a fool.
But here is where the historical lesson bites. Britain, in its Victorian pomp, understood that trade followed the flag, and that the flag followed a certain moral and intellectual confidence. We did not merely sell gin to Calcutta; we built railways, established courts, and imposed a language that bound a subcontinent. Today, we approach India with the timidity of a suitor afraid of rejection. Our investors talk of ‘partnerships’ and ‘synergies’ while India’s domestic champions—Tata, Reliance, Adani—consolidate their grip. The result? We shall be junior partners in our own former empire, supplying capital but capturing none of the culture.
There is also the matter of decadence. The ‘blue gold’ boom is, at its core, about luxury and leisure. India’s young professionals now consume single malt Scotch in Bangalore watering holes that would not look out of place in Mayfair. This is a sign of prosperity, yes. But it is also a sign of intellectual decadence. When a nation fixates on spirits over infrastructure, on branding over books, it echoes the late Roman obsession with exotic wines. Are we to export our own decadence to India and call it progress? The Romans did the same with their provinces, and we know how that ended.
Oddly, the one group that might benefit is the British aristocracy. Many of our stately homes, now bankrupt from inheritance tax, could be converted into whisky blending facilities, or perhaps a distillery experience for Indian tourists. The Duke of Bedford could offer a ‘Maharaja’s Choice’ single malt. It is either that or sell the Van Dycks. But this is a modest comfort. The larger truth is that Britain no longer has the stomach for empire, or even for commerce on an imperial scale. We are a nation of shopkeepers who have forgotten how to keep shop.
What is to be done? First, our government must get out of the way. The current regime of visa restrictions and tax complexities for Indian investors is a self-inflicted wound. Second, we must stop apologising for our history. The British Empire was not an unalloyed good, but it created the very infrastructure and legal systems that make India’s boom possible. To pretend otherwise is to cut off the branch we are sitting on. Third, we must invest in our own ‘blue gold’: our water, our barley, our distilleries. If we cannot lead, we can at least be the indispensible supplier.
In the end, the ‘blue gold’ boom is a mirror. It shows us an India that is confident, ambitious, and eager to consume. And it shows us a Britain that is hesitant, divided, and unsure of its place. The Victorians would have seized this opportunity with both hands. We, by contrast, seem content to watch from the sidelines, tutting about carbon footprints. The fall of Rome was slow and undignified. Ours may be faster, and paid for by single malt.
