High in spirits

Maninder Singh

When men turn alcoholics, anything in the interstellar universe is possible. Behavioural patterns alter and there is an unhappy descent into an erratic god-forsaken existence.

A District Magistrate had developed a fascination for the golden brew. He was a “promotee” who had marked time as a Block Development Officer and a tehsildar in a revenue circle. Somewhere along his search for the elixirs of life, he had stumbled upon the life-giving, world-altering properties of liquor. Having grown up in an orthodox family with a frugal mindset in an age of low salaries and soaring values, the DM was of the view that his weakness for whiskey could not be honestly met from his own resources.

Being aware that there were officers imbued with great resource and enterprise, who could be trusted to keep the kegs of the senior-most functionary fulsomely wet, a schedule was drawn up. Various functionaries were directed to fulfil their responsibilities to keep the district’s first citizen in a state of rapture and wellbeing. No officer was overly burdened, so that they could go about their daily lives and fulfil their primary duties peacefully.

It so happened that the local SHO failed to live up to his reputation as a provider. One evening, the DM rang up the SSP. He was irate and irascibly scathing in his assessment of the SHO, whom he described as being unfit for his job. He said even the phone in the thana was not being picked up and what would happen if there was a law-and-order emergency. 

When the SSP rang up, the phone was duly picked up and the harried SHO told him, “Sir, what should I say? The DM demands a bottle of brew two-three times a week and I have been unable to supply. I was too embarrassed to even broach the subject with you.”

Next evening, matters escalated. As the sun descended over the hills surrounding the valley enfolding the district, the DM came out of his bungalow. A glorious bottle in one hand and a silvery baton in the other, he began shooing off all sentries on guard-duty and shouting, “I don’t want you fellows. The police are quite useless. I am happy without the guards.” 

As the poor guards landed up outside on the road, the SHO informed his boss of the proceedings. When the SSP attempted to intervene, he was told, “I am sick and tired of the security detail. They don’t do their job properly. I have even seen them sleeping on duty. I am better off without such lazybones.”

The beauty of the situation was the forgetfulness of the DM to the vexing events of the night in the fulsome brightness of the day. The guards would venture inside at dawn, after the bungalow khansama’s confirmation that sahib was now in the Elysian Fields of drunken slumber.

The DM would be oblivious of the drama surrounding the eviction of the guards. Next evening, the fracas would recommence, accompanied by the tinkle of ice and the quaffs of liquid sunshine.

The situation having shown no signs of abatement and the SSP at his wit’s end, the matter resolved itself in the movement orders of the local Army battalion to the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. The Commanding Officer told the SSP that he had received 4,000 bottles of liquor for the canteen and he didn’t want to carry it all across the sea. Could there be a way out?

The local liquor wholesaler was called, who agreed to take the consignment at the Army-issue rate. Knowing that he would be selling it at the market rate and making profits, the SHO asked him to deposit 200 bottles for a “charitable” enterprise.

The officer was now enabled to send a bottle a day to the DM, the guards were reinstated and the police performance was deemed to be satisfactory. When it was time for the Annual Confidential Rolls, the SSP received the most glowing testimonials of his career. Six months later, gone with the wind and the rolling seasons were the bottles and the DM.