Celebrity for a Day, Courtesy Atal Ji

The year was 2001. I was in my first year of Medical College at Assam Medical College, Dibrugarh. As it used to happen in those days, being a first year in college was, for want of a better word, quite an interesting experience. Away from home, caught in the maelstrom of difficult to remember anatomical structures and chemical names, always attired in formal wear, attending to seniors' tasks at the hostel- be it bringing cigarettes for them, a bit of head massage, or just entertaining them- it was quite a tough time.

On a normal day, probably in May, I was attending the dissection session in the dissection hall of the then dilapidated Anatomy department. It was a post lunch class, the heat was oppressive, and dissecting a body in such an environment  was far from appealing. To be honest, those times were better spent in socializing- discussing about hostel life, forging new friendships (and enmities), as well as chasing beautiful girls. As I was thus whiling away my time, I was approached by Gobil Thapa- a classmate "Vinay! They want you at the Principal's office. You are to go there after class." 

A summon from the Principal's office! For a first year kid, this was a big thing. But why? What may be the reason? "Do they want me to give evidence against some senior who may have indulged in ragging? , But, in that case, they would have called others too!" "Maybe it was a communication from my parents?" (Those were the days of fixed line telephones and snail mail.) The time passed real slow. In the meantime, I was approached by three more guys with the same message. 

As soon as the class got over, I started for the Principal's office. On the way, I encountered a senior, who, unsurprisingly, had the same message. I finally reached the desk of Muleswar Da- the head clerk. He was quite a dark, heavy-set man, intimidating in appearance, at least to a first year student. "So, you are Vinay Upadhyay?", he asked me. On nodding yes, he pulled up a register and said, "Sign here." Upon signing the register, he took out a letter from his desk drawer and gave it to me.

The four lion emblem of India was embossed on the envelope cover. Below was written my address- Care of The Principal, Assam Medical College. On the bottom left corner of the envelope waere embossed the words- PRIME MINISTER. With shaking hands, I opened the envelope and read the contents. And smiled.

A brief flashback here. I know you are not interested in my school life exploits, but it so happened that when I was in the ninth standard, I had appeared in a scholarship examination conducted by the Government of Arunachal Pradesh. I qualified and was thus entitled to a scholarship of the princely sum of Rs 50/- per month for a period of two years. While I received a sum of Rs 300/-, the rest of the amount never reached me. It had been four years since and on a whim I wrote to the PMO donating the entire unreceived amount to the Prime Minister's Relief Fund for helping the earthquake victims in Gujarat. 

Back to our story. So this was a reply to that letter thanking me for donating the amount and wishing me a bright future. The letter was signed by Atal Bihari Vajpayee- then PM of India. No doubt it was probably composed by an official in the PMO, and a fascimile signature was used, but it was nice to be appreciated by the PM of the country in a letter personally addressed to me.

I went to my hostel room with the letter in hand. On reaching my room, I told my senior roommate the whole story. He got so excited that he took the letter and went from room to room disseminating the information. I was called up many times and asked to recount the story over and over. No work for me that night. No making diagrams, no head massages, no telling jokes. Once some ignorant senior called me planning to send me to buy some cigarettes when his roommate asked him to leave me alone for the day as it was "my lucky day". I had to recount the tale again.

This continued till late in the night till probably all the four hostels in the block had heard the story. I went to bed a well fed, and satisfied man. 

But alas, things don't last. They pass away. My short lived fame was good enough for a day or two. After that, the same old life. 

Three days back, Vajpayee jee too passed away. What remain are the memories. Of seeing him on television, hearing his marvellous speeches, reading his poems. And a signature. On a piece of paper which has been laminated since, accompanied by an envelope with the emblem of India that says PRIME MINISTER.

Leave Work On Time

There was a printout with the words 'LEAVE WORK ON TIME' superimposed on the image of a late President of the country adorning the wall of the cubicle. Attributed to the deceased leader, I believe. Though the veracity of the attribution seemed suspect to me.

I had gone to the administrative office for some work at around 11.30 AM. I looked at the empty chair and then at the printout pasted on the wall. I came back. 

A different movie watching experience

One of the significant changes that have occurred in my life post marriage (apart from the usual changes) is that I (we rather) own a television set. As a bachelor, it never occurred to me to buy one as all my needs were fulfilled by my 15 inch laptop (which by the way lies dejectedly in a corner of my study table now). Whether it be watching/reading news, watching movies (mostly downloaded or shared between friends), socializing or listening to songs, the laptop was always there- getting up from sleep mode along with me and going back to sleep mode as i went to sleep.

So, television. One of the worst things about television is that you can just lie there staring at it, doing nothing, just staring (and maybe surfing through channels), and suddenly you find a large amount of time has elapsed. Of course, it offers a vast choice as to the programs you want to view- news, movies, documentaries, songs, raunchy videos, daily soaps, reality shows, fantasy shows etc. etc. 

I am awkward with television remotes. Give me one, and if there is another person nearby, I promptly turn the remote to the other person. Maybe I don't like responsibility. Maybe I think others wouldn't approve of my choice. One thing I know- I am very bad at remembering channel numbers. I hardly remember three or four of them. I use those three or four channel numbers to serve as anchors, and surf up or down from those points.

If left to myself, I generally prefer watching the movies or the news. I prefer movies because the volume levels are normally lower than that of the news. Just yesterday, I was watching 'The Newshour" with The Arnab Goswami, and couldn't decide whether it was a debate or a shouting match. In the midst of the 'debate' there was one grey haired lady who was calm and composed and who never got to make her point because she was not shouting. (I have decided that if I am able to attain some fame, I would very much like, in my post retirement life, to be a panelist in Arnab's shows- drinking free coffee and eating snacks and watching the other panelists fight). 

That leaves us with movies. Mostly English. If a good one is playing, I let it play and go about my chores, or if free, sit down and watch. Watching movies- specially English movies, on television is a delight, I discovered. I mostly play a game with myself while watching the movies. The game consists of the following:

1. Spot the smoker before they do. Of course, you all know about the anti tobacco warnings, poor Mukesh (may he rest in peace), and the city with smokes and the government unable to do anything except ask you not to smoke, and not let others smoke. More about that here. But there is also the message that flashes on the screen- 'Smoking Kills' or 'Drinking is injurious to health'. I don't know why, but probably because I am the kind of guy who likes to read, my eyes inadvertently go to written text on the screen. So, as soon as the words appear on the screen- 'Smoking Kills'- I am like 'Where is the smoke? Who has the cigarette? Who has the glass?" Sometimes, it is a guy on the left corner of the screen, whose face is not in focus, sometimes it is a half empty glass of wine lying on the table. I make it a point to figure out the source of the smoke/drink within three seconds of the warning flashing on the screen. (Side note: The first such warning to appear in Hindi movies was in the remade version of Agneepath. That was a torture. You are watching Katrina Kaif do a chikni chameli and suddenly, there is a blurred flame and the word 'Smoking Kills'. For the first few times, I took it to mean that Kat was 'Smoking hot' and that would kill you. *Sigh*). I think they have guy/guys in their payroll to look out for the smoke and the liquor in the movies. I like to think of them as the boys who went to a beach, and for every female they saw in a bikini, they reported back to their friends at home as being topless. Or else, the 'agyakari' sort in school- who would do everything the teacher asks them to. 

2. Understand and relate the subtitles to the dialogues. I already stated that I am a sucker for the written word. And though I fairly understand what is going on by listening to the dialogues, my eyes can't help but stray to the bottom of the screen and read out the subtitles. There are, of course the usual starred out words like f***, a*** and all that. To some extent, I agree with that. I also think that they have got this list of word that are acceptable, those that are not and those that need to be switched. It gets my hat when they go off with their switches. Shit becomes crap (i wonder if it'll make a difference), bitch becomes witch (seriously, isn't accusing someone as a witch going to the middle ages?) etc. etc. And mind you, the spoken word remains the same. I believe they think that the average Indian watches English movies and understands them only by reading the subtitles (which may be true, come to think of it). 

3. Piece out the story by figuring out deleted scenes. Now, it's your television, you pay for the subscribed channel, your choice of watching the movie but you can't watch the full movie. Of course the scenes with prolonged kissing, lovemaking are cut off (that's why youngster prefer torrents, maybe?), if it pleases their fancy, they cut off violent scenes too. So much so, that sometimes you are at a loss to understand the storyline. Recently, I watched the movie- 'Angels and Demons'. There are scenes in the movie featuring dead bodies who have been branded on their chests. This is a key point in the story (I knew because I had read the book). Imagine my horror when all those scenes were cut off, so that the average viewer didn't even know that a murder had taken place. While watching movies, I am now alert to such jarring, non-continuous scenes, and try to figure out the story afterwards. If I fail, I go to wikipedia or IMDB for confirmation.

So you see? Movie watching isn't as boring as it was earlier. It has become more evolved, more complex and more interactive. You have to be on your toes (figuratively) so that you don't miss a key point. If the movie is boring, you can play 'Spot the smoke' game. Plus, you get free language lessons and a great tool for learning synonyms. Get a television now, and start watching!

Orange Peels

So The Missus was travelling from Shillong to Tezpur for some work. The bus she took was the one under Assam State Transport Corporation (ASTC) that plies daily from Shillong to Tezpur. A rickety contraption on four wheels, painted orange and white with the letters ASTC emblazoned across the body with room for about thirty people and almost no leg room for those thirty people at all. The door towards the rear was shut off so as to make room for storing luggage. But it was cheap and the only direct vehicle, plying between the two places. 

Across the aisle, a German couple was sitting. Trying to fit in the space between the seats, and failing miserably would have been a better description. At some point, The Missus and the German couple got talking. It started out with her helping them buy some fruits from the hawkers at the next petrol pump. Soon, they were telling her about their experiences in this country of ours. How the country was filled with beautiful places and interesting people, how it was difficult to get some space for yourselves, how prices of commodities and services went up as soon as people saw 'white travellers', and how the Shillong stay had shot a little above budget for them. They recounted their tale of losing their mobile phone in a taxi in Shillong, and getting it returned (surprising, yes!). They loved the country and were planning to stay another month or so. 

As they were eating oranges that they had bought at Nongpoh (a place halfway between Shillong and Guwahati)- this being the time when oranges abound, and easily available- they made an observation and looked to The Missus for the explanation. Observation being: "Well, it is winter. Oranges are to be found aplenty. People will eat them. That is understood. But why do people just throw away the peels by the roadside?" (They were, of course, carrying a large plastic bag where they put all their garbage, as was The Missus).

The Missus was in a quandary. On the one hand was the desire to tell the truth about us Indians- how we like to keep our homes clean, our clothes spotless and how, as we cross the threshold of our homes, we turn into those garbage spewing, waste gurgling, ever spitting behemoths. On the other hand, there was the question of upholding the nation's pride. (Somewhere, in the back of her mind, I guess, she visualised one of those 'Incredible India' ads featuring Aamir Khan.)

Choosing the middle path, she replied, "You see, we are a poor country. As you may have observed, it is difficult maintaining cleanliness and hygiene with so many people around. The orange peels have an important role in our endeavour to make things a little better. The peels are aromatic. The smell they release is pleasant, and it masks other smells. Plus, it purifies the air. This property has even been mentioned in the Ayurveda. And then, it serves as food to the numerous stray cows and goats that you find here in India. Else, it decomposes. So no harm done. Plus a fresher and purer India in the bargain!"

She saw a look mingled with scepticism at first which was replaced with wonder, as they thought about it. "Wow! Great!" One of them said. 

With a satisfied smile on her face, The Missus closed her eyes trying to hold down the vomit that was striving to defy gravity and come out, ready to be splayed on to the side of the serpentine, mountainous road (on account of her motion sickness, and interestingly, the inability to retch inside a polythene bag). She could not think of any explanation of why Indians would vomit out of the window of a moving bus.

Movie watching and tobacco policing

Dear Government

Every time I sit back and watch a movie,whether in a movie hall or in my home, I am inundated with anti-tobacco visuals/messages that come before, in between and sometimes after the movie (okay, i sometimes watch back to back movies so the ones coming at the beginning of another movie look like one coming at the end of the previous one). The present series of ads end with the lines "Don't smoke and don't let anyone smoke near you."

I am a non smoker and can't stand the smell of cigarette smoke. It was my habit since my days in a hostel not to let anyone smoke in my room. Whenever I see someone smoking near me, and if it is discomfiting to me, I do ask them politely to desist from doing so. 

So why is this message shown to people like me over and over again? The sight of a sick patient struggling with cancer (who ultimately succumbs), a little child breathing in the fumes exhaled by her father. I have had my fill of such sights as a doctor and I want to switch off and watch some nonsense like that 'Jumme ki raat' wala movie. And speaking of that, why do you need to cut down on kissing and love making scenes? (Hell, even poor James Bond was turned into Sanskari bond.) Such scenes are good for blood circulation, you know. But I digress. 

Coming back to the advice you gave: Don't smoke and don't let anyone do so. I have done my part. But have you? When it'll be a simple matter of making a law banning tobacco and ensuring it? Banning porn is easy. I won't go into beef. But does the health of the whole nation doesn't matter to you in front of those billions of rupees in revenues that you collect from the tobacco companies? 

I guess it doesn't.

You'll just give us lip service. And people like me shall rant. 

And feel better.

Yours sincerely

A non smoker.

The Murder

Chapter One

The Tribune, May 9

Reports are coming in of a murder in the prestigious Government Medical College in  Dibrugarh. According to our sources, the body of an on duty doctor was found in the duty room of the Obstetrics and Gynaecology Department of the college. The manner of death as well as any otherdetails are as yet undisclosed, till the time of publishing this story. As a result of the murder, there is unrest among the students of the college. Top police officials are said to have reached the college for investigating the case.

D's Diary

May 9, 11PM

It was hell today. It was my third exam today and I got little sleep. Maybe 2-3 hours. As I was getting dressed for the exam, with butterflies in the stomach, I heard someone talking outside my room. "Someone stabbed her."I didn't give much thought to it, thinking it to be some news on the TV, in some far off place, not having any bearing on my life or those living with me. 

As I went for breakfast, I met C outside the common room. "Do you know, a doctor has been stabbed in the O & G department?" he said to me. "No. Is it serious? What was the cause? Did any patient die?" I replied. Beating doctors is a common thing nowadays, but stabbing is serious matter. "I don't know. I am trying to find out. You concentrate on giving the exam." 

I reached the exam hall around 15 minutes early. By then news had come that the said doctor was a female and was dead probably due to stabbing. A gloom seemed to hang by the exam hall entrance. I could see some sobbing faces too. 

The exam was a blur. Most of the questions asked were known, so I just tried to write what would come in my mind. But the heart was troubled by the events happening outside. 

The way back from the exam hall went by the post mortem hall. I saw a large crowd of students gathered there. I saw C again and hailed him. "It was a gruesome affair. It seems she was strangled and then stabbed. At least people who have been near the body say so. There was a large crowd of students in the department. The Head of the Department had shut himself in his office fearing violence against him. One or two Professors came and tried to shoo the students away but they were greeted by angry reactions. Even the vice-principal and senior professors were heckled. The Principal could not be contacted. The police came later and the body was cordoned off and is now been taken for post mortem." C updated me. "How was the exam?" He asked as an afterthought. "Fuck the exam." I replied. 

I stayed there for a while. I didn't know the victim personally, so I heard about people's views on her. Seems she was a nice person, friendly with all and a good student. Was into her first year of post graduation in the college straight after completing her internship. She was to get married later this year to one of the guys who was appearing the exams with us. 

With heavy heart, I went to the hostel and tried to have food. After a few unsuccessful attempts, I pushed the plate away and went to the common room to catch the news on television. Already, it was a mess. The TV crews had by then traced the home of the victim, and were there already. One 'scribe' asked a grieving family member "How do you feel?" "Bloody hell! I'll tell him how I feel if i ever see him." said the guy with the remote and changed the channel.

The day went like that. People talking about the girl, about the college, how things are so insecure here, the next course of action, and the stirrings of an agitation. I tried to sleep but could not. 

Evening came and went. The next exam was two days away. I tried to sit and study. I failed. I made numerous excursions to the common room and back. I joined groups of people discussing the affair, each with their own views on what might have happened, and what would happen now.

I tried to go to bed after dinner but sleep still eludes me. I think it'll be hell tonight as well.

(Based on real events. Chapter 2 coming soon)

Gopal

That was his name. Gopal. One who takes care of cows. Named after one of the many names of the Lord Krishna in Hindu mythology. 

He cooked. For us, I mean. Having joined this new institute, I had been allotted temporary accommodation on a sharing basis with another doctor in one of the as yet unused quarters meant for Professors. He was already in the service of my roommate when I joined, so it was natural that when I joined in with him, I also employed the guy.

He was not a bad cook. He cooked okay. Sometimes well too. But mostly it was a monotonous affair eating the fare that he rustled up in the kitchen. 

Gopal loved to come up to our room and talk. Specially when he was drunk. Which was all the time. In his pocket, he would carry a quarter bottle of cheap whisky, and if the mood came over him, even offer some to others. And he had this bottle of mustard oil in which he used to disguise the alcohol when he used to pass the security guards at the campus gates on his way to and from his dwelling. I used to listen in on the conversation he would have with my roommate, who used to ask him to cut down on his drinking, and remind him of his family and his responsibilities. And most of the time, he would get teary eyed and leave. At other times, they would get into arguments regarding religion with Gopal vehemently defending his faith and asking my roommate not to interfere with his religion. 

Apart from alcohol, Gopal had another addiction. Every evening at around 3 PM, he would get on the bus to Polo and loiter around the lottery stalls. The lottery, also called teer/archery (arrow), is based on a group of archers shooting on a board of numbers, thus deciding the winning numbers. So, to this game would Gopal go, every day without fail, and put his hard earned money on the board. 

His modus operandi in choosing the numbers was interesting. It would stem from anything. Mostly a dream he had, or the ones people with whom he was in contact with had. It would stem from a twig lying on the road, sometimes, the eggs on the kitchen shelf (though how eggs could suggest anything other than zero, i don't know). Once I told him about a dead snake that I saw on my way back from the hospital for lunch, and he became pensive, muttered under his breath (probably calculating something) and said "41! That's the number!" How he arrived at the number, he wouldn't tell. Often, my roommate would tell him imaginary dreams, and Gopal would faithfully try to interpret those imaginary dreams into winning lottery numbers.

Not that he never won. He was fond of telling us the one time he won 27,000/- rupees on a ten rupee ticket. Every time he came up drunk, and the talk veered towards teer, he would embark on that story. "It was the dream I had, you know. You may not believe it, but thats the truth. I saw a girl. She was floating in the air. Just floating- there were a few wisps of clouds in the background. She had a playful smile on her lips. And suddenly, just like that, she opened her top. And there, across her glorious breasts, were written the numbers 2 and 3. I woke up all of a sudden, with that vision stamped over my eyes- the numbers 2 and 3 on those breasts of that mystery girl. As soon as the counters opened, I went and bought my ticket betting on the number 23. And by evening, I was richer by Rs 27,000/-." 

We stopped employing Gopal after nearly a month as he was continuously drunk while cooking and started becoming irregular in his job. But whenever I go to Polo in the evenings, I see him there, near the teer counters. Sometimes I overhear him, telling others of his latest dream. Yesterday, he was telling someone, "You don't believe in the power of dreams? But that his how I won 27,000/- rupees. You see I had a dream. A naked girl..."

Regular

It was Shantanu and Dharam's custom to go out together in the evenings. After the hectic work of the day in their respective departments, they would relax in the evenings with a game or two of volleyball and then go out for a cup of tea and snacks. Shantanu loved to eat. He had his favourite dishes and his favourite haunts. That meant going places that were within a kilometre to sometimes places ten kilometres away. They used to go out together, alternating their use of bikes- a Hero Honda for Shantanu and a Bajaj pulsar for Dharam.

It was on the ride back from JB's that the argument started. Shantanu was driving. He drove fast, leaning this way and that, braking and picking up speed suddenly. Dharam never admitted it, but riding pillion with Shantanu, he was always scared. His hands always gripped the bike tightly, and often his knuckles were white when the ride was finished. Given such a state of fear, Dharam thought he was justified in his request to Shantanu to stop in front of Bora's liquor shop so that he could buy some whisky. (Bora's was the neighbourhood liquor shop- the nearest authorised wine seller to their hostel- where the footfalls never reduced, coming and going in a steady pace, money clutched in clenched fists,  muted orders, inexpressive but efficient salespeople- but more about it in some other post.) 

"Don't you think that you have become a regular drinker?" Shantanu asked. "In the last one week, we have stopped there maybe four times. Hell, someone observing from outside may think that I have gone over to the other side!" Shantanu was a teetotaller though he was great at giving company to people imbibing alcohol. He used to order a cold drink for himself and attacked the snacks with gusto. 

"Oh come on! I hardly drink much. Plus having played volleyball for so long, one feels weary, and it goes with the movie you watch. Any movie is a good movie, if you have some whisky and a platter of badam on hand."

"But it's four days in a week!"

"Yes, but the quantity bought was small. I hardly drink two pegs in a day. And you know well, it is said that two pegs of alcohol have a cardio-protective effect. And the beer, most of the times, that PK (not the movie character, a guy from their hostel) barges in, and like the story of the camel and the man with the tent in the desert, he ultimately takes possession of my beer as well as my movie. I haven't had a beer in peace since a long time. Thank God he doesn't drink whisky."

"You do what you want. It's your life after all. But I am telling you, you are becoming a regular at this thing." Shantanu told him.

"Duh." Dharam replied. 

They stopped at Bora's. Dharam went in, bought his liquor and they moved to the nearby thelawala, who had his stall just outside the liquor shop, to buy ten rupees worth of badam. After the badam was made to his liking, Dharam flashed out a five hundred rupee note. 

"Don't you have change?" asked the thelawala.

"Sorry, no" Dharam replied.

"Koi baat nahi Sir, kal de dijiyega. Aap to regular ho." He said. (No problem Sir, give it later, you are a regular here)

Dharam looked at Shantanu. A smile was beginning to form at the corners of his lips. Suddenly they both started laughing.

"Maybe you were right" said Dharam. 

They moved towards the bike.

Why do I quiz?

I think of myself as a thinker. And if there is one thing that I have thought about a lot in these last few years, then it is this question- "Why do I quiz"? Or to generalize, why do quizzers quiz? Recently, at the finals of a quiz show, I was asked this question. I said that it was like any other sport, I talked about the adrenaline rush and the kick. I also said that I could probably write a piece on it. This is that piece, attempted at after a lot of mental exercise.

I began quizzing fairly late. It was in college, I guess. Coming from a schooling background in a small place where one used to top the class, it was difficult finding oneself among people who were equally good and even better at studies. Plus most of my batchmates in college were good at extracurricular activities. Some sang, some danced, some painted. Rest all played cricket. I sucked at cricket. I still suck at it. That was when I discovered that there did exist some people who quizzed, and that I was not bad at it. A string of valiant losses later, I got the hang of the thing and became a regular at the sport. Thats where a string of friendships formed that were to prove the basis of my quizzical career.

At first I quizzed because I liked the thrill, the adrenaline rush. Knowing an answer that most others didn't or answering it before others did was satisfying. Plus, if you were a lowly junior putting seniors to shame, it was an added bonus. Winning trophies competing against the best in your college (our batch itself had three good teams and there were some illustrious names in our college from the state circuit at the time) was an honour in itself.

The thrill of answering led to travels to nearby places to participate in quizzes. In this phase, I quizzed because it was an honour to represent my institution. Plus a chance to go places, sometimes with expenses paid. I quizzed because I got to know the best in the business, make their acquaintance and compete with them.

As I kept quizzing, I started winning. It started sporadically until there was a string of good results. With wins, there came money. With money, there came greed. The desire to make more money. I quizzed because there was money in quizzing and since I was good at quizzing, it was an earning opportunity. Some extra pocket money never hurt.

Somewhere in between, I realised I had developed close friendships with many other quizzers from all over the state. Some were students, some worked. All of them had one thing in common- a passion for the sport. From those friendships bloomed partnerships and healthy competitive enmity. So much so, that quizzing became a means to go and meet people, pull a leg, joke, fool around and have a good time. I quizzed because I got to meet and interact with my friends- my extended family. 

With age came the feeling of responsibility. A responsibility to try and popularise the sport that I was involved in. Also, there is some money in conducting quizzes (though organizers aren't too willing to pay you much). I quizzed, and I quizzed people, to earn some money and to popularise the sport and to encourage others, involve others so that the sport would grow. 

As I settled into a job, the need to rely on quizzes for money subsided and that is when I started enjoying quizzing fully. I just went there, answered questions, learnt some new things, criticised the QM, and generally had a good time. The after quiz parties were legendary affairs, with booze, further criticism of the quizzes, gossip about quizzers and quizmasters and sometimes a row or two. I quizzed because I enjoyed life through quizzing. 

Now, I realise, the search for the answer to this simple sounding question has been a journey- a journey that will keep going till I have the passion to quiz. The answers will change- based on experience, with age, and with changing perceptions. The search for the answer to this simple question has made me look inside, has made me introspect and maybe rethink my priorities. Once I would have dismissed it as a silly question but now I shall think twice before doing so. 

And if someone asks me the question, I can now say: "You know I wrote something about that. Let's see. Why do I quiz?..."

An Ampoule of Wine

Circa 2006. Having passed our final exams, me and Yash were doing our internship in Assam Medical College. Yash was the person who introduced me to spirits (at first, ostensibly to celebrate quizzical wins and later for everything and anything else) and was a self professed expert on alcohol.

One fine evening, getting caught in the spirit of things, we decided to try some wine. We trooped to the nearest wine shop and bought a bottle of wine. To accompany the wine, we took some 'chana' from the roadside 'thelawala'. Back to Yash's room we went.

The lights were dimmed, music was put on. Phones were put on silent (him after calling up his girlfriend, I was single then) and out came the bottle. That is when we encountered our obstacle of the day. Ensconced comfortably from the mouth of the bottle to the neck, was the cork. I was a novice and Yash usually drank hard liquor, so no arrangements existed to uncork the bottle in the room. Ever resourceful, Yash thought for a bit and decided that a Swiss army knife would do to uncork the stopper. 

A list was drawn. Of people who had/possibly would have had Swiss knives (no one probably would have had the originals, but we were sure that even the fake ones would work well). We zeroed in on two people- one a senior and another our batchmate. Now, the bottle wasn't too big and we were in no mood to share, so it was evident to us that we needed to make some other excuse for borrowing the knife. Fortunately, Swiss army knives are multipurpose, so we invented a loose screw in one of the windows and borrowed the tool.

"Watch and learn", Yash told me and began screwing the uncorker into the cork. I waited in anticipation. After diligently putting in almost the full length inside, he pulled on the knife. The cork held. He put the bottle on the ground, gripped it with his feet and pulled. The cork held. He pulled harder. And it broke. The appendage of the knife broke off, with its length embedded inside the piece of cork. We would need a good excuse for a knife breaking while tightening screws.

But there was another knife in the hostel. All wasn't lost. Yash managed to borrow it and back to work he went. The results were same. Only this time, we had the broken appendage in our hand. The mutilated cork seemed to be grinning at us.

"There are other ways", muttered Yash and started carving up the piece of cork with the knife. It was easy going till he reached the part that went inside the bottle.  The knife couldn't grab a purchase and so we were stuck. By now, it was almost an hour since the adventure started. It was hot and sweat was pouring down our faces. And the thirst increased. The liquid inside seemed to be teasing us.

"If we can't take it out, how about pushing it in?" I ventured. Yash grunted and thus we tried pushing in the cork. Success still eluded us. It seemed that the cork had somehow come a little to the outside rather than going inside! Twenty minutes or so of trying to push the cork inside, tempers were running high in the room with me chiding Yash for his so called knowledge and experience about all things alcoholic and he shouting at me for being a good for nothing. 

Finally, exasperated, Yash said, "Let's do the ampoule." The 'ampoule breaking method abbreviated ampoule' is how you break ampoules in order to draw medicines for injection.  You hold the ampoule by its base, with its upper end facing away from you. With a blunt object, like the back of a knife, you hit on the neck of the ampoule and it cleanly breaks off. The ampoules are designed so as to break, but a bottle of wine?

With no other option in sight, we decided to do it. We took a bucket and kept it beneath so that no wine got spilled. And then, Yash struck the blow. Surprisingly, it broke in one blow. Though some pieces of glass did manage to get inside the bottle. We took out a clean handkerchief, filtered the wine through it and sat down to enjoy the wine.

It was cheap wine but it tasted good. Maybe because of the effort that went into opening it. Maybe because of the nearness yet the distance between our lips and the liquid contained inside the bottle. Maybe because of the satisfaction of a job well done. Maybe because we had mastered the technique of breaking ampoules.

Nowadays, when I see a bottle of wine, my eyes instinctively seek out the top of the bottle to see whether it is capped or corked. And then I smile, recalling our little adventure with a bottle of wine in a small hostel room  in a rainy town. Invariably, a word forms on my lips and I mutter "Cheers!"