The Happiest Hour

By Sakhi Gundeti

There are moments when you think everything is on the brink of falling apart. There are moments when you regret being friends with someone. You never see them coming because like air, thoughts, and the liberty of Indian women, they’re invisible.

“Once my performance was over, I looked up and saw the seniors clapping for me!” Pandu said. She was already a fast walker and now she was excited too. Her curly hair bounced as she sped up. Her slippers with wooden heels slapped against the footpath’s concrete. “They didn’t expect me to cry without glycerin. I was so engrossed in my character.”

Sneha and I smiled at each other. When Pandu started talking about the drama club, she was either ranting about her seniors or, on rare occasions, telling us how they loved her performance. That day, we were lucky it was the latter.

Tugging at her sling bag, Pandu said, “I’m so glad we’re drinking tonight. All nice things are happening today.” She was wearing one of her flowery kurtis. This one was a sleeveless yellow with pink and purple flowers all over it. We’d gifted it to her on her twenty-first birthday.

“Yes!” Sneha put her arms around our shoulders.

Drinking - I'd only done that with water, fruit juices and horrible-tasting medicines. I was never attracted to alcohol but I knew that if I ever had to try it, it'd be during my college years. Once I got home after graduation, I'd see Daddy drinking beer on Saturdays sitting on the balcony with Kishore Kumar songs humming out of the radio. He'd never ask me to try it. When Sneha and Pandu made plans to drink that night, as always, they didn't bother to ask me. So I interrupted and told them I was in.

As we crossed a road, Sneha said, “I want to stir my vodka with a cream and onion chip. Or tomato chilli. Anything will do. I want to see how it’ll change the taste.”

“Experiment at your own risk and don’t bother to involve us.” Pandu said.

“Don’t worry. It’s only for the brave.” Sneha pushed her black rectangular spectacles up the bridge of her nose. She was wearing a pale cobalt blue tank top on a neon pink bra and khaki pants. She wore these clothes at least thrice every week in different color combinations.

Experimentation kept Sneha alive. I’m not saying this; she said it when she decided to wear the exact set of clothes at college on a day that could’ve been normal and fine had she not wanted to pull this stunt. “I want to see how people react. I don’t care about our classmates, but I want to see what the professors say,” she said. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fun. The aim of this experiment is to understand how people our parents’ age perceive girls our age.”

The first professor for the day was indifferent to her clothes, the second one frowned at her but didn’t say anything, and finally, the third professor asked her to wait after the lecture. Sneha smiled at us; the smile of someone wanting to walk through fire on purpose for fun.

When she came outside, she said, “Professor said I should wear more ‘appropriate’ clothes to college.” She made big air quotes. “I asked her what appropriate means and told her there were no rules about what clothes we should wear.”

At this point, Pandu slapped her forehead.

“She said we are in an engineering college where most students are male and that I should already know what kind of clothes girls should wear at college,” Sneha chuckled. “Did you two know this and decide to keep it from me?”

“Okay, scientist. Let’s have lunch,” I said and walked ahead. Questioning Sneha’s experiments was like yelling at a soundproof glass. It was useless and you looked like an idiot. Unlike Sneha, I mostly wore solid v-neck t-shirts and loose jeans. No scope for anyone to be offended; not that I’d care if anyone had an objection.

As we walked down the footpath, the street lamps turned on pouring yellow light on us. The alcohol buying experience suddenly became shadier. The light filtered through the shadows of branches and leaves as they waved with the cool wind. The brown and red paver blocks became yellowish as if they’d contracted jaundice. On our right side, we passed by a bakery whose sign board paint had chipped off, a medical store where a man with a white mustache sat staring into nothingness, and a garage where two guys waited for their bike’s puncture to be fixed. The Friday evening traffic was in full flow. Cars honked, bikes roared, and cyclists sped through the gaps. After another minute of walking, we reached the wine shop.

Outside, a man with a plastic cup in his hand poured a golden brown liquid from a dark bottle in his other hand. He took two unsteady steps ahead and one step back and with uncanny precision managed to pour himself a drink without spilling a drop. I raised my eyebrows in appreciation. A few feet away from him, a woman in a sari sat cross-legged next to crates of yellow eggs. Judgment oozed out of her black button eyes as she stared at us. The eyes of a man standing next to her did the same. We weren’t a frequent sight at the wine shop, you know. By we, I mean women.

“Two green apple vodkas,” Pandu told the shopkeeper who smiled at the diversity of his customers.

Waving her index finger in the shopkeeper’s face, Sneha said, “No. One plain and one green apple.”

“Plain?” Pandu asked.

With deep concern, Sneha said, “How can I experiment with green apple?” Pandu’s palm touched her forehead. Sparrows began chirping from her pocket. She pulled out her phone and an expression of sheer horror covered her face. It was so rare, I pulled out my phone to click a picture. But before I could do that, Pandu yelled, “My parents are video calling me!”

“Ask them to call later,” I said and realized it was stupid.

“That’s stupid. I can’t pick up the phone now.” Pandu stared at her phone and held it as if it were a ball of mud. I wished Pandu’s ringtone was something more serious; it would’ve matched the tension of the situation.

“Okay, calm down ladies,” Sneha said, taking the bottles from the shopkeeper. “Cover your front camera and tell them it’s not working. Then ask them to call normally.”

“What?” Pandu asked even though she’d clearly heard everything.

“Do it.” Sneha shook the bottles up and down.

“Hello, Hello?” Pandu covered her front camera. For the next thirty seconds, we witnessed her stellar acting skills.

“I need a drink. This was a lot.” Pandu sighed and hung up.

“Now when they call you again, say there’s some network issue.” Sneha patted Pandu’s shoulder. All this to get drunk and escape reality. I couldn’t believe it.

As we started walking back to our hostel, instead of keeping the bottles in my bag, I read the stuff written on them. ‘ALCOHOL IS INJURIOUS TO HEALTH’ was written in all caps to scare but in a thin font so it didn’t draw attention. It was a clear display of the company’s reluctance. As a kid, I’d have meekly returned the bottle after reading that line but as an adult, my self-destruct and adventure mode was shutting up the kid inside me; some damage was fine.

Once we reached the hostel, there was a long queue of girls outside the tall red gate. It was unusual, but we joined the queue anyway. I asked the girl standing in front of us what on earth was happening. She said, “There were drugs found in one of the rooms. So the guards are now checking all the rooms and also the bags of everyone entering the hostel. It’s annoying.”

My ears turned cold and my throat was drying up. I needed water now, not alcohol.

“Did you hear what she said? What are you doing? Oh my God,” I asked Sneha and Pandu who were opening a packet of chips.

“Why? What happened?” Sneha asked, crunching chips. “Look at the queue. It’s gonna be a while before we get in. I’m hungry.”

I told them what happened and why their leisurely chomping of chips was inappropriate. Pandu dropped a chip she was about to put in her mouth.

“Okay, that’s dramatic even by your standards.” I said.

“What are we going to do now?” Pandu asked in a hushed voice but I knew she’d soon burst and start screaming.

“Hey, stay calm and don’t shout or anything. You’ll seek attention and get us in trouble.” Sneha packed the chips and wiped her oily fingers to her pants.

I’m a nice person, you know. I never copied or helped anyone in an exam no matter how bad it was going(except once when I showed an answer to a friend because she was crying), never bribed anyone(except once when I bribed my younger brother with a Ferrero Rocher to keep his mouth shut when I’d broken a plate), never broke a traffic signal(except once when I was getting late for my tuition). I couldn't be punished for my exceptions, goddammit.

The queue inched forward and so did our anxiety.

“Can we ask a guy to keep the bottles until this situation is sorted?” I asked, recovering from my regret of getting involved in the plan and swearing not to touch alcohol again.

“No, even their hostels are being checked. See that?” Sneha pointed at a queue in one of the boys' hostels. “Some idiot must’ve reported the drugs. Why can’t people mind their business?”

“We can keep them in the college auditorium,” Pandu said after recovering from the shock of the bag-checking and the sadness of losing a chip. “But we won’t be able to get back in time. It’s 8:50 p.m. already.”

The girls’ hostel had a rule that its residents couldn’t stay outside after 9:00 p.m. This was for safety reasons. Boys didn’t have such a rule. Apparently, crimes only happened to women.

“So what? We can give the bottles to some guy and he’ll keep them there,” Sneha said.

“Yes. Wait, I'll call someone,” Pandu said. There was a sudden spark in her eyes.

“I’m thirsty,” Sneha said.

“Want to drink my tears?” I said.

“Somebody’s pretty tense it seems.” Sneha put her arm around me.

“Are you not freaked out? They’ll call our parents if we get caught.”

“If we get caught.” Sneha smiled; the smile of someone giving false assurances.

Pandu came back. Her fair face had turned almost white. She began talking with a slight tremor in her voice, “The auditorium’s locked. It was the last day today, so no one was going to use it till the next sem. The guy who had the key went home. We’re screwed.”

I couldn’t imagine what would happen to us. What would be the consequences of being caught with alcohol? I never read any rules about it. Would they suspend us? Would they throw us out of the hostel? Whatever the punishment may be, would they return the bottles? We’d spent quite a bit on them.

After pondering for a while, Sneha opened her mouth and said these words, “Dhanashree Pandey, only you can save us today. Here’s the plan,” she put her arm around Pandu’s shoulder and explained to us The Plan.

By the time we’d begun implementing it, we were quite ahead in the queue. There were about four girls in front of us. I gave my bag to Pandu. After a minute or so, she pretended to be on a call and began crying hysterically. She already had a shrill voice and now she was crying. The two guards frowned, either because Pandu’s voice hurt their ears or she was cutting the line and entering the hostel building without getting her (my) bag checked.

“Hey, where are you going? Show me your bag.” One of the guards stopped her.

“Huh?” Pandu wiped her almost red eyes and pretended to hang up. She was amazing. Sneha and I rushed to her side.

“Madam, please let her go. Her father just passed away.” While Sneha told this story to the guard, I called up Pandu. When her phone started ringing, she picked it up and said, “Yes, Mummy. I’m leaving immediately. I’ll come as soon as possible…” She started walking away and soon began running. The vodka bottles began clanking.

“Pandu, Pandu!” I yelled behind her in an attempt to muffle down the sounds.

“Please understand her situation. Okay, bye.” Sneha waved at the confused guards and we ran behind Pandu.

“Wait!” A guard overtook us and stopped Pandu. “What was that noise? What do you have in there?”

“What noise? I have to leave. Please let me go.” Pandu frowned. She wasn’t acting anymore; there was genuine fear in her voice.

“Okay. Leave the bag with them and go.” Damn, the guard was sharp.

“Yes, give us the bag and go.” Sneha began taking the bag off Pandu’s shoulder.

“Sure?” Pandu whispered. Sneha nodded.

Meanwhile, my heart was beating at a thousand beats per minute. Why did I have to get into this?

“Check this bag.” Sneha began opening all the sections. The guards peeped inside and took out one bottle. “What’s this? Is it alcohol?” one of them asked in Marathi. She wasn’t angry or anything; she was genuinely curious.

I think I saw a tiny, imperceptible smile on Sneha’s face. As if something she believed in was true after all.

“No, alcohol is not sold in such nice bottles. Look at this. It’s tinted glass. Alcohol is sold in dark green or brown bottles,” Sneha said. The guard frowned at her. “I mean that’s what I’ve seen in the movies.”

“Yes, these bottles are too good for that. Look how beautiful they are.” I added.

“Then what is this? Vod-ka. Vodka?”

“It’s a floor cleaner brand.” When Sneha said this, I had to tell myself she actually said it. Once I was convinced it really happened, I wanted to laugh aloud, but I managed to cover my face and control myself.

“And this here is a toilet cleaner.” She pointed at the green apple vodka bottle. “These are quite expensive. The girl who went away, our roommate, she’s very peculiar about these things. Rich people, rich habits. What can we do?” Sneha smacked her lips.

“Are you sure you’re not fooling me?” The guard still had her frown on.

Sneha smiled at her; the smile of someone fooling successfully. “We’re going to live in this hostel for a while. Fooling you won’t be useful, right?”

“Okay, okay. What’s your name and room number?”

“Uh…Janhavi Joshi, 805 and she’s Malvika Naik, same room.” Sneha pointed at me. She named us after two of Pandu’s drama team seniors that she always complained about.

“Okay, go.” The guard joined her colleague in the bag-checking of the remaining girls.

With new energy in my feet and mind, I walked inside the hostel building. I was smiling, then grinning and then laughing by the time we reached the elevators.

“That was crazy. Somewhere inside I knew the guards wouldn't know the v about vodka. Amazing.” Sneha was laughing. “We’re truly engineers now. True problem-solvers. With enough confidence, you can get out of any shitty situation.”

When Pandu opened the door, her eyes were still damp. “What happened?” She asked. We told her what happened.

“That’s insane! Anyway, without further ado, let’s start.”

Convincing Pandu of The Plan was a bit of struggle. Here’s what happened:

“I’m not killing my father for vodka. I still have some morals left.”

"Oh come on, you’re not actually killing him. I don’t have to explain this to you. You’re an actor," Sneha said.

"But that’s different. I perform for an audience and there’s a story–"

"Okay, listen to me.” Sneha held Pandu by her shoulders. “Your father would be dead anyway if he finds out you were caught with plain and green apple vodka bottles."

"Especially the plain one." I emphasized. Sneha looked at me in a way that would classify as a basic glare.

“And we’ll be supporting you, right?” I said. Sneha agreed with a grunt.

There are moments when you think everything is on the brink of falling apart. There are moments when you regret being friends with someone. But eventually, you survive and it turns out to be your craziest and happiest hour.

I’ve been a teetotaler since that night. That was enough adventure for a lifetime.

By Sakhi Gundeti