AUCTION
ROYAL SALUTE
by
Iqbal
Sachdeva
Vijaywara, the coastal town of Andhra
Pradesh, was abuzz with two news items the day I arrived – one a liquor bottle
had been recovered from a state
minister’s car and he was going to be tried under the Prohibition Act, and the
second that a bottle of Royal Salute Scotch Whisky had arrived in this stone
dry town.
Spectacled and serious looking
receptionist at Hotel Amarpali, after making me fill in my check-in card,
placed another paper up front and asked me to sign it. It read; ‘I hereby undertake not to consume
any alcoholic drinks or drugs in my room and if caught doing so, I will be
solely responsible for the legal action and consequences. The hotel owns no responsibility,
whatsoever.’
I got irritated and asked: ‘What if I
don’t sign?’
“I would not be able to give you the room
key, Sir!’ said she withdrawing the room key she was about to give me.
I had no option but to sign. I needed rest and shower after a five hour
drive that hot March month.
The state was, as if, hell bent to enforce
prohibition and the minister’s episode had added fuel to the fire. After my day’s work, when I returned to the
room, Ramaiah, my business associate in Vijaywada, dropped in along with his
two transporter friends to extend the usual hospitality, the businessmen were
quite familiar with – a few drinks, chit-chat and dinner.
‘You cannot get a drop of drink in this
town. But somehow, I have been able to
manage a bottle of Bonny Scot.’ Ramiah
said.
I ordered some sodas and after the room
attendant brought them, we waited for his departure. And , Ramaiah took the Bonny Scott bottle out
of his bag and as he started to pour drinks, the phone rang and a
cracking voice filled the room.
‘Sir, don’t drink. We are expecting a raid.’
Ramaiah poured the liquor back into the
bottle, wrapped it in the same old newspaper, and left the room, leaving us
high and dry.
He returned twenty minutes later and announced: ‘The raid
is over. We can enjoy our drink
now. Prohibition? My foot! If you have
money , you can do anything. You can
even have eagle’s eggs for omelette.’ he
went on.
Everything was peaceful now. The room was cool and comfortable. Just then, the phone bell rang again. It was Ramaiah’s bootlegger. Ramaiah rattled out in Telegu and closed the
phone saying: ‘My bid is 1100.’
As he joined us, he said laughing: ‘That
bottle of Royal Salute is on auction. I
have told him that I want it at any cost.
I hav’nt had a good drink for many days.
If it works out, gentlemen, out next drink will be Royal Salute.’
Meanwhile, the auction was on. The bootlegger rang up twice at
intervals. When the third call came,
Ramaiah told him in Telegu: ‘I pay Rs 1600.
But I want it in 15 minutes in room No.7.’
Twenty minutes later, there was a knock at
the door.
Ramaiah exchanged the cash – which he had
kept ready – with a parcel thrust by an unknown hand through the half open
door.
His face brightened . He poured all the Bonny Scott glasses in the
bathroom sink and recharged the glasses with Royal Salute.
‘Cheers! the Royal Salute is
ours,’ he announced, and raised a toast to his victory over prohibition.
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