Wednesday, 06 April | Krishan Kalra | Dehradun
There were four of us in that handsome double-storey house in Alipore. Ideally located, well maintained and adequately provided for, it was the ultimate luxury. Four bright (ahem!) young executives working for a big foreign bank and each one fond of the good life. We were a happy lot. The chummery even had a resident cook-cum-bearer so there were no hassles of buying groceries and vegetables. The guy cooked exceedingly well and did all the shopping. We took turns clearing his weekly bills. Trained by British employers, he knew all the graces. We didn’t doubt his integrity; anyway who cared if he was charging us for his paan-bidi. Besides, the old man took care of everything; laundry, shoes, all odd chores.
Our booze bottles were kept in the dining room side-board. No one thought of locking up. It had started with a drink on special occasions, but soon a ‘chotta’ before dinner became the order of the day. Bottles were purchased turn by turn – usually one of the IMFL brands – once in a while someone chipped in with scotch.
It happened with a particularly good scotch bottle. We noticed the level depleting rather fast. Maybe we were watching more closely, maybe it was our banker mentality working overtime, but there was a distinct feeling that someone was giving us company, taking a nip on the sly. We started level-marking the bottle; the pilferage continued. He wasn’t even smart, otherwise he could’ve added water. We were baffled. Doubting the cook was unthinkable, but who else would have the opportunity except the person who was around all the time.
The level in our precious bottle was now dangerously low. That evening, when we started dinner, there were only a few pegs left. We decided to teach the rogue a lesson. He wasn’t going to get away with this robbery. He couldn’t make a fool of four savvy bankers and was going to pay for his sins. The bottle was quietly taken to the loo, one of the guys peed in it and the loss of our ‘chottas’ was made up. The bottle was duly replaced in the side board. Next evening, it was the same story. The plunderer had struck again and drunk a ‘patiala’. This one was obviously beyond redemption. He didn’t even know the difference between scotch and Morarji’s potion. It had to be the cook. We decided not to wait any longer. We were going to take the bull by the horns. After dinner we would jointly summon him and pose the question.
Dinner over, the old man was called and the damning evidence placed before him. “Who’s the thief in this house?” I thundered. “Who’s been drinking our good whisky?” The man was unruffled, his response was cool. “Saheb, I don’t touch the stuff; I am a teetotaler, but I know it makes the food tastier. So I just add two spoons to the main dish every day.”
That night, we all threw up, turn by turn.
(A veteran of the corporate world, the author now does only voluntary work in various spheres)
