A bottle of vodka
Jyoti Malhotra -
Monday, May 26, 2008 1:12 PM
There was a great offer on Stolichnaya vodka bottles (buy two, get one free) at the Delhi airport Duty Free last week as I waited to take the plane to Lahore. I had heard somewhere that Pakistan forbids the import of liquor for its citizens (presumably because Islam doesn’t condone the vice), but on the other hand, several friends had taken up the state’s challenge in good spirit and usually got away with it.
The other story I had heard was that when non-Muslim Pakistani citizens wanted to drink, they had to get a certificate, in which they had to answer two questions : Sharaabi ka naam (name of the drinker), and sharaabi ke baap ka naam (the name of the father of the drinker).
At the duty-free sales counter in Delhi, then, I enquired of the young man if I could carry liquor into Pakistan. A lady, who overheard the question, asked me if I was Pakistani. No, I said. Then you’re ok, she replied gaily. When I asked her if all of the above stories were true, she couldn’t help cracking up.
The thing was to get past the Pakistan International Airlines girl, who carries out an additional security check when you’re just about to board the plane. Since I am Hindu (and feel ready to embark upon a Bertrand Russell version of Why I’m An Atheist), I knew she couldn’t disallow me my liquor, but I didn’t want her to look at me in that particularly accusing way. So I wrapped up each vodka bottle separately, stuffed it inside my laptop bag, and covered the offending items with all kinds of batteries and other computer wires.
She didn’t find them, and I kept face with my fellow passengers. At last I was anonymous again.
Two of the three bottles had already been targeted as gifts, but I decided to keep the third, just in case I wanted to use the vodka. I already knew the stuff had several uses, having lived in Russia for a few years, helping dull toothache, easing tummy runs and even easing back-pain. Over the next few days, as I traveled inside Pakistan, the bottle was to provide several insights as well.
The first time I was taking the flight from Islamabad back to Lahore, and the bags were scanned through the X-ray machine, the man on duty asked me if I spoke Urdu. Yes, I said in Hindi, what was the problem? Please have your bags checked by the woman security guard, he replied peremptorily. She opened the suitcase and found the vodka, snuggled between the clothes. What is this, she asked. This is a bottle I said, telling her the full truth right away. Yes, she replied, looking at me knowingly as she waved it about, but what does it have inside.
Since the Stolichnaya label was staring at both of us in big, bold, red letters, I shrugged my shoulders. Vodka, I said, and thought, what was this about, anyway? Then the penny dropped. Since she couldn’t make out from my clothing (shalwar-kameez) or my speech (that’s why the question, did I speak Urdu?) or my face (a commonplace, wheatish complexion) or demeanour, whether I was Pakistani or not, and since the use of liquor was banned in Pakistan, she was simply trying to gauge the measure of my guilt.
For a few split moments we looked at each other, the offending bottle of vodka between us. So was this the moment of truth? Was she going to ask me if I was Muslim or not, or had she already figured out? Was she going to trash the bottle? Was she going to lecture me for not knowing better, and/or imply that I had been badly brought up? Is this where I should announce to her that besides "saare jahan se achha/hindustan hamaara," a song so famous in India, I still knew my Iqbal?
She looked away, then, and still waving the plastic-bagged bottle, asked the male security guard who had caught on in the first place, accha, to kya karein? What should we do? Both of them smiled, conspiratorally I thought. Let her go, he said.