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For one vodka shot

October 3, 2011

A shack at a pristine beach is playing loud dance music. I like this stark contrast, this mellifluous medley of gurgling waves and rock n roll. A group of girls is livening up the place, laughing and dancing. The golden sky is dripping in the golden sand and on my silence, a peaceful calm in my head. A friend, another friend and I are watching the sun’s slow descent in the sea, nursing our drinks, besotted with nature.

Then a glass drops and shatters a reverie.

That dancing group of girls don’t want to pay their bill. They say they didn’t have as many vodka shots as they are being charged for. There are seven of them, all so pretty and well dressed that they could have stepped out of one of those beach-calendars or an article titled, ‘How to dress for a beach’. Also, they are super drunk and insist that they are being charged for an extra shot, that they had ordered only three each, and their bill says 22. Also, they don’t remember ordering one whole bottle of champagne, which is standing on their table lone and empty now…a mute witness.

Amazing decibel-levels of shouting erupts, and the music is stopped, and I put on my sunglasses hoping I would see a different world.

And then one of them announces to us – the spectators, ” You know where I am from – I am from Delhi. Such cheating is never tolerated there. My Uncle can get this place shut in a minute.” Of course, she is the one who is standing on the bar stool.

Then, when the manager says maybe they will have to call the police after all, they all run away from the place, literally, towards the beach, giggling, knocking another glass off the table, with two waiters in tow.

My friend says, “Maybe they are just having fun and are not cheap. Maybe we are being too judgmental” and I say, “But why drag Delhi into it?”

At least, after all this drama, my friends and I are no longer envious of their flat tummies and the privilege they possessed to expose them. Five minutes of bad behavior eradicates all personas – fun or not.

Next day, walking on the beach late night after dinner, a friendly sorta-tipsy guy approaches us and asks, “You girls wanna have fun? Party? Are you from Delhi?” and my friends and I scream, “NO, WE ARE NOT” even though that’s not entirely true.

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