Once, many summers ago, I was working in my tiny lawn, weeding weeds. It was a hot day, the sun beating mercilessly. It, however, didn’t dissuade me from pursuing my work.

The lawn, on account of my negligence, looked awful, with unwanted weeds mushrooming everywhere in different shapes and sizes, nearly smothering the planted grass. I drudged on assiduously pulling out the useless weeds, occasionally trimming the grass wherever found uneven.

Cursing myself for not taking care of the garden earlier, I continued cleaning and clearing the lawn of undesirable plants. As I perspired, the approaching evening was becoming apparent. As it did, I suddenly remembered my depleted liquor stock, which had not been replenished due to funds crunch. I was forced to spend the last few evenings with accommodating friends, who understood my predicament. As I toiled on, I became a bit concerned about the ensuing evening becoming a dry evening. The sudden knock at the gate changed everything. Opening it, I was pleasantly surprised to see my cousin-sister and her husband standing with benign smiles. As Hong Kong ID holders, they were visiting Nepal after some years.

After preliminary courtesies were exchanged, I ushered them into the house and made them feel at home. But before they took their seats, my sister presented me with, obviously, a bottle of whisky, neatly wrapped and placed in a plastic bag. The very thought of whisky in the evening made me extremely exuberant. It had been quite a while since I had my last peg of whisky. By the time they left, it was already getting dark. I took a shower, changed clothes and prepared some eatables. I made myself cosy with a glass on the table. I took out the bottle and unwrapped it — alas, it was everything but the coveted whisky — it was “Ruslan Vodka”.

During the next few days, I publicised the “Vodka” incident among our known relatives and acquaintances which must have made some embarrassing impact on her for she never faced me. During her last visit to Kathmandu, she again knocked at the gate. Opening it, I found her standing with a big grin, holding a bag, containing a distinctly visible “Black Label” whisky.