“No, no, Your Honour, I didn’t, I vehemently deny these allegations,” I said, shaking my head and looking at the judge, who looked at me sternly while peeling potatoes. I was just 17 years old and I was fighting a battle for my life. I knew if found guilty, I would never see the sun rising again on the horizon. I knew the battle of Mandar vs. Salunkhe Sr. of 2001 was going to be as historic as Roe v. Wade (1973) United States v. Nixon (1974) or NJK v. India (1997).
I was on shaky ground, but I needed to hold my nerves. This is the story of how the truth doesn’t always need to win, to shine.
Back in the summer days of 2001, I had scored good marks in high school. I met a few friends, but especially bonded with Viv and Qua. As teenage boys, we three had the same energies. I was cruising through life. We were enjoying movies, going out, and having dinner parties. It felt like nothing could go wrong — until it did.
On that fateful night, we three watched a movie. I still remember it was a courtroom drama, “A Few Good Men.” After enjoying the film, we went out for dinner and partied hard in the depths of the night. It was too late, so I invited my friends to stay over at my house for the night. That was my first mistake. My parents were not at home and were only expected to return by the next day afternoon. Tired and dazed, we all slept in different corners of the empty house.
When the morning arose, my friends hurried back home, leaving me alone toiling in bed. When I locked the door behind them, I overlooked the uncleanliness of the house — namely the papers on the sofa, the rumpled blanket lying on the floor, etc. This was my last mistake.
I went back to bed, oblivious that a storm was brewing, slowly inching towards me as the clock’s hand moved.
When I woke up and walked into the hall of our house, rubbing my eyes, I saw my father was quiet, sitting with his back straight, and hands folded around his chest. He exhaled disappointedly when he saw me. On the other hand, my mother was visibly nervous. She got up.
I was still rubbing my eyes. I didn’t know what was going on. I looked at my elder brother and inquired with my eyebrow as if to say, “What’s the matter?” He shrugged, suggesting he wasn’t sure, but then he followed up with his finger carving around his neck, indicating I was dead. A thunderbolt ran down my spine. I gulped in fear and asked, “What’s the matter, Dad?”
Dad unfolded his hands from his chest and got up like a flame, his palm searching for my cheek. Just then, my mother jumped in between the son and father and stopped the possible violence.
“How dare you ask, what’s the matter?” blared his heavy baritone voice.
“The boy is no longer a child,” said my mother in her thin voice, standing between us. “Let us discuss like adults.”
My father fumed but nodded. Breathing a sigh of relief, my mother went back to her chair, peeling and chopping vegetables. Father pointed me towards his opposite side. My mother being in the center, rolled over to one side, opposite my father. My brother watched from the sofa behind Dad, shaking his leg nervously.
Something about that serious environment felt familiar. While my father was speaking, I lost myself thinking hard, why does this feel familiar? In a flash, the answer came to me. I gasped as I saw the scene in front of me fading.
I saw the walls of my home disappearing into the blackness and a spotlight was turned on. It was on my father. He now wore a black coat. My mother’s hair had suddenly become white and wavy. The room had transformed into a courtroom. My dad was the Prosecutor, I was the Defender, and my mother was the Judge.
DAMN!! the effect of “A Few Good Men”!
This phenomenon was very common for me. In the latter half of my life, I understood that to hide the pain of reality, my over-imaginative mind would paint reality in different colors. It helped me cope with serious situations.
That time it was a movie scene, from “A Few Good Men.” I was sweating profusely.
“Your Honour,” the Prosecutor said, tying his hands behind his back. “The defender is just 17 years old, yet…” He turned on his heels. “He dares to drink alcohol? Point to be noted, he is still a minor.”
“No, no, Your Honour, I didn’t, I vehemently deny these allegations,” I said, shaking my head and looking at the judge, who looked at me sternly while peeling potatoes.
“What proof do you have?” asked the judge, pointing the knife she was using, at the prosecutor.
“Proof, I have the irrefutable proof,” said Mr. Salunkhe Sr., the Prosecutor. I wiped the sweat off my forehead with my palm. I knew firsthand about Mr. Salunkhe Sr.’s reputation for being ruthless. He walked towards me. I gripped the chair I was in.
He looked into my eyes and said, “But before that, I give the defendant one last chance to come clean. I shall not ask for stern punishment if he has the courage to speak the truth.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about?” I said almost immediately with my lips trembling.
“Very well,” said the tall man with white hair, thumping his fist firmly on his open palm. “I found a receipt of the bar, dated yesterday night. It calls out for three Long Island Iced Teas. Do you still lie to the court?”
It felt like my stomach dropped on the floor. How is it possible? Then I realized, Qua slept here in the hall. While sleeping, he might have thrown a few things out of his pockets. The receipt must be one of them. How callous, I had seen a pile of paper when I closed the door behind them. I should have cleaned it up. I am a dead man. I thought.
“Could you care to answer the question of Salunkhe Sr.?” A screaming voice of the judge brought me back.
“Your Honour, I didn’t drink. Drinks were ordered, yes, but I didn’t drink,” I said, clenching my fist.
“Another lie. Three young men, three drinks. Would you believe that only two glasses would be empty by the end of the night? Speak the truth,” Prosecutor threw the receipt in my face.
My lips widened as if I was Jack Nicholson. “You don’t want the truth because deep down all you want is to slap me, hit me. I would rather have you do as you please and go on my way.”
“Did you drink or not?” asked the judge with her eyes widened.
“Yes, three drinks were ordered, but four young men were at the table. Viv, Qua, I and Rahul. Rahul took that third drink. So, no ma’am, I didn’t drink,” I said.
I could hear the indistinct chatter growing behind the scenes. The judge growled to quiet the room.
“How’d you prove it?” asked the prosecutor.
“A phone call to Viv or Qua should confirm it,” I said. The courage of Mr. Nicholson had left me.
“Alright,” said the old man and took a few strides towards the phone to dial up the number. “If the boys don’t confirm your story, I am sending you to the cellar. I wouldn’t mind so much the drinking, but lying is what I hated. You’d wish to be dead instead!” said the prosecutor, biting his teeth.
This is it. I felt the walls were closing in. Would Viv or Qua corroborate my story or would they spill the beans, innocuously? I squeezed my eyes at the inevitability of my doom. A moment passed, which looked like an hour to me.
“That should do,” said the judge, getting up. “We don’t have the right to question other’s children. Let’s stop it here. For now, we can give him the benefit of the doubt.”
The prosecutor kept the receiver back. His eyes still fuming, he didn’t say a word and left the courtroom, our hall, I meant.
Lights came back on, and I saw my mother putting the bowl of cut vegetables on the side. She came to me and with a calm voice, said, “This better be the last time, you are drinking”
“But mom, I didn’t….”
“Oh, shut up, I can read your scared little white face. Better behave, I won’t be able to save you from your father’s wrath every time” she said as she walked away, disappearing into the kitchen.
“This is a new lease on your life, spend it wisely,” said my brother as he left the hall as well, smirking.
I was perplexed. Thinking — I didn’t get punished; does it mean I won? But almost all of them knew yes, I did drink, so did I lose?
That day, the truth shined without winning. The truth was that yes Rahul was a friend but he was not at the table. That was the night I tasted the long island iced tea for the first time and lived to tell the tale.
As a family, we didn’t speak about this incident ever again. Days after the incident, I used to stay awake thinking of my father’s fuming face. I felt ashamed, more than fearful thinking of his face. Since that day, I never lied to my father or to my family. Drinking, well I did have drinks later stage of my life but only after I started earning, and that too after my father’s permission.
As I reflect on this incident, even in 2023, I feel how lucky I was to have my family. A mother who always protected me, a brother who watched over me, and my father, a man I never understood. He was a man with few words as he believed in leading by example. It’s been 10 years since he passed. In my late thirties, I started to see his point of view. I was the kind of child who made his job as a father, difficult. He wasn’t as benevolent or well-versed in expressing his emotions as my mother but his unshakable firmness in his values carved honest men out of his children.
While my mother taught me how to connect to the world, my father’s values ensured, that I didn’t get influenced by the world. I could only hope to be as good a father as he was.