The Cup That Held Five Pegs

"Some memories age like rum - stronger, sweeter, and more intoxicating with time."

             Life is a collection of moments, and some of them remain etched in our memories forever, growing more vivid each time we recall them. They become stories that bring laughter, warmth, and sometimes even nostalgia. No one can take away our memories; they are the treasures of our past, the echoes of time that make life richer.

             When I was posted at the Army Headquarters in Delhi, I had a steel cup, small in appearance but surprisingly capacious. It could hold two and a half cups of tea, a fact that never ceased to amuse my colleagues. It was a relic of my service days, a silent witness to countless conversations, brief respites, and moments of camaraderie.

             One such memory involves my dear friend, the celebrated poet Darshan Darvesh. He had come to meet me one evening, and after my duty hours, I took him to our army headquarters camp. The sun had dipped below the horizon, cloaking the city in twilight. It was a Saturday, a day of quiet indulgence for us soldiers, two pegs of rum were issued as part of our weekend tradition.

             As the moment approached, I asked Darshan if he would join me in a drink. He nodded enthusiastically but expressed a peculiar request. "Can I come with you to see how it all happens?" he asked, his curiosity piqued by the workings of our military life. I chuckled and agreed, leading him toward the distribution point.

             We joined the queue, our boots crunching softly on the gravel. As our turn neared, I turned to the distributor and made an unusual request. "I have a guest with me today. Instead of two, I want five pegs."

             The man behind the counter glanced at my steel cup, then back at me. "That little thing?" he laughed, shaking his head. "It won’t hold five pegs!"

             Darshan Darvesh chuckled too, shaking his head. "No, Kanwaljit. That’s impossible."

             I merely smiled and placed the cup before them. "Try once," I said, my voice laced with confidence.

             The distributor smirked, entertained by my audacity. "Fine," he said, "but let’s make a bet. If your cup holds five pegs, you get them for free. If it doesn't, you pay double."

             I nodded. "Deal."

             The first peg was poured in, the golden liquid swirling inside the cup. The distributor peered in and shrugged, it still had space. The second peg followed, then the third. By now, the spectators had gathered around, watching with interest. With the fourth peg, the distributor hesitated, leaning closer to check the level.

             "There’s still space," he admitted, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

            When the fifth peg went in without spilling a drop, the entire queue erupted into laughter and applause. Darshan Darvesh was laughing the loudest, clapping me on the back. "You are unbelievable, Kanwaljit!" he said, shaking his head in amazement.

             The distributor threw up his hands. "You won!" he exclaimed. "I don’t know how, but you did."

             I grinned and reached for my wallet. "A bet is a bet," I said, paying for all five pegs. "I won’t let you lose money over a trick of volume."

             That night, as we sat under the open sky, sipping our drinks, Darshan couldn’t stop revisiting the moment. His laughter rang through the air, his poetic soul delighted by the absurd yet brilliant spectacle. That story became one of his favorites, one he would often narrate at gatherings, his eyes twinkling with the same amusement he had felt that day.

             Years passed, but Darshan never let go of that memory. Even in his last days, he would recount it, chuckling at the sheer mischief of the moment. And even now, as I sit reminiscing, the laughter of that evening rings in my ears, warm and undying. Some memories never fade; they live on, forever cherished in the heart.

 

“And long after the pegs were gone, the laughter stayed - echoing through the corridors of memory.”

             When I awoke that morning, I couldn’t recall when sleep had embraced me, somewhere between the fatigue of memory and the warmth of old thoughts from Army Headquarters. I had drifted off, mid-reminiscence, with a half-smile curled on my lips, not of joy, but of quiet acceptance. The valley, for a fleeting hour, felt still… almost kind. After the routine morning drill and a modest breakfast, I resumed my seat in the office. By afternoon, the unit vehicles returned from Corps Headquarters, carrying their usual load of dispatches, official files bundled with personal hopes. Among them was a letter and a Punjabi newspaper, sent by Dalbir Kaur Bhullar, my wife, scented faintly of home. Her words were tender, as always, but what caught me off guard was the printed page - a short story I had penned, now nestled in the folds of ink and newsprint. As I read it, her words and mine mingling across the margins, a memory stirred gently - the tale behind that story, and the man who had once inspired it. His name was Tarsem Singh Bhangu - the motorcycle-borne Dak Runner, once just a courier of letters… until life, loss, and literature transformed him into one of Punjab’s quietly rising writers.