Tell the Price

The office party had been running two hours too long.

Music from someone's Spotify playlist kept swinging between 2000s Bollywood and early EDM. Half the team was standing near the bar just to avoid dancing. My boss, Vivek, was leaning on the counter, glass in hand, retelling some boardroom joke for the third time. I laughed again. It felt easier than correcting him.

I was nursing my second drink. Not really tasting it. Just watching the bartender.

He moved slowly. No showmanship. Just precision like he’d done this every night of his life, and still somehow cared.

The way he poured the next glass… it paused something inside me.

Not a memory. Just… weight.

I said it aloud. Softly. Maybe to myself. Maybe to the amber in the glass.

"ऐ साक़ी, तू दाम बता, जिसमे घुल जाये ग़म मेरे..."
(Tell me the price, bartender, for a drink in which my grief can dissolve...)

Vivek turned slightly. Smirked. “Poetry now? Since when do you drink and rhyme?”

The bartender didn’t flinch. He looked up at me, measuring something in my eyes.
And said,
"ग़म कितना पुराना है?"
(How old is the grief?)

I didn’t answer. Just raised my glass halfway, finished the rest in one sip.

"ऐसा जाम बता..."
(Tell me of such a drink...)

It wasn’t a performance. Just something leaking out. I wasn’t even aware the room had gone quieter.

The bartender refilled my glass, slow, like each drop meant something.

"जिस जाम में यादें नहीं डूबतीं... वो यहाँ नहीं मिलता।"
(The drink in which memories don’t drown you won’t find that here.)

“पर कुछ देर के लिए छुप जरूर जाती हैं।”
(But they do hide for a while.)

Someone from HR, Arjun, overheard. Let out a low whistle. “Bro, that hit.”

Another colleague clapped once, mock-dramatic. But their eyes lingered on me, just a bit longer than before.

I stood up.

Not to make a scene. Just to breathe better. Maybe to let the weight in my chest stretch its legs.

I took a step away from the bar. Turned to look at the crowd. Some are already watching. A few were smiling. Tanya raised her eyebrows like she’d just remembered my name.

"यहाँ लोग कम, चेहरे बोहेत हैं..."
(There are fewer people here… more faces.)

Someone let out a loud “Waah bhai!” and laughter bubbled up from the corner table.

The bartender, still cleaning a glass, didn’t look up.

But he replied, like keeping tempo:

"आँखें कम और पहरे बोहेत हैं..."
(Few eyes, many guards...)

I smiled. Felt a little dizzy. Maybe from the drink. Maybe from the attention.

"मैं सब पहरे, सब गुनाह, सब गुन्हेगार भुला दूँ..."
(I want to forget all the guards, all the crimes, all the guilty...)

And that’s when the room shifted.

Applause. Not roaring, but steady. Genuine. A couple of cheers. Phones came out. Someone from tech shouted, “Say that again!” The DJ paused the next track.

I looked down at the bar.

Took out an old receipt from my wallet, the back of it scribbled with some forgotten memory, a name I no longer say aloud.

I slid it across to the bartender.

He nodded.

Took a small jar from below the counter, half-burnt slips inside, smoky glass, smelling faintly of kerosene and endings.

I placed mine in. He lit a match. I watched it burn.

No one said anything for a while.

I raised my glass one final time.

"हर ज़ख्म पे नाम, हर नाम का एक अश्क..."
(Every wound bears a name, every name a tear...)

"मैं जिसमे सारे अश्क मिला सकूं..."
(If only there were a drink I could stir them all into...)

"ऐसा जाम बता, ए साक़ी, तू दाम बता..."
(Tell me of such a drink, bartender, tell me its price.)

They clapped again. Someone whistled. Vivek laughed and said, “Next time, I’m coming to your open mic.”

But I just stood there, glass raised, as the note curled into ash. And for once, nothing needed translating.