Single Malts & Double Standards

Two rivals. One bar. A war of ambition and conscience — served neat, no chaser.

A Playlet in Two Voices

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Characters:
Sameer Varoor (S.V.) – Former diplomat turned parliamentarian, sharp-witted and eloquent, with a taste for high ideals and single malts.
Dev Jankar (D.J.) – Career bureaucrat turned foreign minister, calculated, pragmatic, and fond of victories — whether symbolic or strategic.

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Scene:
A dim, smoke-tinged bar tucked away in Lutyens' Delhi. Dark mahogany furniture bears the scars of many clandestine talks. Persian rugs muffling footsteps, worn yet regal. The air is thick with the scent of aged oak, leather-bound books, and an unspoken history of deals made and principles compromised. Rain taps steadily against tall windows, while distant thunder rumbles like a restless conscience. A gramophone plays low, melancholic jazz — the soundtrack to whispered ambitions and muted regrets.

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[Curtain rises]

Sameer is seated at a corner table, nursing a drink, posture composed but eyes distant. He does not look up as footsteps approach.

Enter D.J. from stage right, grinning as he approaches the table.

S.V. (without looking up):
You’re late, Dev. Or should I say—fresh from another flag-hoisting photo-op?

D.J. (grinning, zeroing in, sliding into his seat):
Still fluent in snark, I see. No wonder you’re better on panels.

S.V. (swirling his drink):
You mean editing out nuance and footnoting the Constitution?

D.J. (raising an eyebrow):
Call it what you like. I call it effective diplomacy — less dithering, more delivering.

S.V. (calmly):
Delivering what, exactly? Placation packaged as patriotism?

D.J. (leaning in):
Progress. Something your camp romanticizes but never achieves.

S.V. (sharply):
You’re the suave apologist for a regime that finds it easier to incinerate ink than to engage with inconvenient ideas.

D.J. (raising his glass):
And yet… I sit at every table that matters. Capitals pause when I speak. You, meanwhile, are busy chasing applause with metaphors no one remembers.

S.V. (chuckles):
No one remembers? Funny. They seem to quote me more often than they spell your name right.

D.J. (sips):
I don’t mind the misspellings. I traded clarity for consequence. It pays better. Idealism’s for memoirs. Not ministries.

S.V. (leaning forward, voice measured but sharp):
And what did that cost you, Dev? A clean record? A clear mirror? Or the rare grace of pause — to think before you endorse, to hesitate before you obey?

D.J. (tilts his glass, unfazed):
It cost me illusions. And bought me influence.

S.V. (dryly):
Influence... the kind that collects headlines but never holds up to history?

D.J. (sharp):
History is written by those who act. Not those who annotate.

S.V. (with a soft laugh):
Annotations are the only things that survive censorship. You torch libraries, Dev. We bind memory.

D.J. (coolly):
You call it memory. I call it clutter. This isn’t a symposium. It’s a scoreboard.

S.V. (smiling now, voice rich and deliberate):
Ah, the anthem of expediency — always rehearsed, never remembered.

D.J. (pointed):
And your anthem? Baroque, bloated, and out of breath.

S.V. (mocking gently):
Better baroque than bankrupt, Dev. Ornament carries purpose. Emptiness simply performs.

D.J.:
You went full vocabulary on us; I went full playbook — and look who’s winning.

S.V. (with a soft scoff):
Winning? In what arena, Dev? Vanity metrics? Ceremony?

D.J. (coolly):
Then enjoy your chapter of noble obscurity. I’ll be busy scripting outcomes.

S.V. (dry smile):
Outcomes don’t outlast scrutiny.

D.J. (raising an eyebrow):
Scrutiny doesn’t win power.

S.V. (smirking):
Nor does leasing out one's soul to power—delivered in prose, disguised as policy, and applauded by those who mistake pageantry for principle.

D.J. (leaning back):
Legacy, Sameer... Legacy’s a louder signature.

S.V. (rising, heading to the exit, without turning):
Signatures fade, Dev. But footnotes? They sting.

D.J. (finishing his drink, unfazed):
And yet here I am — still writing the index.

Lights dim to near darkness. Thunder crashes loudly, shaking the room. A distant flash of lightning silhouettes Dev Jankar as he slowly rises, drains his glass, and exits with deliberate calm. The rain intensifies against the windowpane, leaving Sameer alone in fading shadows.

[Curtain falls]

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Penned in the shadow skirmish between a tactician and a tongue. Because I mistrust one man’s allegiance, and mourn the other’s restraint.