Stomach

After the military exhibition, the Soviet banquet began in full swing. To entertain the Indian guests, the table was laden with Russian delicacies: crispy pork knuckle, hearty vegetable soup, flame-grilled chicken and lamb skewers, Moscow sausage, Peter's meat pie, baked mushrooms, and traditional Russian potatoes. Knowing the Indians' dietary preferences, the chefs had wisely removed the skewered beef dish from the menu.

Despite the guests' Hindu backgrounds, the Soviets did not remove alcohol. To Russians, especially at a state banquet, vodka was indispensable—a weapon as lethal as any firearm. The "Kremlin" brand vodka was poured generously, its potency infamous, ready to shatter the resolve of even the toughest guests.

As the bottles were uncorked, the Soviet Defense Ministry officials across the table exchanged sly, hungry smiles. The Indian delegation, mostly teetotalers unfamiliar with strong liquor, felt a chill of unease. For them, the coming banquet was less a celebration, more a battlefield.

Marshal Ustinov's rule—a brutal Soviet tradition—was clear: winning at the drinking table was the first step to winning any negotiation. The Soviet officials' tactic was simple yet savage—request the strongest vodka and drink it all before their guests could blink, leaving them reeling.

Indian Defense Minister Kapoor forced a nervous smile. "Minister Yazov, I'm afraid many here don't drink much."

Yazov's eyes gleamed with mischief. "You worry too much, Minister Kapoor. There's a saying—you only learn to drink by drinking. If this vodka couldn't be lit on fire, it wouldn't be manly enough for our table. Are all Indian officials unmanly?"

He raised a glass. "Here's to the success of our transaction."

With a confident gulp, Yazov drained the entire bottle in one go, leaving the stunned Indians wide-eyed. Such a feat was unimaginable to them.

Kapoor, cheeks flushing, forced a shaky smile. "If Minister Yazov drinks like that, I shall drink one too."

He poured a glass reluctantly, pinched his nose, and downed it. The fiery liquid scorched his throat and lungs. His head swam, and he nearly collapsed, clutching the table to steady himself.

Yazov eyed him mockingly. "Shy drinker, eh? Three glasses for you, as punishment."

Before Kapoor could protest, Yazov poured three glasses and thrust them forward. "I'll drink three too, to keep it fair."

Stung by the challenge, Kapoor's pride flared. "Very well, Minister Yazov. I'll match you glass for glass."

His aides tried to intervene, but Kapoor waved them off. "This isn't about countries—it's a contest between men."

Yazov grinned, savoring the trap. One by one, he downed his three glasses, effortlessly.

By the third glass, Kapoor was slumped on the table, half-conscious, the room spinning. Yet, through the haze, he shouted defiantly, "Come on! Indians can drink too!"

The Soviet officials erupted in cheers, raising their glasses to the Indian delegation. The guests, inspired—or perhaps desperate—joined in, determined to keep up.

But how could they match men bred on vodka? Yazov watched with amused contempt at their valiant but doomed efforts.

Now flushed and boisterous, Yazov grabbed a vodka bottle. Shaking it like a trophy, he bellowed, "How about this, Minister Kapoor? I'll drink a whole bottle, and you drink ten glasses. Deal?"

Dizzy and dazed, Kapoor laughed blindly. "Deal!"

What Kapoor didn't realize was ten glasses equaled nearly one and a half bottles of vodka.

After that, Kapoor collapsed completely, and many others in the Indian delegation either vomited or lay unconscious. The room was chaos.

Yazov, still standing, sneered, "They want to challenge the Russians? These Indians don't know how to live—or die."

Just then, Yanayev strode in, eyeing the disarray with delight.

"These guys are useless," slurred Yazov, waving the bottle. "I can still drink a dozen more."

Yanayev raised an eyebrow. "Drink less, Comrade Yazov. We're not immortal."

Yazov laughed, wobbling in his chair. "I can still fight, as long as Motherland needs my stomach."