Mathew 

At 16, I thought I was cool. I was the tallest in class, the best athlete, the most eloquent and also the best-looking kid in town. Hmmm… OK… I’ll admit it was a small town. I had a girlfriend too, one with actual boobs rather than raised nipples and hopefully would be able to go all the way with. The condoms were in the wallet, ever-ready for the deal. 
I was a star. I was a saint too. Went to church, never was involved in a fight and a hit with a parent-folk too. For a town in Kerala, dominated by Christian families, this was enough. 
My baptism into the religion of drinking was on the day before Christmas that year. The priests presiding over the ritual were Arun and John, belonging to ’the rebel’ clique in school. Yes, they loved me too. 
I remember being animated that morning as I was waiting for the call to come- John’s call. He was given the esteemed job of procuring the booze. Arun’s usual supplier, his uncle, who would have given away his entire estate granted that he was asked nicely and he was beyond his fifth peg, was out of town. John would have to bribe his Rubber-Tapper to get it from the ‘civil supplies’. 
The house was filling up with my extended family members as it was decided that our family would host the Christmas party.  The driveway was quickly filling up with cars and disgruntled drivers. My mouth was already hurting from keeping that smile in place. The questions, oh, the questions, they just keep on coming. Booze was yet to be introduced into the group as my Dad was waiting for the quorum to be filled. Once, that’s done, the questions get another life altogether.  
The call came at last. I got on my Honda Activa and zoomed towards the rendezvous point- Arun’s place. His family was out to visit relatives and as he didn’t perform ‘well’ in the exams he was forced to stay at home to study for a retest after the holidays. I was given the job for getting the Pepsi and ‘touchings’. On the way, I stopped at a bakery, bought a bottle of Pepsi and a ‘mixture packet’. To the sly smile of the bakery owner, I replied that Dad’s gang had arrived. He gave me two ‘Pan Pasand’ candies as change. Not to look suspicious I took it and left. 
Arun and John were ready with the glasses and the nudie magazines. The stuff-was the much revered McDowells Celebrations Rum, a brand which I still ardently follow. They gave me the low down on how you never have a hangover and how college students swear by it. 
My dad and my uncles were all whisky people, so rum was a revelation to me. Arun deftly gave a tap on the cap, an elbow butt at the bottom and with a swift twist of the hand the cap was open, which seemed awesome then. Three glasses were poured to equal amounts of what was described as 90s. Pepsi was poured in next and the mixture packet opened out in a heap in the middle.
A quick swig after the ceremonial cheers gave me the first taste of the lovable poison. The anticipation I had seemed a bit trifle after that. We settled down into a rhythm, drinking slowly, feeling the drink take over the body and making life more bearable. I tried the cigarette that John gave me. I loved it and kept half of it for later. Tongues were loosened and secrets were exchanged and my narration of the escapades with the school babe took the sheen away from the nudie magazines. After the third 90, I was done. 
With the help of my friends, my favourite friends, I reached home. I could manage myself as I knew all of them in there would be too drunk to notice but I was afraid of the dreaded smell. I dug into my pockets and got out the Pan Pasand, I thanked god and popped one in.  
This somehow was a bad move, the sugar or I think the hideous taste triggered some reactions in me. I staggered into the veranda and I missed a step and fell down face first on to red-oxided floor. I threw up immediately making yellow puddle with the Pan Pasand as a cherry on top of it. I felt limp; my attempts at getting up were quite futile. Hearing the commotion, the entire family came out see me wading in my own vomit. My elder brother and dad took in charge and dragged me in to the bathroom. My dad emptied my pockets and found my wallet which had a picture of my girlfriend, an unused condom, a half-smoked cigarette which suspiciously looked like it had marijuana in it and a Pan Pasand. I was no longer a saint.  
I still think that was the best day of my life.  
PS- I got laid that weekend, as the rebel tag was too much for her to handle