In the pit of darkness on a March night, Roopinder Singh sat sipping santri - local liquor - with his brother. The night air was still cold, remnants of winter would remain for only a few more days. They were both perched on a concrete bench below a huge banyan tree, at few yards from their home in Kundli in Haryana.
“Today, I will drink till I die,” Roopinder sounded determined.
Rajinder Singh, three years his junior, grew tense and tried to pluck the bottle out of his brother’s hands. “Don’t be silly. Stop exaggerating.”