Dry toast and perils of bubbly bilaterals

Teetotalling governments, bless them, live in a world where champagne flutes - with champagne in them - are weapons of mass distraction. In their imagination, the moment a head of state or government raises a glass of bubbly at a summit, chaos ensues. Dipso diplomats forget trade agreements, ambassadors start mumbling niceties, entire ministries dissolve into inebriated puddings. The 'no-smidgen' tradition imagines wild scenarios, like this: one sip of wine and suddenly the visiting president is proposing to peg the currency to the price of Bordeaux futures. The defence chief, emboldened by a second glass, insists on renaming aircraft carriers after names of Edith Piaf songs. By dessert, the hosting PM is convinced that foreign policy should be conducted exclusively through Odissi mudras.

In this dry dystopia, alcohol is not a social lubricant or tool of celebration, but a geopolitical accelerant with potential catastrophes. A toast is seen as a gateway to perhaps denying that any agreement was ever signed at all, and a leader may go full 'Bris Yeltson' and say something unscripted or, worse, unintentionally funny. So, water or nimbu paani it is. The toast must remain symbolic and sober - lest the world discover that diplomacy, like life, is sometimes improved by splash of the good stuff. There's always room service and a mini-bar later.