Ratan arranges for private dining. I have barely eaten today, and my stomach is rumbling.
I pull on jeans and a freshly ironed black dress shirt and head for the elevator.
The elevator opens into a dimly lit corridor that separates the living quarters from the rest of the property. At the end of the passage is a brightly lit foyer. I’m getting my bearings slowly. It is a large, open space over which a chandelier hangs low. There are quite a few peoplemilling around, given that it’s a Monday evening.
I decide against stepping out for dinner and retreat. Ratan has the doors open and is waiting for me. I spot Aaditha just as I pull back; she has seen me, too. I curse under my breath and walk out of the elevator.
What is she doing here? She can’t be working this late. Even if the flood of vitriol on social media isn’t the full truth, this is way past the school bell. Especially if your workday began at 8 a.m.!
As I make my way towards her, I realize that Aaditha hadn’t seen me earlier. Her rear is facing me now. Whoever it is she is with, a statuesque lady, identifies me.
I recognize Aaditha because of her hair, straight and heavy, a fall of ebony, which she has drawn in a heap over her left shoulder. Just like she did earlier in the day when we were done with the photographs.
The friend sounds her out. Aaditha turns to face me, wearing a recharged smile. I see that she has changed from her traditional attire. She’s wearing ripped jeans and a bustier blouse. A large handbag hangs from her shoulder, and a black wrap is draped on her arm. She appears taller than she did in the morning.
I couldn’t tell earlier because of the situation, but now that we are face to face in a more relaxed setting, she looks nothing like in the antediluvian photos doing the rounds on social media. That’s the problem with an anaemic digital footprint; it can give wrong first impressions. Not that Aaditha cares; if she did, she’d change it!
Aaditha’s gaze shifts to the residential quarters behind me. She doesn’t know I’m staying here.
The person she is with looks familiar. I might’ve crossed her on social media, or she could be someone known. I didn’t have a name for her, though.
‘Aaditha,’ I say.
She’s giggling; it’s a soft, bubbly sound, but it doesn’t stop until she finally says, ‘Maaaan! The way you say my name.’ More tee-hee follows before she sings, ‘Aahdeethhhaaa.’
I’m embarrassed, and I apologize quickly. Only I don’t know which part of her name I have mispronounced.
‘Aaditha,’ she says, stretching out her hand, ‘nice to meet you.’
‘Aaditha,’ I repeat with a prayer, ‘likewise.’
She nods. I exhale.
‘You didn’t tell me you’re staying here.’
‘You didn’t ask.’
A late evening breeze sweeps across the slowly filling foyer; the decibel level climbs each time a car appears on the circular driveway. It is beginning to feel crowded.
She points at my wrist. ‘You have rolled up your sleeves,’ she is saying, following it up with a rush of tee-hees.
‘Hello,’ her friend says, introducing herself as Lavanya Patil.
‘Vedveer.’
‘Sorry! I forgot!’ Aaditha says gayly.
The name is familiar, but I can’t tell who exactly Lavanya Patil is.
Aaditha opens her palm and stretches her fingers and rolls them back in. She was flexing her palm in the morning, too. Is she injured? Is this physio?
A horn blares, out of tune on a quiet night, and Aaditha steps back involuntarily. She’s under the chandelier, and that’s when I notice her eyes. They are glazed, as are her friend’s. They have obviously enjoyed their drinks.
I turn to Aaditha. Her lips are quivering. Is she cold?
‘Are you cold?’ I ask.
‘Have you had drinks?’ she asks.
