Earlier, when I was going through the guidelines, I deliberated whether I really wanted to go. The welcome is so reluctant.
The Four Hundred Club, launched on speakeasy lines in the early 70s, is now an escape of sorts for Delhi’s super wealthy. The image of the club is contoured by the financial flex of the membership.
An attractive thirty-something in a navy suit greets me as the lift doors part.
‘Aaditha Purthaapji.’
He knows my name; I’m guessing he could recite my business portfolio, too. I look for a name badge but can’t spot one.
Navy leads me to an exclusive seating area. I’m standing before burnished wood, thinking this table for four has three places too many for me this evening. It has been a while since I have been out on my own, not since my college days in Ohio. I have a great time whenever I go out with friends, all two-and-a-half of them, but there’s a different energy to going solo.
The centrepiece of this bustling two-floor economy is a sleekly designed bar counter, with backlit shelves displaying an extensive selection of premium spirits and liquors.
I tap Navy on the shoulder and point in the direction of the bar, informing him of where I’m headed.
Harry Styles’s ‘Adore You’ is on the audiovisual system. It blends with the customizable lighting that fires up screens.
‘I’d walk through fire for you
Just let me adore you.’
I’m feeling good, even if the sensation is ephemeral.
That ludicrous Pros & Cons list from two weeks ago? Still living it down.
Lavanya, in her Psych Goddess mode, pushed me to make a list, which I did, and proceeded to send it to her, or think I sent it to her address. The plan was we discuss the list. I was soimpressed with my work that I hit the send button and called her immediately, but she hadn’t got my mail. I checked my sent folder only to see that I’d sent it to [email protected] of Lavanya.
The undo window is for a maximum of thirty seconds!
I wanted to roll myself into a bread loaf and disappear into a freezer. Days and weeks later, I still do.
Most of the points are okay, I think. Not something I would invite Vedveer to read, but… I had been stupid, and I’m paying.
He’s going to make me sweat!
It’s the point about the kiss that is driving me crazy. The problem is, I really don’t remember it.
Average kisser, I mean, I have zero recall. (I’ve had more chemistry with my toothbrush. Duh!)
I take about an hour to compose myself and call Vedveer. He doesn’t sound too perturbed by the words he has read (it is unlikely that he’d let it show even if he did), but there’s something… A heaviness in his voice?
He doesn’t bring up the kiss line… So, then, Lavanya didn’t dream it up?
As if the wedding announcement and that email weren’t enough for one day, I place the responsibility of calling off the engagement on him. He doesn’t refuse; he asks me to come up with a plan. Like it was something that could be fit into the day’s agenda, scheduled between ribbon cuttings and some royal do-gooding project.
I take a sip of sangria that is placed before me by a mixologist whose name badge says Toddy. I put the burgundy glass down and give Toddy a thumbs-up.
Freakin’TittleTattlealso wants to join the party, so they dig up an old photo of Arjun Mahesh and me from our Ohio days and blast it on their Instagram like it’s breaking news. A relentless February day that was!
Where did they procure that photograph from? I don’t think even I have that picture with me.
Arjun Mahesh was a master’s student in finance when I met him. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with soft, silky hair that falls across his face, hiding features that don’t need a veil. Sometimes, he pulls his hair back in a man bun. Lushest lips ever.
His face is a light bulb in a dark room. He knows it but pretends that he is unaware. And does a damn good job of the show. That’s the dull part, I learn later. Confidence is one thing; giddy awareness of physical features one is born with is a disservice to self.
I pick up the burgundy glass and eye the bowl of nuts before me. I decide against helping myself. Not even a single nut, I tell myself.
My eyes are on my phone. I’m scrolling through Instagram and click on theTittleTattlelink (because I have time to kill). I hit on the latest edition and turn the pages. I pause at a layout that resembles a university annual. On the left is a column titled ‘To all the girls I’ve loved before’. The headline is a giggle. The piece, well… I count some twenty-two pictures. The tile is captioned: ‘Casanova Prince’s Class of 22!’
