I hear a ‘sexy back’ comment come from behind me. Is it the table of eight? It can’t be my back they are talking about. I laugh to myself.
Alia:But most important is to eat it the way you want to eat it. It’s not like you binge every day. You only overdo it at times.
My sister has no idea about my bingeing; in fact, no one in my family knows. She uses ‘binge’ casually in her text. That’s not on her, though. Addictive personalities know how to cover their tracks. Until they can’t.
My phone buzzes.
Alia is sending me more pictures of bras. This time, she’s branching into underwear, too. She has chosen a combination in matching and contrasting shades for the first instalment.
There’s some commotion at the door. I can hear it, but I don’t turn. The door opens. I feel a stiff draught fan my bare back.
I pick up my glass and take a sip. I feel a dryness on my tongue.
I hear more voices, an accent, furniture being shifted just behind me, someone saying, ‘Your Highness,’ and there is laughter.
I feel a shiver go down my spine.
I start attacking the bowl of nuts, alternating between chips and nuts. Two at a time. Three. Four. More. The pace is feverish. I’m barely crunching, much less chewing. I can’t stop, nut after nut, chip after chip. I have lost control.
Me:I’m attacking the nuts.
I don’t tell her why.
Alia:That’s my girl!
The word ‘distraction’ flashes in my head, and this evening,like a malfunctioning doorbell, it persists.
My first therapist had told me the first step to pause bingeing is to make yourself conscious of it and then come up with a distraction.
I hit WhatsApp and click on the exchange from an hour ago. We were in the same city when we were messaging. I feel my stomach tighten. I go to Instagram and scroll through Alia’s collection again.
I hear ‘cutie on the high chair’. I look around the counter; there is no one else on a high chair. It is just the odd word that comes through the din of the music.
Taylor Swift slays:
It’s me, hi,
I’m the problem, it’s me
At teatime, everybody agrees
I’ll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror
It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero
I couldn’t agree more with Taylor.
That’s when I hear the name ‘Vedveer’. I strain my ear. Someone is saying, ‘The prince.’
I will the ground below this barstool to open up and close right after me.
I feel everyone’s, or is it someone’s, gaze caressing my almost bare back. My cheeks are warm, and my stomach turns. I’m wearing a belted deep green and black midi dress with a slit that does a lot of climbing. I’m breaking into a cold sweat, and my legs knock involuntarily.
What are the odds that I’m in Delhi on a rare overnight trip and I run into the crown prince of Jaipur?
I met his beloved sister, and even she never told me that he’s in Delhi.
The chances are pretty good, actually. I don’t need a round of cartomancy to tell me that.
