‘You should’ve given the denims a shot for dinner.’
‘Threat or dare?’ she asks, pushing out her chin, her eyes locking with mine. I sit back on the two-seater. It’s all I can do to stay where I am.
My brows shift in a quiet motion.
‘What I wanted to ask you earlier is that does someone actually pack your clothes for you when you travel?’
Guilty as charged. I nod.
‘But how would they know what you’d want to wear on a particular day?’ she asks, pointing her cup at my shirt. ‘I mean, I get it. For men, what are your options – blue shirt or white shirt? Dress shirt or not so dressy or whatever descriptor you use for these clothes?’
She shakes her head dramatically, discombobulated by the nuances of fashion.
‘What about your mother, or your sister?’ she asks. ‘Imagine landing in Mumbai or Dubai with the wrong pair of jeans in your suitcase! It would drive me crazy.’
‘Navya packs her own bags. I’m not sure about Mother, though. I could ask her if you want. Aaditha is interested to know.’
I offer a small prayer every time I say her name. It’s the phonetic roulette. There’s thunder in her eyes each time I go over with the ‘H’.
We sit quietly for a while, enjoying the breeze and the charged air that fills the silence. I refill my glass, but she’s done with coffee for the night.
‘I don’t want to be walking up your palace walls!’ she says.
I’m hunched over my knees, wine glass in hand, watching the colour of the night deepen.
‘Is marriage something you have given a thought to?’ I ask as a stiff wind tousles her hair.
Aaditha opens her mouth and then closes it before she speaks. ‘Marriage in general?’ she asks.
I nod.
‘It’s not something I want to think about,’ she says after a while, her gaze meeting mine.
I’m not a man of a dozen questions, and in this case, I’m not even sure if it’s okay to ask why, but I do.
‘I didn’t really have reason to,’ she says.
I wonder about Arjun Mahesh, the dude from theTittleTattleposts, the sender of red roses.
‘My parents’ marriage is functional; nothing wrong with it. I don’t think they have ever discussed divorce, but it’s not something I would go to any length to replicate for myself,’ she says.
The hollow of her neck sinks as she speaks. ‘And Alia’s marriage of eleven years will end in a divorce. It’s only a matter of time.’
I had no idea about her sister’s marriage. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ she says. ‘She’s better off single than being unhappily attached. Maybe the same for her husband.’
‘I don’t have great examples of happy marriages in my life, so yeah, it’s not something that enthuses me. It makes me very nervous, actually.’
Aaditha’s eyes are almost the colour of her hair.
‘I don’t mean to crib. Life has been good to me,’ she says, ‘but society, its views and opinions on women are so skewed, especially in the matter of marriage.’
Aaditha shakes her head like she wants to knock off a thought and preferably lose it.
‘Look at the way I’m trolled for what I wear or what I don’t wear, the way I look or walk. There’s a national debate on stuff that is basically personal choice,’ she says, ‘but you, everything you wear is great. It’s a different metric for a man, especially when he’s as good-looking as you are…’
I’m caught between her point – something I had not really considered in the depth at which she articulates – and a casual compliment she slides my way. A point that didn’t make her pros list.
