‘Grovel is the word,’ Komal agrees, grinding her teeth. ‘Why should Aaditha give in?’ she asks. ‘Look at him, shameless! He has hitched up with his ex, Kairi, already. It’s been but five minutes.’
Lavanya shakes her head. ‘It’s the angle of the photograph, I think. It could’ve been a perfectly innocent moment.’
‘Could be,’ Komal says, ‘but we don’t know!’
‘The delicate, ever-so-perfect Kairi,’ I say.
‘I’ve heard there are cracks in Kairi’s engagement,’ Lavanya says, her eyes on me. ‘I don’t know if it is a rumour or if there’s any truth in it.’
I shrug.
I’ve been on social media more in the last two weeks than I have in the past year, searching for signs of Vedveer.
Maybe it’s because he reached out to apologize.
There was nothing, no new photos, no palace updates, until this photo popped up, and according toTittleTattle, he has been about town. And he has had Kairi for company.
I glance away from my friends and let my eyes drift around the room.
Earlier in the evening, the air buzzed with that desperate edge common to places where the drinking is hard and fast. But as the night stretches, the energy shifts. The crowd settles. There’s a kind of glazed peace now, even though the voices are louder, and the bass still thuds beneath everything.
In one corner of the room, a battered jukebox crackles to life with a melancholic tune,‘Anisuthide yaako indu, neenenaynannavalendu’.
There are times when the music provides a backdrop to the scenes playing out across this space. The occasional clink of pool cues or the shuffle of a deck of cards, the thump of a palm on the table, the look of a hopeless hand lending to the atmosphere. The diehards are at it at the two ends of the room, where the pool and card tables are placed. A small stage sits empty in the corner, a relic from a time when it was a more happening space.
‘You are going to tug that wig off,’ Lavanya says, reaching for me.
I turn the baseball cap on my head and smile at Komal, who is nodding at Lavanya.
I’m going incognito, I remind myself, and the night is still young. It is only in the safety of Lavanya’s car, in a couple of hours, that I will pull off the wig and let my hair down, replace my Batas with my embellished ballet flats, unbutton my shirt, wear it like a shacket and apply some lipstick.
Raju breaks the moment, pointing at the freshly minted noticeboard that has a few new pointers in a bolder font.
The last order is at 12.30 a.m., and closing time is 1 a.m. (This is always at the top of the pile, I remember.)
I read the additions out loud lest anyone miss them.
It is mandatory to deposit cash before going out to smoke.
Vomit cleaning charges are ?200.
The rest of us, except Raju, are hysterical.
‘I’ve never seen anything like this,’ I say, pulling out my phone to snag a photo.
‘I would’ve charged at least five hundred for that,’ Raju says, screwing up his nose.
Komal rings the bell, and Raju raises the price to ?1,000.
‘Have neither of you vomited in a pub?’ That is Lavanya, trying to keep a straight face.
That’s when I notice the new detail on the toilet sign; it says,‘Use of toilet – one person at a time’. The adjunction is in a bold font.
We are all over the table, laughing. I more than the others.
‘Why don’t we all go to Jaipur? All four of us?’ Komal says, grabbing my arm so tight she has almost dislodged my wig. ‘Let’s take on this prince fellow.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Lavanya says. ‘This prince fellow finally meets his match.’
