Meena’s decibel level was rising. That’s when I noticed the glasses on the table; there were three. Even assuming one was water served in the wrong glass, that was bottoms-upped, too. She was already on her third drink.
There was a bowl of untouched peanuts in the middle of the scattered crockery and cutlery. I reached for it as I seated myself. I was starving. ‘Let’s order some food,’ I said, trying to shift the topic from me and my clothes.
No sooner had we placed our order for food and drinks than she wanted to know when the makeover had happened. ‘From ugly duckling to swan. What triggered it?’
Ugly? Was the emphasis on ‘ugly’ or was it my imagination? Or the slant of her smile.
‘It must be your success as a professional. You’re working, and you have some money. That always helps. It ups your confidence,’ she said, smiling.
‘Or I just grew up.’
‘And got rid of your clown wardrobe.’ She was laughing, flashing pearly-white teeth.
Where was Chhaya when I needed her?
This was a first for the three of us. We hadn’t dined together before. When Meena was in Bengaluru for her summer or winter breaks, the two of us would have sleepovers, chatting into the wee hours.
She caught up with Chhaya and the rest of her fashion clique over lunch or dinner.
‘This is the first time we are meeting of whatever was left of the group as adults, Meens.’
I don’t know why I said it; maybe because I was thinking of it this morning.
‘Remember the stuff you wore in school. It was like you had emerged from a dive into a paintbox. We always wondered if you got your clothes from a stall in Shivajinagar.’ More laughter.
It was as if Meena couldn’t stop herself. The more she drank, the louder she laughed and the deeper she cut.
I love colours, I have to admit. Sometimes, all of them equally and at the same time. But garish? Even though we all have mirrors in our homes, some of us need help, especially at an age when you tend to gloss over the image before you.
I often bump into people from my past in Bengaluru – classmates, school and college, teachers, friends of my parents. Almost every time, I’m told how much I have changed. ‘How lovely you look now…’ Compliments. Unfinished sentences.
Meena’s index finger was tapping her right cheek. I could tell she was thinking, weighing. ‘So, naturally, you have a boyfriend now,’ she deduced, as if she were tracking theHomo sapiensevolution.
‘Is that what you wanted to tell me? Your big secret.’ She was laughing again.
I started to tell her about Dr Ravi Rao, the man I was dating. He had been the unflinching light on my darkest day.
‘Hmmm… Doctor means money bags,’ she calculated.
I smiled. He was not just moneyed; he came from seriously influential stock. I had wanted to tell Meena that,but seeing how the evening was unfolding, I changed my mind.
‘How long have you both been dating?’
‘A few years now.’
‘You should push for marriage. You’re not getting younger, and it’s not like a ton of men are waiting for you.’
Incidentally, Ravi, too, was pushing for marriage. And it wasmoiwho was dragging her feet.
It was desi night at 19th Floor, and the foot-stomping Kannada song ‘Alladsu Alladsu’was playing.
‘Jeevna tonic bootli, kudiyo munche alladsu.’ Life is a bottle of tonic; shake it before drinking.
Everyone around us was on their feet. It was a loud and busy space.
I wouldn’t have picked a bar for this meeting. It was Meena’s choice. Suddenly, I was grateful for everything I had objected to – the volume and the strobes. The buzz about meeting my oldest friend had dissipated.
‘How are you doing, Meens?’ I asked forcefully, picking up a honey-coated cauliflower floret, urging her to eat. She hadn’t so much as touched any of the plates we had ordered.
