The answer came back before my screen locked.Like right now? You won’t believe it, Bae. I was just thinking of asking if you are free for a tea break just now.
I was on my feet in a flash. I reached for my phone and typed,In Perky Grace in 5. For a COFFEE break.
Meeting your bestie after a longish gap is like changing into clean undies.
We’re not the physically embracing kind, but we hugged this time. Real tight. She had gone through a tough, tough time. I could only imagine what it was like for her, but unknown to her, I had fought a ragged bout, too.
‘How come you haven’t ordered our drinks and found a table?’ she asked after sashaying in only 10 minutes late. She must’ve missed me.
‘You must be craving a cup of tea,’ I said. ‘In the excitement of seeing you, I arrived with only my phone. I was about to head back to get my wallet.’
We laughed and paid, collecting our beverages and settling down in our usual spot in the near-empty café.
‘I don’t mind a croissant,’ she said in true Chhaya style as soon as we were seated. ‘I haven’t had breakfast.’
I picked up her purse and got her the croissant. If she went to the counter, she’d debate on a plain or almond croissant for 10 minutes, and before I knew it, it would be time to get back to work.
‘I’ve something to tell you,’ she said, beating me to the bell.
‘You go,’I said, laughing.
‘Actually, two things to say,’ she said, wagging her digits. ‘Maybe three.’
‘Spill the tea.’
‘I saw Meena and Ravi together,’ she said, holding my gaze. Then added, ‘They were holding hands and looked quite into each other.’
Chhaya had met a distant cousin the previous night for a business dinner at the downtown five-star, where she spotted the new lovers.
‘Ouch! That was quick,’ I said, laughing.
‘You were faster,’ she came back.
‘This was easy for Ravi,’ I said. ‘He always worried about women hitching their wagon to him for his money. Meena has enough of her own, so they start on level ground at least.’
‘Meena’s father is an IT professional. While I’m sure Mr Iyer is wealthy, I’m not sure they’re quite in the same league.’
A few zeroes more or less. I shrugged.
‘Andrew was also there,’ she said. ‘He was having dinner with two oldish-looking men.’
I didn’t want to think about Andrew’s reaction. It was not my business. I was getting out of this space for that very reason.
‘I’m not sure if the lovebirds saw Andrew or me, but as I exited the place, my eyes met Andrew’s. I’m pretty sure he had seen them, too. Their table was in the centre of the room. It was like they were making an announcement.’
‘Bloody! Reporting from ground zero, where hope was so thoroughly squashed.’
Chhaya laughed, and I joined in her raptures, not quite sure why.
‘And?’ I asked Chhaya, taking a sip of my coffee. ‘I hope you have something more interesting to say than this roulette of friends and lovers.’
‘Well, there’s this guy,’ she said, her face colouring.
‘Now you’re talking…’
Hussain Malik, a Bollywood actor–director was hitting on my friend dearest. He was about 33, a divorcé. He wasn’t the best-looking man on the planet, not even a sharp dresser, but he was a crackling artiste. It didn’t hurt that he was an extended branch of the industry’s first family. They had bumped into each other at the Mumbai airport lounge a couple of months ago. Chhaya had missed her flight, not an uncommon occurrence with her, and he was early for his. (I prayed that if he was the punctual kind, that he also be blessed with a lorry load of patience should this dance go into the second song.)
Hussain had approached her, telling Chhaya he knew who she was before introducing himself. They sat together at a long table, shared pizzas and exchanged numbers.
