Lifesourcing – Blog
(www.shomprakash.com)

This is Friday

Shomprakash Sinha Roy
About the author :
Shomprakash Sinha Roy is a Senior Technical Consultant and Social Media Professional for Dell International Services. He moonlights as a blogger on a few websites. Notable among them, are his contributions at The Youth Express, and Lifesourcing (www.shomprakash.com). For Roy, writing has been a necessity driven by experiences; more than anything else. Having struggled for survival for three straight years, he finally has a job that pays so that he can keep writing and stay alive at the same time. He dreams of the times of Hemingway and Bill Shakespeare, and idolizes Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Arundhati Roy and Rabindranath Tagore.
The story “This is Friday” was presented via the blog Lifesourcing, and was accepted as a truly contemporary work of romance by thousands of readers. It was also promoted via different social media channels and as made its way to readers across India, the Middle East and the United States of America. It’s about one night that begins as a drunken journey across the protagonist’s favourite shopping mall to his favourite lounge in town. It explores a rhythmic side to the city of Bangalore, where the protagonist dwells upon his desires and deep-rooted values of friendship and “trust”. It also turned out to be the author’s first successful attempt to use the present continuous narrative form.
His debut novel “The Pink Smoke” is being published by Grapevine India Publishers, he was signed on by Durjoy Datta and Sachin Garg for the same. You can learn more about the book at http://facebook.com/thisisfriday or check the book trailer on http://tinyurl.com/colorslifevideo
Till then, enjoy reading “This Is Friday”!

Part I. Detox

Reality sucks. Well, probably. Not so much when you’re twenty one and trying hard not to throw up on an old middle eastern rug at lifestyle, inside your favourite mall, on the second floor . But it sure hits you hard in your face when you go over the prospect of returning home alone that night, and sleeping on the floor mattress you call a bed. It punches you in your guts when you think about the countless times you’ve walked up and down that very spot, trying to figure out which number to dial on your cell-phone, just so that you don’t get turned down bald, and have to start all over again.
This is me. I think it’s probably a bit too early for introductions, but I guess that’s something to be done with, so my name’s … (this is a bummer, I don’t really know what to call myself yet.) Let’s go with something common, not too striking or sharp, because I’m neither of those things. I like to think of myself as someone who is neither tall nor attractive, yet someone who wanders out every night, trying to make a point. And about halfway through the evening, I end up having completely missed that very point. Without further ado, let’s call me Sid. I know what you’re thinking. It’s not short for ‘Siddharth’. It’s short for ‘Siddhant’. Which is ironic, as I haven’t made any clear headed decisions so far. At this point in the story, I’m sloshed beyond my wits and I’m chewing mint to the best of my ability. I’m trying to fight a long lost battle with the concept of alcohol breath by munching on gum that makes me pukish.
So, back to the rug on the second floor. There’s absolutely nothing too special about it, except for the fact that I like to call it my ‘thinking spot’. I don’t remember when it began precisely. It was probably a year back, I was living with my old roommate and we used to come out to the mall for the sole purpose of killing time. One particular section of the Men’s fashion section stole our hearts the first time we started browsing for pullovers. The UCB section. I’m not too sure why it appealed to us so much. It could have been the solid coloured tees by Benetton, but that just makes it look like I’m good with fashion, so we’ll ignore that line of thought for now. I keep deviating from the rug. Which is weird, because at this point in the “story” I’m practically meditating on the rug.
The rug was more of a symbol of hope. It sounds incredibly corny, but when you’re a techie hanging out with a fellow techie, walking across the floor of a beautifully lit hall with ambience all around you, you start noticing these ‘tiny’ things and then you start wishing you had all of that in the comfort of your own home. So, that happened.
We never spoke about it, of-course, but when we looked at each other; we knew what the other one was thinking. This had to be the floor mat in our living rooms. And then, we would start thinking of the ambient lights again…
I apologize again, for the drift.
So this is Friday, and I’m in my thinking spot, trying to figure out who I want to call. I should correct that; I’m more likely pondering over who would actually agree to go out tonight. Why the sudden desire for company? I broke up a couple of days back. I know, people make me out to be a bloated jerk most of the time for being negative about life, but it had happened. And I would like to believe that it had happened for a fairly good reason. The lady was too good for me, and I realized it in time. Funny thing is, most people would find that hard to believe, and I can’t figure out why. So tonight I’m not going to try, either. Tonight, I would like to go ahead and trust my lucky friends, Filter Kings and Dry Gin.
But first, I would like to make a phone call. So I take out my phone. The time reads: 4:30 PM and I realize I need to plan my evening. I struggle through my contacts.
The list begins:
Aakrit Maurya
Ananya Biswas
Aritro Biswas
Ashish Tripathy
Alok Uncle
Arindam Dada
Anirban
Baba….
I decide to scroll faster. These names don’t seem to be working much. Except for an Ex-Girlfriend, an old friend, an excellent friend, my last roommate and my father, I find it hard to recall these faces. The names are blurry, as I scroll down to section K:
Kumar Gaurav
Krutik Tatibandwale
Krutik, Krutik, Krutik… I’m slowly getting tempted to buy a quarter of gin and retire to my messy apartment, and then call up my best friend and start a conversation with “What’s up”, but I somehow manage to resist that temptation and scroll further down. I’m now at ‘P’.
Parul Sharma
Priyal Sharma
I try not to focus on this section too much. One of them could very well be either my biggest ally or my mortal enemy. So I’m down to ‘S’.
Siddhant Roy. (This is stupid, but whenever I buy a phone, I start the list of contacts by feeding my own phone number.) This isn’t helping too much at the moment either. I venture further, and I stop at ‘T’.
Tanuja Shekhar.
The name stirs a faint memory. An old college friend, his old roommate from Kota, and the roommate’s girlfriend who now stays in Bangalore, contemplating her relationship against the desire to eat meat. For those who find this difficult to understand, the ‘boyfriend’ happens to be a vegetarian. Not by choice, but by rule of family default. And that sucks.
Anyway, Tanuja and I had first met when she was visiting her guy at our place in Electronic City. As far as my memory served, she was this anorexic, pale girl who, at first sight, seemed to appear… deprived. Which is weird, because the lady probably had a surplus of everything ‘material’ that a girl wants. And if I’m wrong, I’m only strengthening my inability to understand beautiful women.
Did I say beautiful? I mean flawless. Yes, despite the apparent sorrow behind her eyes, and even though she moved like the protagonist of a sad love story, she looked amazing. And we had found a connection back then, we discovered that we shared our birthdates with Diego Maradona.
I had stolen a few glances at her, when Parul was in town, we all stayed in that cramped up apartment of ours, four of my friends, me, Parul, Tanuja, and her boyfriend.
We had never spoken much, or hardly anything, before Ridhim, my giant friend, asked me to do him a favour. He wanted me to do a small write-up on Perceptions and Behaviour for Tanuja’s college project. I accepted with a smile, but warned her that I would end up posting it on Lifesourcing, my blog (www.roykiduniya.com) after she had submitted it.
When I had finished, she came up to me and started asking a lot of questions. Questions about my decision not to pursue a literary career and what not. I reciprocated with my usual excuses, about the Great Indian Parenting dream, how I had fought against my will to study engineering, and the story of a boring struggle. (It wasn’t boring back then, but it sounds pretty stupid now.)
She started telling me the story of her father’s struggle in his early years, his journey through a midlife crisis, and my fickle minded writer brain started thinking about a manuscript based on the man’s memoirs. That phase didn’t last too long, her boyfriend had soon packed up to leave the city, and she bade us goodbye with a faint smile.
Shortly thereafter, about a month from that time, I found myself staring at headlines about a pending verdict for the Ayodhya Issue, and a consequent curfew throughout the city. I was worried to death about getting my supplies in place, lest the shops should decide to shut business for a day. So I went out scouting for cigarettes in my favourite part of Electronic City: The baker’s zone. It’s not an official name, and there’s actually a legacy that goes behind the nomenclature, but I’m afraid of diversions if I care to explain that, so I’ll move on.
I was trying to call Parul, still numb, trying to figure out the good reasons behind her departure from Bangalore, when I ran into Tanuja. She was sitting alone at Marmari’s, one of the premier junk food destinations in Baker’s zone. Intrigued, I had almost summoned up the courage to go and talk to her when she looked up and saw me through her maroon shades.
We spoke for a while and I learnt that she was going through some tough times with her boyfriend, who had turned overtly expressive of his desire to control her life. That was the time she told me that the guy had actually forbidden her from eating meat. At this point, a series of patrol vehicles had started moving around the neat roads of Electronic City, and they were asking people to return to their homes. Tanuja stayed at Woodstock Ambience, a serviced apartment haven for students and employees near E-City. She was reluctant to return, and we took a walk down the road, further inside the locality.
While crossing a Bengali Staple Food Joint (Satyam), she had a crazy idea about eating fish. No harm in being a pescetarian, she said. So we went inside, and ordered a particularly smelly delicacy. (It’s not actually smelly, but for those who have that idea, I would hate to burst the bubble)
Now this is something you should know about Tanuja. She doesn’t hold a fancy to the thought of getting her hands dirty. And speaking for my gender, I would say we appreciate this quality in all you ladies. The lucky turn of events allowed me to feed her myself. Although it isn’t the dreamy lunch we usually think about, it was a good meal. When we finished, the patrol cars had filled up the streets, and men in uniform surrounded us, the civilians. God must really chuckle over himself when he creates these moments, and he does so quite beautifully, as I found out to the expense of my light clothing. It started drizzling, and the sun was going down. She still showed no signs or intentions of retreating to Woodstock, so I suggested we could watch a movie on my laptop at my place.
Then, a thought struck my head. Somewhere, somehow, it did not seem like the smartest of plans to invite Tanuja to our hideout, where Ridhim would be snoring away to glory. You see, Ridhim and Tanuja’s boyfriend were the proverbial inseparable childhood pals. I decided to take a leap of faith and called Gaurav, who stayed nearby, and asked him if I could come over. I told him I had a girl with me, and it did seem like a simple statement on the phone, but to Gaurav, the instructions were clear. Clean up the mess and hide the stash.
Five minutes and a bumpy auto rickshaw ride later, I was knocking on Gaurav’s door, and staring at Tanuja, who was looking away. Acting like a perfect host, my friend offered us a hot beverage. I would like to call it coffee had it not been for the sheer respect I have for the actual caffeine concoction. We retired to one of the rooms on the east end of the apartment, and I played my favourite movie, A Few Good Men.
We started a conversation about her father midway through the movie, and she was telling me how he had cleaned dirty utensils at his own brother’ house in exchange for lodging at Mumbai in the seventies. I heard about her old man’s ascent from an aspiring accountant in the suburbs of Bombay to a successful business analyst in the Middle Eastern World.
All the while, I was amazed, not at the volume of facts that screamed “Write! Write” in my ears, but at her clear speech, the movement of her wrists as she went about describing her father’ plight, and mostly, her eyes. Tiny, beautiful eyes. And I admit, if I’m using this adjective generously it only indicates the truth. We can, in all probability, categorize the ‘thinking men’ population into two sub-zones. The one that praises in silence, and the one that speaks out loud. Now I would generally push myself over to the latter category, but on that day, that very moment, I felt very much content in being silent. I swear I didn’t talk much. Which is what I usually do, hence the oath.
Gaurav’s apartment had a really nice window that looked over a lake. Once we had finished the conversation, I excused myself for a smoke in that sanctuary. There, I and Gaurav spoke about how this could possibly affect Ridhim if he knew, and I countered with my suggestion that I was doing nothing wrong. A Movie was perfectly harmless. I tossed the filter out of the window, and just as Gaurav was about to reprimand me for it, I heard one loud sob.
I did return to the room, but all I managed to catch in a span of about three minutes was the sound of Tanuja’s feet as she was hurrying towards the door. I tried to stop her, but she resisted. I barely saw her tears as she stormed out and went down the stairs, and then I heard Gaurav calling out my name behind me. I went back inside, and in the room, I began to saw how this mess had arisen.
Gaurav’s laptop screen was filled up with a full screen image of Tanuja’s boyfriend, fuming. At first, I was gently surprised at the moving eyelids, but as I saw the pleasantries that the couple had exchanged, I realized Tanuja had tried to call him on Skype. And one small note in the chat log had made it clear to Mr. Vegan here that his girl was with another guy.
As I stared into the webcam, our fuming friend’s lips had almost curled into an expletive.
“You son of a b…” and Gaurav shut the lid down. He looked at me in his classic WTF mode.
We started laughing. I had never heard from Tanuja again, and eleven months after this incident, after getting my life torn apart between a dead friend, a fiendish college principal and a dream job, here I am. I’m looking into my contact list, with an appropriate amount of drunken inquisitiveness.
Tanuja Shekhar.
I’m trying to figure out who I want to call.
I scroll up. I go back to where I started. I type “Ash” and the name of my best Bangalore buddy stares back at me. I make up my mind, and I press the green button.
A fifteen minute persuasive conversation tells me that Ashish is on his way to the Lifestyle mall. According to the extravagant promise I’ve made, I’m supposed to take him to Ice : The Lounge at the Taj Vivanta, MG Road.
With one card in my deck, I decide I want more people. Friends, Family and Love. All that a man needs, really, on a Friday.
I Scroll down carefully, trying not to skip the ‘S’ region, mainly because I’m looking for my sister on my list. Some furious typing, and I finally locate the simplest name on my list.
Simi.
I think once, and exactly once before I press the green button again. I figure I’m lonely and my little sister just went through a breakup last month too, and my best friend is already on his way. My mind plays a stupid cupid game and I tell Simi that I’m going to introduce her to a friend. I’m laughing a little on the inside, when I feel a sharp tug behind my collar.
I turn around, and I’m facing a pretty girl. She looks familiar. She reminds me of a long lost face. I cannot decide whether it’s the spirit playing mind tricks on me or really a face from my past, so I risk staring at her name tag. She doesn’t take it too nicely. She thinks I’m staring at her breasts. And then hits me. Wait, a nametag! This girl must work at the mall. And this area, my thinking spot, must be her domain within the floor. I tend to do this “Should be, must be” thinking a lot when I’m drunk. Today’s no different. Well, except that today’s Friday. And I expect good things to happen.
So I read her name tag out loud. “Tanya Singh” it says. Again, she doesn’t look pleased. I try to focus on her gestures, unable to comprehend her words at the speed in which she utters them. She points towards a pile of clothes, and I look down, and I see the mess that I’ve created. UCB pullovers, no longer neatly arranged, stare back at me. From her finger movement, I get the fact that she wants me to buy one. So I pick the one closest to me, and to my surprise the one I happen to be crushing in my palm with honest ease. It’s red in colour.
I head towards billing. I love this mall.
As the cashier hands me my invoice and asks me if I need a polythene carry-bag, I shake my head. I look back at “Tanya Singh” fondly, and she doesn’t smile back.
Next stop, Restroom. I would have a very, very faint recollection later about these thoughts in my head, I think to myself. I look into the mirror, and I’m smiling. I rotate the tap and splash water on my face. I pull out some more mints, throw on the pullover and roll up the semi-crushed sleeve, swaying on my way out. I realize I’m going to need a cup of coffee. But I am aware that the blissfulness allows my mind to do things that I would never do in a million years. So I take the hint.
I stand in queue for a cup of hot Georgia espresso, and dive back into my contacts. I stop at “Naheed” and type out a message : “Get me 2 couples on d Vivanta GL Imp”
By the time I reach into my wallet at the front of the queue, I get my reply. “Done”.
The coffee-shop counter girl has a glimpse at my last drunken smile before I sip on the Georgia. The milky fumes fill up my throat as I take a seat on the bench next to me. My attention reverts back to my cell-phone. As I try to re-locate Tanuja in the list, I notice the time on my phone, and I’m startled. It says 4:45 PM. I offer a silent prayer to Einstein, thanking whatever little knowledge I have about the relativity of time, and dial out her number.
“The number you’re trying to reach is currently busy on another call. Please stay on the line or try again later.”
My mind tells me that I’m already standing on a line, and I might just fall over with a little push, so I put the phone down and focus my energies on finishing my cuppa. I’m staring at the elevator doors as they open and close rhythmically, trying to distract myself from the rhythm all at once.
My phone vibrates. I desperately pick it up, hoping for it to be Tanuja. My luck betrays me. It’s a message from my little sister. “Nearly There”
As I’m walking along the too dim-too bright floor of the mall, my phone vibrates again. I reach into my pocket again, knowing it would be my sister with a text “Where are you”, but the phone doesn’t stop vibrating. It’s a call. I stare into the screen for a moment, because Tanuja’s calling me back.
I answer the phone, and I hear her voice after eleven months… “You called? Is that Sid?” As I’m listening, I wonder to myself why I can’t recognize her voice. She seems different, cheerful!
We exchange greetings, and I’m speaking really loud, as I’m in the middle of a crowd. It still amazes me how clear her voice sounds on the phone. I feel surrounded by her voice, and I’m so immersed in the conversation, it doesn’t register when she tells me she’s out shopping.
So when I turn around in the middle of the floor to face her, my heart stops for one trillionth of a second. You know the feeling when you experience it. It happens to me, right in the middle of the crowd. The smile returns, replacing the sudden shock and the sullen eyes. Suddenly, I’m bright, she’s wearing black and it’s a colourful world. I tell her about the party at Ice, and she sounds interested.
I love this mall.
I add the edgy “Why don’t you come along, it’ll be fun” bit and she makes a phone call. I notice the shopping bags fly dangerously over the head of a kid as she explains to her roommate why she won’t make it back for dinner. I notice a tiny price tag and a hint of fabric at the edge of the bag that says ‘Lifestyle’, before she ends the conversation and looks back at me with a grin.
‘I do. In sickness and in health…’ a voice goes off in my head. The voice is quickly replaced by an image of my deceased friend Saahil Khurana, holding up a big ‘L’ on his forehead , pointing at me. I compose myself.
As we hit the exit, I spot two people I love the most amongst the loveliest things on the planet. Or at least here in the city. Ashish and my sister Simi are waiting outside. I give my best friend a hug and my sister a kiss on the forehead. She frowns, indicating that my mint is not doing much of a job. Ashish doesn’t waste time on unnecessary details, just as I prefer him not to, and hails an auto. We’re almost set to leave, when Tanuja points out that the only way Simi could go to the party dressed like a teenager in a t shirt and jeans would be “no way in hell”.
We head back inside, and Tanuja engages Simi in a fresh round of shopping. Ashish looks around the men’s section, crossing Tanya Singh on his way, and I let the fresh image of Tanuja’s face sink in. It looks pretty neat, the way she’s guiding my little sister towards the destructive knowledge of Friday fashion, but I hardly mind. Suddenly, she disappears into the ladies room with Simi and emerges twenty minutes later with a girl i don’t recognize much. The makeup on Simi makes her blush a little more, and I thank Tanuja for helping out as we head back towards the exit.
The auto rickshaw ride to brigade is pretty uneventful, except for the utility of the cold evening wind on my face. It sobers me up a lot. We get down at the entrance of Brigade Road and look at our watches.
It’s 5:30 PM. Parties at Ice usually begin at nine. We look around, and I make a suggestion. The rooftop of the Ching Lung Bar hovers right on top of us. Our friendly waiter gets us the central couch seats on the open roof.
I call out “Appi!” and ask him to fetch a quarter of dry gin and a bottle of old monk rum to get us started. Ashish orders himself a beer. Tanuja asks Simi if she drinks yet, and she politely shakes her head. I’m proud of my sister. We get a lime soda for her, and she stares at the table.
Our first round of drinks down, we order a pack of filter kings and another bottle of gin to keep us going. My phone rings. It’ Parul.
I press “Answer” and silently hand over the phone to Simi, and whisper loudly into her ear: Don’t tell her that I’m with a girl. Simi giggles, and speaks to Parul. I turn to face Tanuja and realize that whispering is no good if not done silently. But I notice her expression turn into a smile, and I look into her eyes as she looks into mine. I never realize when Simi handed over the phone to Ashish, and my distraction comes at a point when I can hear Parul’s voice, audibly loud over the murmur of the crowd. I signal Ashish to disconnect the call and then I light my cigarette.
Tanuja looks playfully at me and says she wants to try a puff. This, coming from a person who disapproves of smoking in all areas, public or otherwise, comes as a thrill. So, I ignore the righteous glance of my sister and pass the cigarette to Tanuja who takes in a puff, inhales the smoke, and just as I’m about to expect a loud cough from her, she lets out the smoke as smooth as blended scotch.
And then, she raises her brows at me, making her eyes look a little bigger than they actually are, and they add an overall haunting look, that never fails to tingle the back of my neck. Maybe it’s the gin. Maybe it’s the wonderful sight of watching her smoke. Or maybe it’s just her. What’s the word? Oh yes.. Flawless.
I start a harmless debate with Ashish over whether or not this girl has smoked prior to this night. She doesn’t deny the statement, and starts telling us a morbid yet exciting tale about a drunken night with her friends.
“There were all these weird party hats, right? You know, the ones which light up in red like Satan and make you feel definite about the insaneness that surrounds you?” Her eyes sparkle as she starts speaking. I know that look. I love that look. It’s the smug look that lets everyone know you’re sloshed yet provides the simple dignified refuge of not knowing yourself. Her story goes on.
“My roommate was furious. She’s a Jain. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t eat Onions, digs that crap.”
Simi raises a brow.
“No offence, of course. It’s how you choose to live. I get it. But still, for the sake of the story, let’s just assume she’s too anal-retentive to give a crap about people trying to have fun. No, she would rather sit on the toilet seat passing blood stools.”
My ears tingle at the harsh expression, but I decide to let her continue with the mildly shocking narrative.
“It wasn’t much of a booze-fest. We kept it simple. Just Vodka and Cranberry Juice. And it wasn’t the filtered, polished kind of juice. Tropicana. We were probably trying to simulate an indoor-version of Girls night out, and it worked like a charm. After we finished two bottles of Absolut, the five of us sat down to play a game or truth and truth.”
I politely interrupt. “Don’t you mean Truth and Dare?”
“No. See, when you’re in a group of five girls, you’d only get the idea of one stupid dare. And drunken girls making out are way overrated. So it was truth, and nothing else. Well, maybe a bit of dragging.”
I’m listening to her, wondering when the cigarettes enter her tale, when she drops a bomb.
“We were talking about our sex lives. Trying to judge who gets the most action every week. The first two girls decided to play angels and claimed they were still virgins, and ruined the game. Then, my friend Koel decided to come clean, and made everyone jump up.”
I’m intrigued gently. So I ask the inevitable question. “What did she say?”
“She said her boyfriend was a ‘fuck machine’. And then, she did this weird gesture with her hands, moving them back and forth, like this…”
I watch her with guilty pleasure as she simulates her friend’s naïve gesture at the table. I notice the smug expression getting wider, so I pretend to look at my watch, as if I’m concerned about the time.
Just as I’m about to look back at her, my phone rings. This is unexpected. Nobody calls me on a Friday evening. I take it out to answer.
It’s Parul.
Two weeks in engineering my breakup and now she calls. Something tells me I should answer, but there’s a stronger voice telling me ‘Disconnect. She’ll understand.’ However, I decide to go for the first voice. I answer the phone, trying to sound even more drunk than I am, so that she wouldn’t have the urge to discuss anything important. But I try to play it cool. It’s best not to annoy her.
“Are you out?”
“Yes.”
“With friends?”
“Kinda.”
“Busy?”
“Can’t decide.”
My last response does the trick. She hangs up.
I try to pull myself back into the wonderful evening, But I realize it’s literally too late, and Ashish is trying to convince everyone that It’s time to leave for Ice. I play along.
It’s difficult to get an autorickshaw driver who won’t overcharge you at this time on Brigade Road, especially if you’re a group of two guys and two girls dressed up for a party. So when the guy decides to overcharge, I’m not really surprised.

Part II. The Vivanta

Around 9 PM, I find myself in the familiar environs of the Vivanta. The gate looks oh-so-welcoming, more of a gigantic symbol of escape than anything else. I remember the times when me and Saahil would sneak in during ladies’ night and have the time of our lives. But those times are past, and now I have my new puppet friends. So I look back and look at my sister, who appears to be distraught in every fashion known to man. I do the sensible thing and offer her a beer. She politely refuses, and I’m all the more proud of her. I turn around completely and spot Tanuja, who’s limping slightly as she makes headway through the crowd that floods the gates.
Once we’re through security, I spot our friends – the bouncers, right where they’re supposed to be. Guarding the sacred entrance to the kingdom of ice. We (Me and Ashish) pick our cue and brush up our crude dude lingo.
“Two girls and two guys. The ratio’s undisturbed.”
The tall, bald guy takes a cold look at us and then at his own intertwining fingers. He smiles knowingly, which never bodes well for me, and then looks straight into my eyes.
“Guestlist?” he asks me.
“Uh huh.” I nod my head. “Registered under Naheed Pasha + 3”.
“Guestlist is closed. Pay up.”
This is followed by about ten minutes of manoeuvring and haggling, which finally results in the creation of four full cover passes, which takes care of the booze inside the party and we start off, for the loo. That has always been and always will be our checkpoint one before crashing any party.
The loo at Vivanta reminds me of the time me and my father were attending the engineering counselling sessions in Bangalore. We used to lodge up in executive suites every time dad brought me to the city. And I was more anal-retentive than Tanuja’s Jain buddy. I used to think masturbation was a sin. Tobacco, Alcohol and Marijuana were supposed to be the three evil fingers of Satan himself. I used to frown at the guys and girls holding cans of beer in their hands as they walked around the corridors of Atria, Chalukya or whichever grand level of accommodation used to surround me and my father.
I decide to hold that thought, as I hold my thing in my hand, trying to pee into the sparkling white urinal. I look into the mirror sideways, and I notice Ashish getting into a booth, just as a white-skinned guy walks out. I finish my turn and zip-up, and follow the guy to the washbasin.
His accent as he speaks to his friend tells me he’s Swedish (Not really, there’s actually a lengthy conversation behind my discovery of his lineage, but that isn’t too important to the current narrative.)
My realization of him being drunk beyond his wits is sparked off by his sudden suggestion that I should consider visiting Sweden someday.
“Why, may I ask?” I muster the courage to ask him in my straight-yet-poor accent.
“Because the people there are extremely shallow and obnoxious!” and he breaks into a grin. His friend joins in on the laughter. As I’m virtually scratching my head, Ashish places his hand on my shoulder and informs me that the white-folk are just screwing with me.
“No we’re not! I’m being genuine here.” The Swedish guy offers me his hand. He takes a quick look at Ashish’s disapproving face and adds “Don’t worry, I washed my hand. You saw me.” He looks back at me.
I accept the shake of hands as a Makepeace gesture and comply. As we walk out, my thoughts revert back to my own days of disapproval towards drunken behaviour.
I remember the time I actually got into a verbal disagreement with my friends over a can of fruit-beer in my high school days. We were at “Krazzy Kool”, the premiere chill-out destination for the fun-starved folks at Bhilai. One of my friends had decided to celebrate his birthday amriki style at the Civic Centre, and I had promised my parents I would never drink and drive (Actually it was more of a non-verbal commitment. ‘Good’ boys and ‘Good’ parents have had those agreements for a long, long time). Anyway, the spat had caused me to voice out my concern against the rising menace of alcoholism among Indian youth. That was 2006.
It’s 2011 now. Long time. Long, long time, I tell myself as the bald bouncer stamps a temp tattoo on my arm. It reads “Ice: I was there”. I smile, only for an instant as the blaring speakers inside the lounge hit my ears like a storm. I look at the platform adjacent to the bar counter, and spot the guy responsible for the thumping beats.
In our times, we call him a jockey. Now I don’t remember the name of the DJ, so hereon I will pretend that it’s irrelevant to our story. Besides, the alibi I have to cover my ass for not remembering the name, is irrefutable. Three people, each part of my life through an unseen string that ties a knot around me.
As the music switches over to a more soothing rendition of Enrique’s voice, I signal Ashish to move closer to the bar counter. According to me, this is the best part of Vivanta. The overpriced beer, which stands out in the crowd more than anything else. Luckily, the cover charge vouchers permit us to splurge freely on the magic fluid that keeps the dance floor alive. Three sparkling miniature bottles of Carlsberg beer adorn our hands as we return to the ladies.
This is when I notice Simi fidgeting for the first time. My recent exposure to a blend of carbon, caffeine and soda allows me to think a bit straighter than I would usually do. Simi has never been to a lounge. I ask Ashish in what possible is the loudest whisper of my life, to take Simi out by the poolside. He obliges, and hands me the extra bottle in his hand, which I gladly pass on to Tanuja.
There’s this thing about the door that opens up to the outdoors from the Vivanta dance panel. The interior is dark enough to play a simulation of The Exorcist as a musical. The lights sort of make up for the hidden carnal instinct that surrounds the floor. But when the door opens, slightly, you can notice at least a dozen heads, and 24 eyeballs deflecting towards the ray of light that enters through the creek. It’s allure is inevitable: After spending fifteen minutes in the musical asylum of darkness, any hint of light brings with itself the promise of a greater sanctum. I slowly try to focus on the outline of the two people making their hasty exit from the floor, and right then, I feel Tanuja’s nails clawing at my elbow. The track switches over to a Marc Anthony single, Rain over me.
The sparkling fluid keeps entering my oral cavity, gradually in larger gulps and boils itself into a poisonous cocktail inside my body. The phenomenon that follows is probably inexplicable to my former self, as I begin indulging in that poison. Tanuja engages me in a head-banging spree to the beats of the Pitbull-Anthony-Anthem, and as I stare into her eyes, my mind takes me back to the time when my father used to render a song that had almost the exact same lyrics in theory, yet absolutely different levels of interpretation.
“..Meghraag gaayo ab mero man, Sunat jaaye baliya, Tum aaj ulat do baadal, Tum aaj ulat do baadal, jharno ko bana do nadiya, nadiya ko bana do sagar.. barsey jaawo kaari badariya, nadiya ko tum bhardo… man barso, man garjo…Jhananajhananajhan barso rey…”
(My mind sings the tune of clouds, and my lover listens to the anticipative rhythm of rain. Turn over the clouds, and let the waterfalls morph into river and the rivers, to an ocean. Keep drizzling, dear black cloud, fill up the rivers and rain over me)
I float the picture of my mother staring into my father’s eyes after he would finish the song. Those moments are when I learnt the subtle art of admiration, one that doesn’t need words at it’s disposal.
I let the image change, slowly to the one that actually lies before my eyesight. I see two black, beautiful eyes, staring into mine, emulating a certain kind of happiness that’s true only by the virtue of non-existence. My thoroughbred upbringing throughout childhood and the following haphazard adolescent years had fed me with an undesirable knowledge of emotions that’s probably a lot easier to deal with if you just throw it away, but I had found it nearly impossible to do so. It stuck with me through my painful years and it still haunts me on days like this, when joy is paramount and music is just blissful noise.
As the DJ spins the next track, by the Black-Eyed-Peas, and the almost-tired crowd springs back into action, I pull Tanuja by her hand and glide through the crowd, retreating into the comfort zone highlighted with sinking cushions on a large couch. The couch actually stands like a huge aberration to the flow of energy that usually covers this place, but it still serves a purpose.
The crowd unanimously roars “Let’s get it started in here!” and I look back into Tanu’s eyes and ask her “What’s wrong?”
It seems to me like she needs time to focus on the unknown killjoy that’s oozing out of her eyes.
I let her have some time to get her thoughts straightened up and head briefly towards the counter again. I return with two more sparklies. I sit back on the couch and hold her hand. I repeat my query. Database applications at work would snigger at the line. Repeating a query is a giant mistake. It’s worse than a flaw. It’s a bug.
This time she answers, but not verbally. She takes an infinitely slow sip from her bottle, and the soft translucent glow from the green glass highlights her soft, yet shaky cheekbone. I marvel for a second at her lips as they encircle the cleverly adorned orifice letting out the booze. They look inviting, but you can never be sure. Especially when a girl responds to an emotional question by sipping beer.
“I can’t give you a name, for less-than-obvious reasons.” She smiles mysteriously, as she utters the words. I’m taken aback, because this hints at the existence of a creature from the male species, who ‘obviously’ resides in the void of this girl’s mind at this very moment. I present her with my silence, an indication of me allowing her to deflect. These hints almost never work.
Surprisingly, she takes the hint. I could probably attribute this to the general awkwardness that would prevail if the aforementioned conversation were to continue. She would tell me about the guy who makes her stay awake at night and gets her brain to decide on crazy things, like agreeing to party around town with Siddhant (just in case you forgot, that’s me in the story).
“Did I ever tell you the story of how a Harley made its way into Woodstock?”
She deflects. My eyes dazzle in sheer admiration of her choice of words. She definitely knows about my obsession with vehicles that run on two wheels and monstrous engines, and she has heard me talk jealously about residence at Woodstock Ambience. The question virtually guarantees my attention. Moreover, it allows her to deflect in peace, and to shove the killjoy way back inside her own eyes. I pause my thoughts for a moment and reconsider the possibility that she’s just drunk.
I choose to ignore the reconsideration, and respond with me leaning into her face. She replies with a very faint look of surprise in her eyes. I notice the small wrinkle on her forehead with my open eyes, as her eyes close, and our lips meet. The wrinkle slowly fades away, allowing me the pleasure to blink, and then to lose myself into the moment. My heart races, well within its predefined limits yet enough to remind me that this is a moment I have probably anticipated millions of times in my own subconscious for the last couple of hours. I can feel her hands clutching mine as she fights the instinct to throw me off, and brushes closer into me. With extremely minimal residual knowledge of my surroundings and infinite care, I place the bottle in my other hand on the ground and place it at the back of her head. I wait for three seconds before I feel her fingers on my hair too. Oddly, she seems to tug at my hair in exact rhythm. I allow the tugging to continue for a tangible moment before it dawns on me. One of Tanuja’s hands is clutching mine, and the other holds her bottle of Carlsberg. And I can gradually feel the coarseness of the fingers that are going through my hair. I pull out of the embrace and look up, sideways.
Ashish stands tall, with a shrug on his shoulders and a frown on his face. His eyes say “Huh?” and his mouth says “What the fuck, Sid?”
The slight profanity pulls Tanuja out of her trance, too. She spots Ashish, and with an extremely fluent movement, re-engages herself in sipping.
“What happened?” I shout and whisper at the same time, again. This time, towards Ashish.
“Simi’s hungry. And my belt broke.”
“Okay, so get her some food from the diner. It’s left-bound from the poolside stage. And take my belt.” It’s amazing, how the human mind works in least-significant ‘situations’. My subconscious probably triggered an action plan to literally ‘drop-my-pants’ as I rose up and handed Ashish my belt.
“The diner’s closed. We already looked.”
“But the Diner never gets closed, not unless there’s a poolside event.”
“Yeah, there’s another thing. There’s a party outside too. People walking on the ramp.”
“The Fashion Week Kick-starter! Of course!” Tanu joins the conversation.
I look back at her. “You want to take a look at it?”
“You kidding me? Hell yes.” She gets up, and I feel a second tug, this time on my wrist that’s still in her grasp.
We head towards the alluring exit door, and as I step out I feel my lungs filling up with fresh air, and smoke.
My hand involuntarily reaches into my pocket and pulls out my pack of cigarettes. Ashish and I take one each, and I offer the pack to Tanu too, but she declines this time. I can see her eyes fixated on the ramp where shades of magenta and purple blend into a weird cocktail of colours.
The music doesn’t allow the inhabitants of the poolside any form of dignified escape, as the next big supermodels of 2012 step on the stage with unwavering rhythm and an almost religious allegiance to the beats. I spot Simi sitting on a pool chair next to the entrance to the diner, away from the action. I start walking towards her, grasping Tanu by the waist, and I realize, for the first time in weeks, I’m not walking alone. This feels good.
As we reach Simi, she looks up with puffy eyes. I skip asking her the question to which she would certainly respond with denial. I know she’s been crying her eyes out. This feels bad.
I sit down next to her.
“You’re not that hungry, are you?” I try my hand at a little humour to lighten her mood.
She laughs a little, and she looks prettier than anything in the whole world when she does that, laughing through her wet eyes.
“Nai, hum Parth ke bare me soch rahe the(Nope, I was thinking about Parth)”.
The music gets a little quieter. For a second, I consider this to be a playful creation of thought in my own head, but then I look around and realize the show’s over, and the models are covering up with layers of fur. Another realization strikes, it’s cold out here. I take off my jacket and offer it to Simi. She shrugs, and points to the jacket she’s already wearing. I stand up, and wrap mine around Tanu, who looks like she could use one. I feel her hand tremble slightly as it brushes mine.
I sit down again, and try to console Simi without words. I should explain, after all the troubled years, I have grown to accept my failure as the in-house shrink. Not my cup of tea. But Simi’s sorrow surrounds me, too. I try to adopt the natural law of deflection that prevails tonight.
“So, what do you think of this place?”
Simi stares back at me with an expression of disbelief. I try to browse through my statement to figure out the offence, but she clears my thoughts with her reply.
“It’s unreal. It’s borderline fake, and it doesn’t make sense for you to be here.”
Deep down, I know what she means, but the environs around me don’t really suggest that we initiate a lengthy conversation on the topic. I drop the suggestion that we should leave. Simi sits up, and she and Ashish start walking towards the exit through the diner-door.
I focus my attention back on Tanu, only to realize that she’s staring blankly at the ramp. A sudden idea crosses my head, and my drunken self decides in a split-second to act on it.
I hold her by the arm and start walking towards the ramp. She hesitates for a moment, but eventually plays along. As we’re about to climb the carpet-covered steps, a well-built bald man holds me by my elbow, a questioning look in his eyes. My mind races to find a clever explanation. It doesn’t find one. Just as I’m about to do the innocent shrug and turn around, I hear a slightly familiar voice.
I look past baldie’s shoulder and spot Swedish-guy-from-the-loo who signals Baldie to let us through. He steps aside, and we continue climbing. On the ramp, Swedish guy welcomes me and claps for us. As we reach the end of the ramp, Swedish guy leans into my ear and says “Good job, my friend!” and plants a kiss on my cheek. Tanu joins in on my realization of him being overtly drunk. She giggles, as I respond with a kiss on his cheek. Without warning, I feel a sudden push on my shoulder.
“Back Off!” a white-skinned girl looks menacingly at me, and holds Swedish guy close to her. As Tanu helps me back up on my feet, I try to explain. “Oh no, I’m not.. This really isn’t..”
“Let it go mate.” Swedish guy yells back. “What’d I say about shallow people?”
Confused beyond anything else, I grab Tanu’s arm and start walking back towards the exit.
Through the Vivanta gate and out on the road, I light up another cigarette. This time, Tanu positively coughs a bit, and asks me to chuck it. I pass it on to Ashish, who takes it and rushes off to hail a cab.
We get into the green Logan (a beautiful specimen of a sedan turned mercilessly into a commercial transport vehicle) and Ashish plays navigator as he instructs the driver to take us back to my place. Tanu asks the driver to lower the front windows, and the moment he complies, cold wind hits my face. I decide to sneak in a little warmth in Tanu’s shoulder, and collapse into her sideways. I remember nothing from the ride now.
I remember waking up under the dark sky, on the cracked compound of my house, Tanu lying next to me. Her head rests on my chest, and a few strands of her dark brown hair tickle my chin. Her eyes are almost closed, and I can see the thin smile on her face through my squinted eyes. I can hear faint music playing the background, and I realize Ashish is strumming on my guitar again. I smile, but I can’t open my eyes too much. The dryness in my eyes tells me that I need my lens rewetting drops. I try to get up, and I feel a little tremor when I figure out where my right hand is caught up. I try not to disturb Tanuja as I slowly wriggle my hand out of her trousers. A distinctive odour greets my senses as I try to rub my eyes.
“Hey..” Tanu speaks up, in the first true whisper this night.
“Hey.. ” I respond equivocally, trying not to let the smile off my own face. I slowly glide my fingers through her hair, shifting slightly as the concrete below us rubs against my pullover.

She looks into my eyes as she speaks, again.
“What is it that you called me earlier tonight? I think I liked the expression. Hot Provocative stranger.” She giggles slightly.
“Did I? I must’ve meant it, then. And yes, just in case I haven’t let it pass yet, you look beautiful.”
“I know.”
“Also, I really like you. I should’ve told you months back, but I really..”
“I know.”
“You Do? ”
“Yes, Sid. It’s not that hard to figure out. What’s hard to understand, though, is why we’ve been making out all evening.”
“Well that’s simple and not awkward at all. I just decided to act on my instincts. I really like you, I caught a fancy to you the moment I saw you, and I wanted to let you know…”
“Shhh… stop talking. You’re making this difficult.”
“I don’t know. It is kinda messed up, isn’t it?”
“I have no idea how I’m going to tell him about this.”
“Him?” I ask instinctively, and then I realize, of course, him, Mr. Killjoy-in-the-eyes.
“Why would you tell him? That’s stupid in so many dimensions I couldn’t even…”
“I’ve got to tell him. I’m supposed to get married to him.”
“What?”
“Three years. It’s almost perfect. He’s from the same clan as my family, and my mom really likes him.”
“So you’ve got a plan. It’s… great! I still haven’t figured things out myself…”
“Shhh… you don’t need to tell me. Tonight was something, huh?”
She deflects again. I’ve got to hand it to her.
“Yeah. This was great. I really don’t understand what happened, though. I mean, this? You and me? What is this?”
“Don’t think into it that much. This is … well, Friday!” She laughs again. And again, my mind reminds me how flawless and perfect she is, and how I’m here with her and I’m still alone.
We’re not left alone for long, as Ashish opens the door and his head pops out.
“The two of you, can you please get in? It’s freezing out there, and Simi’s still hungry.”
Crap. I realize I don’t have anything edible in my kitchen. This feels bad again, and we get up and head inside. It’s warm inside. Simi’s sitting on my bed arms folded, and looks up at me with clean, yet raw disapproval. The look resembles anger very closely, but I know she never gets angry at me. This feels even worse. I didn’t get her any food for seven hours.
Ashish sits back on the bed, and Tanu follows suit. He picks up the guitar, as I sit down next to Simi. She drops her head on my shoulder and hums a tune slowly.
“..Man ye sahibji, jaane hai sab ji, fir bhi banaye bahaane, Naina nawab ji, dekhen hai sab ji, fir bhi na samjhe ishare…”
I smile, after a long time. I don’t feel the need to look into a mirror; I know I’m smiling again. I know tomorrow’s going to be another day. Tanu’s going to walk out first thing in the morning. Ashish will head back to his apartment. In the evening, I’ll drop off Simi at her hostel.
Then I’ll return to my thinking spot, back to my rug at Lifestyle, trying to figure out the next question that makes sense. I’m going to pull out my phone and send a text to Tanu.
“How did the Harley end up at Woodstock?”
She isn’t going to reply. So I’m going to keep looking through my contacts, for a name who can answer the next meaningful question in my life.
I’ll be scrolling down alphabetically, again.
And I’ll stop at ‘P’.
Parul Sharma.
[ Call |Send Message | Set Default Ringtone | Edit Contact Picture ]
I think I’ll just call. It isn’t Friday anymore.

The End

Acknowledgements

This narrative has been more of an experiment that began in the last week of 2011. The standard disclaimer applies: All characters are almost completely fictitious, and while some aren’t, it remains completely their choice whether or not they wish to identify themselves as part of the plot.
For the incredible experiences and bizarre thoughts in my life, I want to thank Ashish Tripathy, Krutik Tatibandwale, Ridhim Arora (for obvious reasons), Pratyush Singh and all my friends from Bhilai, Bangalore, Electronic City and Hosa Junction.
For my language, crazy as it may seem, my gratitude extends to my Mother Smt. Neli Sinha Roy beyond everything else, because when I try to counter the millions of times she has tried to stop me from writing, I also happen to remember the billion times she had prepared me to speak onstage and bought me some of my favourite books. If it wasn’t for her, I probably would never have had an attraction towards any form of literature. My father, Mr. A.B. Sinha Roy still happens to be the best person known to me. And I don’t think it’s a good idea for either of them to read this story.
My cousins - Sunira, Shramana, Aritro, Aditi, Sharmistha, Sucheta, Abhijeet, Uma and Sarthak; My critics & people closest to me, among them my friend Ashish, my mortal rival Parul Sharma, My favourite teacher Mrs Madhumita Guha (instant help when needed), Mishridi (Shikha Khurana), Mansi Saxena & Meghna Saxena.
I want to thank Mr. Swadhin Khawas, for being inspirational and for being a terrific brother-in-law.
Mr. Durjoy Datta, Mr. Sachin Garg & the wonderful team at Grapevine India – for giving me a brilliant platform to share my words.
My editor at Grapevine: Mrs Padmamalini G Rao, for helping me in optimizing the art of storytelling and for your brilliant feedback and support on every step. Naheed Pasha, there’s a special thanks to you for introducing me to my favourite spot in Brigade Road, and for being awesome. Saahil, the rest of the world didn’t know much about it, but it meant a lot to me when you said you found my work worth reading. God bless you.
I thank Swami Narendranath for being a source of continuous guidance and spiritual energy in my life.
At the end of it; if you’ve been reading so far, whoever you are, I want to thank you for spending the time taken to do so. I look forward to your support for my novel -"The Pink Smoke".