Chapter 9
Aaditha
Thundering in the Head
i’m standing on pointed heels so sharp i’m in danger of going right through the flooring. I use the foot rails of the bar counter to hoist my rear onto the high chair. It is only after I settle into the seat that I exhale and let my shoulders relax.
The onyx-topped bar counter, on which I place my phone face down, sparkles under the lights. My phone is all I’m carrying. No cards, no lipstick, no bag. It is in my room on the twenty-third floor.
I’m in Delhi on a rare overnight trip for the final day of the annual India Initiates Business Conclave. It ends with the awards ceremony, and this year, I take home ‘The Initiator’ award.
I’m looking for a little getaway, which is why I rode the elevator down to this decadent set-up – the Four Hundred Club. A blatantly elitist piece of real estate.
The only way you can walk these marble floors is by paying an XXXL membership fee or if you happen to stay at the Lodhi Road Hotel itself.
Hotel guests can’t just show up at the doorway and demand a table; reservations should be made at least an hour in advance, and requests can be turned down without explanation.
Earlier, when I was going through the guidelines, I deliberated whether I really wanted to go. The welcome is so reluctant.
The Four Hundred Club, launched on speakeasy lines in the early 70s, is now an escape of sorts for Delhi’s super wealthy. The image of the club is contoured by the financial flex of the membership.
An attractive thirty-something in a navy suit greets me as the lift doors part.
‘Aaditha Purthaapji.’
He knows my name; I’m guessing he could recite my business portfolio, too. I look for a name badge but can’t spot one.
Navy leads me to an exclusive seating area.
I’m standing before burnished wood, thinking this table for four has three places too many for me this evening.
It has been a while since I have been out on my own, not since my college days in Ohio.
I have a great time whenever I go out with friends, all two-and-a-half of them, but there’s a different energy to going solo.
The centrepiece of this bustling two-floor economy is a sleekly designed bar counter, with backlit shelves displaying an extensive selection of premium spirits and liquors.
I tap Navy on the shoulder and point in the direction of the bar, informing him of where I’m headed.
Harry Styles’s ‘Adore You’ is on the audiovisual system. It blends with the customizable lighting that fires up screens.
‘I’d walk through fire for you
Just let me adore you.’
I’m feeling good, even if the sensation is ephemeral.
That ludicrous Pros he asks me to come up with a plan.
Like it was something that could be fit into the day’s agenda, scheduled between ribbon cuttings and some royal do-gooding project.
I take a sip of sangria that is placed before me by a mixologist whose name badge says Toddy. I put the burgundy glass down and give Toddy a thumbs-up.
Freakin’ TittleTattle also wants to join the party, so they dig up an old photo of Arjun Mahesh and me from our Ohio days and blast it on their Instagram like it’s breaking news. A relentless February day that was!
Where did they procure that photograph from? I don’t think even I have that picture with me.
Arjun Mahesh was a master’s student in finance when I met him. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with soft, silky hair that falls across his face, hiding features that don’t need a veil. Sometimes, he pulls his hair back in a man bun. Lushest lips ever.
His face is a light bulb in a dark room. He knows it but pretends that he is unaware. And does a damn good job of the show. That’s the dull part, I learn later. Confidence is one thing; giddy awareness of physical features one is born with is a disservice to self.
I pick up the burgundy glass and eye the bowl of nuts before me. I decide against helping myself. Not even a single nut, I tell myself.
My eyes are on my phone. I’m scrolling through Instagram and click on the TittleTattle link (because I have time to kill).
I hit on the latest edition and turn the pages.
I pause at a layout that resembles a university annual.
On the left is a column titled ‘To all the girls I’ve loved before’.
The headline is a giggle. The piece, well…
I count some twenty-two pictures. The tile is captioned: ‘Casanova Prince’s Class of 22! ’
Has Vedveer actually dated all these women? Twenty-two? Is it even possible? Why then does this Collective King want to get into an arranged match?
I open WhatsApp and message Vedveer. I attach the TittleTattle page and ask: Who is your favourite?
I get a reply in five minutes.
VRS: I was hoping you hadn’t seen that.
Me: Oh please! It is everywhere. So? Any frontrunners? The human rights lawyer? The beauty queen?
VRS: Tempting, but no. I prefer the one who has a thing for matching monogrammed towels.
Me: Excuse me??
That damn list!
I’m careful not to contort my face weirdly; I don’t need to entertain bartenders.
VRS: Custom-stitched. Initials perfectly aligned. She pretends it’s not a big deal, but trust me, she’d know if someone swapped the hand towel.
Me: I feel very seen.
VRS: You are!
Me: Haha!
I put down my phone and shut my eyes. I wonder where Vedveer is. I don’t know much about his life, but whatever I learnt from that first conversation we had in my office, he’s probably at Ranibagh.
I ran into Navya at the Conclave. Vedveer’s sister looked like she’d walked out of a Vogue spread… That’s her staple.
‘Yours is the only coffee I drink,’ she told me and then leaned over and whispered, ‘Welcome to the family. We’re all so proud of you.’
When we broke from the hug, she added, ‘My brother is lucky, but why isn’t he here?’
Before I could even shrug in response, I got whisked to another part of the room. When I went looking for Navya Mrinalini later on to apologize, I was told that the princess had just left. I used that as an excuse to get away from the cocktails and dinner. I desperately needed some me time.
I swivel around in the high chair, the full 360-degree turn, and notice that the place has filled up.
I feel my face swell with a smile.
I’m finally being acknowledged as more than a rich father’s daughter. At least in circles that count.
The champion of COFFEE Before Books they are about my age, maybe.
My phone lights up. Alia is messaging.
She is on a break from her marriage and work, sourcing bras from factories while putting together some of her own creations from some resort in Kingston, Jamaica, I suspect.
She sends me her latest bra designs: the lace collection, Guipure, Brussels lace, eyelash lace and hand-drawn embroidery.
Alia is working on outspoken, vibrant shades.
The one she calls ‘Rouge Noir’ takes my breath away.
It is made of eyelash lace, and it plunges.
Another called ‘Chartreuse’ has a floral motif and is without lining.
Me: Rouge Noir & Chartreuse moi.
Alia: 34C, right?
Me: B with silk satin.
I’m too bored to type, so I send Alia a voice note telling her that I’m loving the colours and that it will look great on Indian skin tones. Besides COFFEE Before Books & Bras, Alia also had a sizeable clientele that included Hollywood stars.
Alia: I want to be bold this time.
Me: Tired of predictable shades.
Alia: This collection has no blacks.
Me: Call it ‘No Blacks’ or ‘Bright and Beautiful’.
Alia: I like the second one. It sums up the collection.
I wonder if Alia’s choice of colours reflects her mood. We had a video call earlier in the day when she showed me some of the lace she is considering. She looks as good as the lace.
Me: How are you, Akka?