Chapter 20 Aaditha - Worshipping at Lakshmi Bar
Aaditha
Worshipping at Lakshmi Bar
My fingers are in my hair, feeling my hairpiece, fixing what is already in place. I’m particularly fidgety this evening, more than usual.
I’ve worn this disguise for a while now.
On most of these outings, I settle into it easily, like slipping into a second skin almost. But when my nerves fray, my hands betray me.
They fidget, tugging at a collar or adjusting a sleeve, searching for something to anchor me.
Tonight, unease clings to me like static.
I can’t shake the irrational fear that my wig might somehow grow legs, march off on its own and unravel the careful illusion I’ve spent a good time maintaining.
I reach for my glass of red wine; it isn’t on point (considering we are paying ?150 for a 350 ml bottle, I have hopes). I stall, eyeing the Bloody Mary that Lavanya ordered.
‘Oyi, are you wasting everything today?’ Raju asks, his eyes wide and cheeks puffed. ‘You have to pay the bill!’
I’m not the only Nervous Nellie in the mix, but I’m sure as hell not letting Raju get away this time. He’s squirming, trying to dodge paying the bill again. Three years, countless drinks and dinners, and the only man in the quartet hasn’t paid a single time. Not once. I shoot him a look.
‘How much Komal drinks?’ He turns on Komal, a yoga guru who is friend and rival to Raju in the fitness industry. ‘It’s half a bottle already,’ he says, pointing at her large glass of gin and tonic.
‘You cannot be this obvious, not even you!’ I’m looking at Raju and laughing. ‘You are policing only because you are paying!’
‘I’ll take care of this,’ Lavanya says, winking at a delighted Raju and grabbing my glass of red at the same time.
Raju is on his feet, trying to high-five Lavanya, whose hands are already taken. Wine glass and onion pakora.
Tucked away in an unremarkable alley – with bric-a-brac shops, garishly refurbished pre-Independence passages and a couple of hole-in-the-wall fabric units – in Chamarajpet, six kilometres from MG Road, Lakshmi Bar is our adda.
The location is ideal, a short distance from the lights of the main thoroughfares, posh bars and gourmet restaurants but close enough for all of us to get there and for Lavanya to drop us all back.
Everyone, except for Raju, who always rides his bike home after eating most of the snacks, washed down with his trusty 650 ml beer.
Lakshmi Bar is Raju’s discovery. He had gone there with a college friend who lives in the area.
I roll my eyes at Komal the first evening we walk through that shabby doorway some three summers ago. A lopsided nameboard that hangs on a twisted, barely holding wire, with fading neon lights that cast a dim glow on the uneven pavement below, marking the entry point.
‘No judging,’ Komal whispers. That has been the spirit of these outings.
Lakshmi Bar, despite the assiduous planning, is where we let our hair down.
It’s Khadus Komal’s getaway, where she doesn’t have to think about the chores and responsibilities she won’t talk about.
For Lavanya, it’s where she just is, not the heiress, not the businesswoman, not the warrior daughter in a Patil-versus-the-world stance.
And me? No one notices the girl with the baseball cap worn backwards, from under which black-brown curls cascade.
The menu is wallet-friendly, and the drinks cost a fraction of what upscale counters charge.
The bar itself, the centrepiece of the room, is a rickety trestle, lined with bottles of affordable liquor and discoloured shot glasses.
The furnishings, if you could call it that, have seen too many nights.
Mismatched tables and chairs are scattered haphazardly across the room.
There have been evenings when we had a table which we hung around but only gathered the chairs to sit on as the night grew old…
The clientele are mostly local traders. Their countenances, when illuminated by the lighting, appear familiar in that you have seen that face in this space before.
They recognize us, too, especially Lavanya, the fashionista, who, despite turning out in an ordinary salwar kurta for our Lakshmi Bar outings, gets a lot of looks.
‘Is it really over with Vedveer?’ Komal asks. She tugs at my shirt, the sleeves of which I have rolled in a clump. ‘Actually over?’
It is Komal, of all the people in this mix, who read the TittleTattle piece that literally screams that Vedveer and I are over. He’s given them good reason to believe!
Komal put it on the group: It’s time to sue these people. Look at that poll. 80 per cent think they’ve broken up.
Me: I’m so done with this relationship!
Komal: What do you mean?
A minute later, she called.
She is the first person I tell about Vedveer’s Bengaluru visit a month ago. I didn’t mean to spill the tea, but I felt ready to talk about it in this circle. Later, I filled the blanks for Raju after our workout.
At first, I needed time to digest what had happened.
It came from left field, and I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it. Not to Alia, not to Lavanya. I was shocked and hurt; still am. Vedveer and I had closed some distance since January, and yes, a part of me still wanted to break it off, but at the very least, I thought he respected me.
Had Lavanya been there when it happened, I would have spoken to her about it, but I just couldn’t bring myself to introduce the topic. Work has been hectic (for both of us) these last weeks; there were decisions to take, and I couldn’t afford a meltdown.
Lavanya messaged on the group chat a few hours later: What?!
My phone started ringing almost immediately.
I told her everything – from the accusations he hurled to telling me Ranibagh belonged to the Rathores, and that’s how it would stay, and finally that, we are done here.’
She listened and cursed every now and then, all while initiating this LBD meeting and booking her flight from Delhi to Bengaluru.
Not once did Lavanya ask, Why didn’t you tell me? Komal did, but not my BFF. Of all the people in my life, she’s the one who believes in giving people space. Not because she doesn’t have the time or couldn’t be bothered, but because you need it.
It’s a different level of maturity; not everyone rises like that…
I turn to Komal to answer her question. ‘No, not formally. My parents are still trying to convince me.’
‘Was it four or five weeks ago you said that Vedveer was in Bengaluru? No word since?’ Lavanya asks. Her messy bun is beginning to better the name.
There were a few missed calls. I open my WhatsApp and slide my phone to my friends.
VRS: Hi Aaditha, I would like to speak to you. Please let me know when is a good time to call.
This is from two weeks ago. There are two more.
VRS: I was out of line. I want to apologize.
VRS: Please pick up the phone, Aaditha.
‘Did you reply?’ Lavanya asks.
I shake my head.
‘Good girl!’ Komal comes back, slapping her palm on the table.
‘Why?’ Lavanya asks. She’s holding a fork up, like she’s looking to stab someone. ‘Why don’t you want to hear him out?’ She’s playing devil’s advocate.
‘He wants to apologize for his behaviour,’ I say. ‘Look at the messages: “I was out of line,” not “I was wrong about you. Wrong about what I said about you.”’ I shrug. ‘I am not interested in his sorry. It’s not my job to help him feel better about what he did.’
‘Yeah,’ Lavanya nods, ‘you are not his therapist or his parent to have to listen to the whys of his abhorrent behaviour.’
Lavanya puts down the fork and eyes the table, which resembles a taster’s spread at a local fair, full of platters and plates. She pushes the chilly cheese fries towards Raju, urging him to eat.
This evening, food isn’t disappearing from the plates as quickly as it normally does.
‘Why exactly are the Rathores leasing their palace?’ Raju asks.
I raise my brow in a question. Excuse me?
‘Then what?’ Raju’s nostrils flare. ‘You can’t marry a pauper.’
I’m laughing, not Lavanya.
‘Of all the things we need to worry about with this proposal, the Rathores having money or not isn’t one of them,’ she says.
‘What does Alia say?’ Komal asks.
‘She wants me to speak to Vedveer; she thinks someone should be the bigger person,’ I say, adding that Alia isn’t in the know about his visit here.
‘You guys should talk, and my feeling is you will eventually,’ Lavanya says, shifting in her seat and getting up to her full height, ‘but I think he should absolutely grovel.’
‘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 to TittleTattle, 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, neenenay nannavalendu’.
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.’
Raju, who is busy on his phone, says, ‘Round trip costs 7,333 each.’
‘He has already worked out the rates!’ Komal’s laugh is laced with gin.
Lavanya does the slow clap for Raju. ‘Let’s ask this prince fellow why they want to lease their palace. What exactly is the reason?’
‘He made the why perfectly clear when he was here,’ I say.
Lavanya, who, like Komal, is also feeling the drinks downed, leans into me with a question. ‘Does this mean his father trusts your dad more than Vedveer trusts you? Because the only one with ants in his pants is the prince fellow.’
I laugh out loud. Lavanya has a point. The question, though, is why… Could it be because Kairi Gaur is maybe newly single?