“Actually I think Karam is from Janakpuri.” Lara giggled.

  “Good god, his name is probably Karamdeep or Karamjeet or whatev.”

  “But what does she want to join Teach for India for ya? Her life here is beyond blessed. That girl I swear has never been in want of something – she’s said it and she’s had it, like without any room for asking, it’s just given. Her parents are fucking raking in money like no man’s business and okay, logically speaking she doesn’t, hasn’t ever in the past, or ever will have to – even if she decides to get hitched – work a day in her life.”

  “Yeah, why would she wanna leave all that behind? Leave us behind?”

  “Exactly! Look at what Sana is going through, I mean now more than ever the four of us just have to be there for each other don’t we?”

  Sana and Gayatri shared a look.

  “Five of us.” Lara muttered.

  “Huh?”

  “You said four of us, like she’s already gone. We’re still the Famous Five, babe.”

  A fog-like silence descended in the car.

  Samaira ‘Sam’ Manchanda had developed a penchant for cotton dresses from the anokhi sale bin and silver half-moon earrings. Lately every time they met she’d jingle with the ring of a thousand bells. It was the sound of crossing to the other side, passing the outer edges of Sana’s dominion. Samaira was no longer concerned with the same things, she had aligned herself with a different path. But that wasn’t what was on Sana’s mind as she reached home that night, walked up the driveway and pressed her finger into the scanner at the door. No, she was thinking about a matching pair of white shoes with the pink lights on the underside, which they wore on every special occasion for the first three years of knowing each other. Sana’s pair broke so Samaira stopped wearing hers. She rubbed the numb fingertips together and tried the thumbprint scanner ignoring the pinch of moisture in her eyes.

  Fred Astaire. It wasn’t that Sana considered herself a connoisseur of classical music, she just recognized Let’s Face The Music And Dance too well. It was her happy place. It was the land where father met mother and danced in a tipsy blur, shifting from bare foot to bare foot, cheek to cheek. She walked down the foyer to find Tina wrapped up in the arms of someone who wasn’t quite Hassan Kochhar.

  Tina had first been introduced to Prateik over cocktails at a private event, they’d bonded over elderflower spritzers at PCO and shared a penchant for diamond dust quickies in the bathroom. She didn’t think of him as her dealer but somehow her wandering hands always found his stash of coke. It was honestly as harmless as new friendships could be, tragic as it was funny. Tina was just desperate for a change of company, even though they kept things platonic for the most part. She didn’t mind paying for his drinks – of which he could put away many – so long as they made a show of each other. That Sana had walked in on them making out like hot blooded teens in a bad slasher movie was a separate matter altogether. However, the sight of her mother in a dominatrix style bodysuit was too much to bear. As the silk satin robe Hassan had bought her on their last holiday slipped off her shoulders, her daughter slipped into the shadows and ran up to her room.

  Over the course of the week Chanda tried her best to get Sana out of bed, but with a bank of posts saved in advance there was no reason for her to make any efforts. She feigned a bout of severe fever brought on by the hit of the afternoon sun – if it was hot enough to melt the tar on the roads, it was enough to make her sick – and spent her life in the pale pink robe surrounded by ridiculously soft pillows.

  They reached a moot point where Chanda cleaned the room while Sana showered and in exchange she didn’t badger her to eat. As if to further her torture the only program worth watching on TV was F.R.I.E.N.D.S – Sana had once declared that she’d rather be an ‘autistic vegetable’ than watch that show. She sniggered to herself as the memory came back to her, unaware of how the same words would come back to her just then. And so, she made a home of her bed and shut out the rest of the world, allowing Tina a bittersweet exit after nights of dining alone. Samaira called and called, having found out that Karishma had broken the news to the others, and Sana was so angry she thought she might individually pull out every hair on her head just to simmer down. Then Friday dawned and Sana Kochhar rose like an angered phoenix from amidst sushi takeaway boxes and starbucks cups to declare that she was throwing a farewell party for Samaira Manchanda.

  Chapter THREE

  LONELY FOR YOU ONLY

  (INTERLUDE)

  There were standards to uphold while hosting a party in Sana’s books, you couldn’t call people over without an unlimited supply of libations, there had to be one central wow-factor for which Vikram had been assigned to bring over the karaoke machine from Kama bua’s house. Lastly, she knew that this was the perfect opportunity to have the neon installation set up in the main living room. At forty five past three p.m. the workers had finished and Chanda was sweeping up behind them. Sana gave the driver cash and sent him off to the godowns at Gurgaon for the crates of alcohol.

  With plus-ones chiming in by the dozen, she left the backup phone unattended and soaked herself in an ice cold bath. Sana sat there, white as a ghost and violently shivering for as long as she could. The ends of her fingers, the edges of her breasts, both her feet had numbed. She was still shivering, watching her skin turn pink as soon as she’d drop her palms underwater. Nothing, not the sickly scent of vanilla nor Laksh’s playlist could penetrate her skin. She always liked a drink within reach while getting ready for a party, the glass of cabernet sauvignon lay unattended as she sunk deeper into her black hole set to the sound of tenderly synthesized music. Like an island surrounded by the deep blue sea she sat in silence, even the chattering of her teeth had stopped now. Outside the city had been covered by grey skies, its residents both hopeful and lamenting the threat of rain.

  By the last drop of wine, which was when she finally staggered out of the tub, the sun was setting and Sana was swooning.

  “Coffee? Are you mad?” Chanda shrieked.

  “Why do I have to be mad to want coffee?”

  “Because you never have coffee.” She huffed. “Fine, what coffee do you want?”

  “I don’t know ya, what kind of a question is that? Just give me the normal coffee that we have in our house.”

  “Hmm, do you wanna maybe try the one papa drinks? It’s really really tasty.”

  “Yeah sure whatever …”

  “What about milk?”

  There were few things Sana hated more than having a conversation through the door when she was in the bathroom, her sanctum sanctorum ruined by this unnecessary gamut of questions.

  “No.”

  “Ok no milk.”

  “Just have it made the way papa drinks it.”

  “You want sugar in it?”

  “Ugh yes sugar is fine.”

  “Brown or white?”

  “CHANDA! I don’t fucking care!”

  “Should I mix it in or should I put it on the side like –”

  Chanda giggled as the slipper banged against the other side of the door.

  “At least tell me what do I do with this smoothie now?”

  “Chanda, take it up your ass!!” She replied in hindi.

  She guffawed and took it back to the kitchen.

  Sana looked at her reflection and realized why she probably hated her mother, to some level at least. The one thing that woman could have passed on to her, she hadn’t. Tina had these beautiful hazel coloured eyes that were immediately striking against her light complexion, they held everyone’s attention in the room. Sana on the other hand seemed to have become a carbon copy of her dad, dark brewed coffee colouring her hair and eyes. In her own form of rebellion, she insisted on keeping her hair lightened even though it grew out nearly to her waist. She sat and set it in soft curls, cigarette dangling from between her lips. Sana hated sitting for too long because she feared the skin of her stomach would sag and she’d develop fat rolls. She lived in a w
orld where people put themselves down in a show of humility (or boredom), although it was a clear show of asking for attention. Anything for some validation.

  At Lara’s party last month she’d complimented someone on her dress and was met with a grimace and a declaration that it was all an illusion. The girl stood and moaned about how fat she was – even though everyone followed her on instagram and had seen her in a bikini. Gayatri had leaned in and bluntly asked her, “Dude why would you call yourself fat like that?”

  Visibly shaken, the girl shrugged. “I don’t know. If I just say ‘thanks’, I kinda look like a narcissistic bitch, don’t I?”

  “So you tell people you think you’re fat from lack of better things to say?” The irony was not lost on any of them.

  How many times had Sana snatched a phone away because she looked hideous in a picture. Thrown away brand new clothes because they made her feel fat. Ripped and shredded her jeans, have the crotch altered so her butt would look like Kylie Jenner’s in them.

  “Jesus fuck,” she whispered to herself, vowing to lay off coffee.

  She shook off the unsavory thoughts and her robe, stepping into the soft skirt. She slid it up her legs and let it sit high on her waist, channeling a lolita vibe. The inky blue skirt hugged her waist and billowed outward, almost like a uniform. She pulled on a white crocheted top with gold hoops to finish the outfit by way of Havana in old movies.

  It is a truth acknowledged statewide that nobody in Delhi ever shows up for a party on time. Ankit Kalra was not one of those people. In a city where plans were built upon ‘I’ll let you know’s’ he was the kind of guy who showed up no matter what time it was or how tiring his day had been.

  Nobody really knew when he’d made it to the inner circle, it had just happened some time on a trip to Mallorca the last year. Another thing nobody knew about him was where the accent came from, he’d never lived overseas nor read much beyond bar menus or maps. Yet he dropped his jaw at certain points and subtly rolled his R’s and that with the girth of his forearms had afforded him a comfortable life so far. His fatal flaw was reserved for the locker room at the gym when he reverted to the Punjabi accent and could be heard talking about partying and ‘poussey’.

  Among the first to reach her house, he’d taken it upon himself to fix up Sana’s music and the sound was reassuring as she came down the stairs.

  Another of Ankit’s oddities were his warm bear hugs – though Gayatri at one point had made a joke about how the heat must be from all his chest hair. No one had noticed that he now waxed. Sana launched herself into him, grateful that he was helping out without being asked to when he could’ve just parked himself on the couch in his sad work shirt and khakis.

  He followed her to the bar, fetching an icy beer while she flipped on the lights of the new wall sign, bathing the room in a brilliant blue glow.

  “Lonely for you only”, he let out a whistle. “I fuckin love it!”

  She giggled. “Cost me a fuckin’ bomb, you’d better love it.”

  “Why’s it so sad though?”

  She stared at it for a moment. “It isn’t supposed to be sad actually. My grandfather, he was in the army you know full like infantry scenes and all, anyway he used to write to my grandma a lot of these like beautiful, poetic letters. And he’d always sign them with this, so I really wanted that idea to kind of just be represented here in like a permanent form you know.”

  Ankit swooned at the story, then drank deeply from his bottle to hide his blush. “That’s crazy man!”

  The silence stretched out between them. “Oh and I’m sorry about Daksh. I err I heard that you guys aren’t together anymore.”

  She smiled and waved a dismissive hand as if it was all past her, like it didn’t kill her just a little. She asked him about his day and only half heard his response.

  “Oh my god, listen I could totally do with a pick-me-up, you wanna join?” she brought out another beer and led him to her parents’ room.

  With no roughage in their nasal passage, the face numbing coke hit them immediately. Unfortunately the beer didn’t sit well in a stomach riled up with hunger juices – Sana didn’t remember eating a thing since the avocado toast that morning. In minutes she was crying into a toilet bowl full of frothy vomit and life seemed to be coming full circle.

  Chapter FOUR

  WASTED ON

  THE YOUNG

  Ankit knocked on the door and asked if she was okay.

  “Yeah, I just need to wash up in here ya.”

  “Can I come in, I heard crying …” He walked in anyway.

  “I said I’m fine!”

  He flushed the bowl and pulled her into a signature Ankit Kalra hug because that was just his coping mechanism in a fucked up world. Sana repeated that she was fine and he silently patted her back. His jaw worked against her head when he spoke.

  “Your hair smells like puke.”

  She laughed. “Oh crap, dude your shirt is ruined. Shit I’m so sorry.”

  “Sick! Your puke is on me man … what the fuck.” he laughed on his way out.

  “Wait, I’ll get you a clean shirt. Get rid of that, I’ll tell Chanda to clean it meanwhile.”

  “That Chanda is going to slap me if she ever has to be around me and vomit anymore.” He announced from the other side.

  She covered her face and let loose a torrent of sanitizer spray all around her, flushing once more for posterity. Ankit was in the middle of unbuttoning when she walked out and they had to avert eyes to keep the moment from turning awkward. Definitively nerdy though he might’ve been – with his tortoise shell glasses and omnipresent kindle – Ankit also happened to be built like a brickhouse. She fished a dark shirt from her father’s closet and tossed it over to him. The beer still tumbled through her gut and she wondered how it could possibly take him that long to put on a shirt. Before they knew it their eyes were locked in a stare-down that left her just a little out of breath.

  “I uh can’t get these buttons right.”

  “I can see that” she swatted his hands away and started pushing the black buttons in place. She had to keep the sides together lest her face met his chest. It was worse than algebra, her fingers that close to his skin but not quite touching. She made her way up to his chest and stopped.

  “You missed a few there,” he gave a single chuckle.

  “Leave it, I like it that way.”

  He let out a full blown laugh “With my hair growing out, I’ll look like a beast in front of your other guests. Do you know Jai’s been waxing his chest since he was seventeen?”

  “No. Way. Jaikaran waxes his chest!”

  “YES! How can you not tell?”

  They were still standing close enough to feel each other’s breath.

  “You should show it off.”

  “Why?” he made a move to button up but she pushed his hand away.

  “I don’t know,” she looked up at him through her lashes, “it’s kinda hot.”

  They kissed once, a quick kiss that was like tapping the surface of a swimming pool. Then they parted and looked at everywhere except directly at each other. She sort of cleared her throat and he sort of made an awkward remark and they sort of kissed once more but he was out the door before it was even over.

  Gayatri was on her way up the stairs and he actually felt his pupils dilate.

  “Hey, where’s –”

  “She’s in there, I think she’s changing.” Heart in his throat he dashed past her.

  Everywhere she looked, Sana saw a story either streaming live or recorded in smooth rotation. The children who once played dress up together now lived out the grown up, caricatured version of the game with their stiff collar shirts and short dresses. They passed around polaroid cameras between drinks and air kisses, every frame printed on monochromatic film. Among the cooed compliments you’d never know which was genuine, while others struck up a conversation simply to steer it to talk about themselves. Sana saw by the wide eyed nods they were all just waiting f
or an in – it was all about who had the longer work week, who sat through the worst of traffic, who spent the most on food and couldn’t stop feeling fat.

  She turned to Lara, a welcome distraction. “How was it?”

  Lara ran her tongue over numb gums. “Fine as fuck, is this your mom’s stuff?”

  “She got it from this boy … don’t ask.” Lara handed her the remainder of the gram with a sniffle.

  “So ohmygod I have to tell you all about this project I’ve started it’s so cool it’s like an open community forum sitch, and it’s like anyone who’s feeling low and depressed can reach out and just talk you know … you know how we just don’t talk anymore? Anyway it’s totally free and the person on the other side listens it out without judgment and shit and like that’s, sometimes just that much is enough. You know what I mean?”

  Sana handed her friend a paper towel to dab at the leaking nose. “What do you get out of it?”

  “Umm scuse you, I get the satisfaction of helping someone. Like really helping, not just putting up a message on social media that like my door’s always open.”

  Sana rolled her eyes. Lara’s door could definitely benefit from closing sometimes, but, “I’m sorry I just don’t see how that’s helpful. To be honest it sounds a little perverted. To sit on the other side as an anonymous person listening to these people vent out about how they’re dealing with something.”

  “Okay you’re just being a dick for no reason.”

  “Are you even licensed to help people?!”

  Beside them Ankit had been dragged into a conversation about stock prices and the inadvertent effect of property rates in Bali on the standard of living in South Delhi. Sana grabbed her friend’s elbow and manoeuvered to the bar where Gayatri was swatting at the bartender.