1. Cracked the Social Media Code

I lived in Gurgaon those days, in one of the high-rise buildings that seem to have plagued the city. I had shifted from Mumbai, while my partner Veda stayed back—a necessity of managing two careers. We had decided that it would be the best. Till she found placement in Gurgaon. Or till an equally good opportunity emerged for me in Mumbai.

And so, here I was living alone. With my CDs, books, home  theatre, a bare minimum kitchen and a nice clean bedroom. On the weekends, either I would go to Mumbai or Veda would come to Gurgaon.

I did not go to Mumbai for a few weekends as Veda was away in the US for an extended period. That’s when I had met my neighbour’s guest Shivani.

One weekend I was watching a movie called Solino by Turkish director Fatih Akin. It was about 10 pm. There was knock at the door. I paused the movie and opened the door to find a breathtakingly attractive, smoky-eyed girl standing there. She had an angular face, glowing skin, shining eyes and bow-shaped full lips. She must have been nineteen or twenty. Hopefully, nonchalantly, I noticed a plunging neckline.

“I need some food.”

“Sure,” I said. I must have looked startled or stupid to see such a beautiful girl at my doorstep asking for food.

She smiled and skirted her way around me and entered the apartment unabashedly looking for the refrigerator.

“There,” I pointed in its direction.

“Thanks,” she said. “We are having a party, and have run out of food.”

“That’s okay. Help yourself,” I said, which was redundant. She was helping herself anyway. When caught unawares, I usually make inane statements, and I repeat myself. Most of the times people are nice. They do not really pay attention to it.

I was thinking of saying something when she offered, “Why don’t you join us?”

I looked at her with wide eyes. She was elegantly dressed in ethnic chic—block printed, low neck, backless cotton blouse in black with delicate mirror work and red silk flaring culottes. I was in my pajamas without briefs and a crumpled T-shirt.

“You look fine.” She said, reading my mind.

I looked hesitant.

“Go on then. Change. I’ll wait here.” I did not move and was not keen on the idea. “Come on . . . you will have fun. There are a lot of mad people there. They are better than watching a movie alone.”

I went in and changed into jeans and a clean shirt, put on the deodorant and was wondering about the shoes to wear. She just barged in, “Hurry up.” I saw that she was bare feet. I put my slip-ons and followed her. I couldn’t help but notice her shapely hips and the seductive swagger. It was a small party of five or six people. She was there with her boyfriend. The room was lit with low lights. Jazz played on the stereo from Spotify though an iPhone.

“I am Shivani. And you?”

“Daksh.”

She turned to her friends, “Meet Daksh, he is sponsoring the food today.” She laughed. A laughter that was carefree and revealed her perfect teeth. Then she introduced her friends one by one—Noel, Madhu, Jessica, Mallika, Yusuf and Vishwas. The apartment was rented by Noel and Jessica.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said and added, “What would you like to drink?”

“Some gin and tonic would be nice,” I replied.

“Coming up, Sir,” she said and went to the small makeshift bar they had set up.

That evening, she ensured that I was attended to. I sat at the far end of the drawing room and noticed that she kept her eyes on me. She came and gossiped about her friends, bantered about Gurgaon traffic and laughed easily.

I was not bored. After some time, I got into the spirit of the party. Alcohol, conversations, banter, views, counter views, raillery, poetry etc. It turned out to be a much needed one.

Later in the weekend, I wrote to Veda about it.

This was a couple of years ago. I was thirty-two then. Despite the age gap, we had become friends. She would drop by on some pretext or the other. Her friends, Noel and Jessica, in the opposite apartment moved away after some time. But we got to know each other well. She had seemed vaguely familiar when I had met her the first time. Later, when she told me that she was a model, it explained that nagging feeling of having seen her somewhere. Our eclectic friendship was no challenge to anyone. She considered age, marriage or money dispassionately. Once when I commented what would people think about the two of us together, I was commenting more on the visible age difference and the wedding band that I had in my finger, she replied coolly, “Will worrying about it change anything?” Over time I had the opportunity to meet a portfolio of her boyfriends—all dandy, handsome boys from the fashion fraternity.

She lived with her mother who was a professor of Psychology at Delhi University. Her brother Shivang lived in Hyderabad. She herself was doing her graduation in Economics from Lady Sriram College in Delhi. Her parents had divorced a long time ago, when she was still very small. Her mother was not enough for her father’s amorous adventures.

When her mother found her father cheating on her, she decided to throw him out of her life like a soiled rag. Once she said that discovering men was the most wonderful thing that had happened to her. But that she was a stringent believer of serial monogamy. “And what does your mother have to say about that?” I had asked.

“It’s none of your business,” she reprimanded. That was curt. She had put me in my place. Then added, “Just be safe.”

“What?” I asked.

“That’s what my mother said.” Then on a serious note she said, “I don’t want to live like her. She yearned for male companionship all her life. She never forgot the humiliation. She could never trust another man. Anyway, she says it’s my life and so long as I don’t get pregnant or get a VD, I can do whatever. But I am not as bad as you think.”

“Did I pass any judgment?” I said defensively.

“That’s what you meant. And generally, the perception is that strong willed independent girls are all bad.”

“I was only concerned. That’s all.” I assured her.

“That’s very sweet,” she said and blew me a kiss in the air. I thought that was over the top.

One day, when we had gone out for the first time, she told me she was learning Kathak. I was surprised because Kathak is a traditional dance form, and she was far too much of a wild kid of this generation to be able to appreciate the nuances of that. I was wrong. She spoke animatedly about the dance form. Kathak meant telling a katha, a story and the

use of the body movements and facial expressions to tell that story. She knew a lot about Indian classical literature and mythology through her study of dance. Her Guru was from the Lucknow Gharana and was scrupulous about riyaz. She also enjoyed it for the adrenaline rush of accomplishment it gave her. Kathak was a sort of meditation for her to forget about the world around her. She submerged herself in the sounds of the sitar and tabla and the rhythms of the ghungroos.

“Do you know that each strap of ghungroos should not have more than 150 bells?”

“No,” I said. This was trivia for me. Classical dance was never my strongest topic in any case.