The Bitter Pill Social Club

by Rohan Dahiya

  She shrugged. “What can I say, I really needed a haircut.”

  He tried to be cross but couldn’t help himself. “You know that pooja nearly choked me to death. And your dad got into a nasty argument just now so I just took a walk.”

  “What happened?” she poured him a glass of wine.

  “Uhh I don’t know how to say this – I figured he’d have told you already.” She braced herself for the worst. “Your mum sent in the divorce papers.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sorry I know it’s not my place to tell you but I think you have a right to know.”

  “No, I’m actually not that surprised. Maybe this way he can just start to move on from this mess.”

  He looked at her with piercing dark eyes.

  “Divorce isn’t messy Sunaina, death is.” Sohrab drained his wine and reached for the lit cigarette between her fingers.

  She felt the pull of guilt in her stomach. “I’m sorry I didn’t –”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “No, don’t please. I’m just tired otherwise I wouldn’t have said it that way.”

  “No but it’s true though.”

  He hummed in consent and poured himself another glass, walking out to the patio.

  “Hey can I change the song? You should hear something from this century really.”

  She pouted. “I try okay. Sometimes one is simply in the mood for a little retro –”

  “Jesus Sunaina, don’t embarrass yourself.”

  “Okay firstly it’s just wrong to swear on Jesus, because you’re still Indian you know, it’s culturally inappropriate.”

  “As is running away from your home and becoming some weird hippie drifter,” he wiggled his eyebrows at her.

  “Ick, I can’t believe that’s what my father told you. Out of everything … whatever. I have nothing to be embarrassed about because bad music choice is nothing in front of bad facial hair.”

  He drew away from her aghast.

  “I fuckin’ love my moustache.” He took a hand to the chest.

  She looked away from the peek of dark chest hair.

  “You look like a bad pornstar from the seventies,” she giggled into her wine glass.

  “Okay sure, that’s rich coming from the girl who was singing along to a hundred year old song.”

  She shoved him, skillfully enough to not spill any wine from either glass. He shoved her back and wine dripped from the lip of both glasses.

  “Now, mountain girl,” he plugged his phone into the dock, “let’s educate you.”

  “Mountain Girl, really?” she flicked at his shoulder. “You make me sound like a cavewoman.”

  “No proof on the contrary yet, now shut up and listen will ya?”

  They settled on the patio chairs and against his better judgment Sohrab mentioned the overheard conversation where someone had joked about Sunaina’s failed attempt at hitching Daksh Dhiman – the erstwhile most-eligible of the lot – for good.

  “I’m sorry. If there was any way I could’ve changed the topic I would’ve,” he held up a hand solemnly.

  “That’s sweet of you, but none of it matters now. Don’t believe everything you hear about me, you’d think I’m mad as a snake.”

  He looked down at her hand wrapped around his and she snatched it away too soon. Sohrab cleared his throat and picked at the bowl of cheese shavings but the gruyere melting on his tongue did nothing to ease the tension.

  “I actually love this song.”

  “Ya see why I love it?”

  They fell into silence while the song painfully throbbed on.

  “I can change it if you want, tell me if you don’t like it.”

  “But I just told you that I do.”

  He nodded politely.

  “Okay just ask already. About the guy. You’re ruining wine hour.”

  She cooled at the sound of his laughter. “What the hell is wine hour all about?”

  “Wine Hour is something to keep my mind off things such as my parents’ divorce,” she shrugged. “Maybe our family’s cursed with bad luck in soulmates.”

  He smiled at her, hyperaware of the way his heartbeat had shifted tempo to match her bare feet stroking the naked blades of grass. “Soul mates, really? Maybe you are crazy.”

  “Wait a minute,” she leaned in so close he could smell her honeysuckle shampoo. “You don’t believe in soul mates?”

  “No,” he drank from his glass and leaned in to her, “because I’m an actual grownup.”

  “Oh get over yourself.”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “I had a soulmate, Sunaina, and then she got cancer and died on me, taking a piece of me with her every passing day.”

  Sohrab saw the moisture in her eyes and it irritated him, she was ruining the moment. Or perhaps he was. He considered what ‘the moment’ even was, he was an old widower and she was a kid trying to find herself. He looked back and wanted to slap the pitiful look right off her face. The fist clenched tighter, his nails digging into the palm of his hand.

  “Well,” she clinked her glass to his, “you’re alive and sitting here, that’s gotta count for something right?”

  In the split second the song changed he heard the trilling orchestra of crickets all around them. He followed her glass of wine to the lips that enclosed it and the head that threw back to drain the last of her drink. His body moved of its own will. Sunaina felt the force of his gaze, the solidity of his body pushing her backwards onto the marble island. Her fingers slid over the damp crop of his hair as she pulled him close enough that their lips were a hair’s breadth away and they knew that they were about to cross a line they couldn’t look back from but she was catching fire with every breath. Their kiss was laced with the salt of sweat and wine oiled need, the summer night was weighing down heavily around them. In that moment Sohrab Sood only knew one thing for sure, that he’d never kissed anyone like that before.

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  A STUDY IN SABYASACHI

  (INTERLUDE)

  o that’s a no for the app idea?”

  Gayatri nestled deeper into the couch. “Definite no. Everybody has an app now, it’s done to death.”

  Zoya, Gayatri’s de facto assistant frowned into her notes. “Born a lobster, boiled to death. What about a website? You’re fresh off a movie and viral speech about mental health, these days everyone’s using depression or whatever-you-may for launching themselves.”

  “Are you serious right now?”

  “Deadly so. It’s the new foolproof marketing tool. We could work it into a design collaboration, you could look into setting up a blog or – oooh how about a website that works as a blog but then you can put in whatever you like. Like a travelogue, we could shoot some quick fun videos of you whenever you’re on the move.”

  She massaged her head. “I don’t know, this is all a bit much no?”

  They stared at the silent screen, waiting for it to crackle. “It’s not a bad idea.”

  Gayatri could picture her agent on the other end of the line, pensively poking her chin with the back of a pen.

  “It’s definitely a smart way to show that you’re actually not a dumbass – wait Gayatri don’t you write as well? I think Neil said something about a poetry journal?”

  The sound of his name was enough to bring her down.

  “I don’t know about that.” She sank lower into herself. “I think this whole thing is too excessive. I’d like to keep some air of privacy please.”

  Gayatri was losing herself in the cheap hotel room where she held him in cold shivers and sweat until he could sleep, hearing the thud of his heart reverberate through her bones even with a whole camera crew hovering around them. And the heat couldn’t melt them, the cold couldn’t invade them.

  Zoya leaned in. “I thought we wanted to keep her relevant in the public eye for as long as possible, no?”

  The sharp slope of his nose grazing the side of her face, Neil’s reassuring hand on the small of her back when she was ready to shit hers
elf on the red carpet.

  “No but she has a point, this is a bit much. We don’t want people to think she has all the time in the world it could potentially be detrimental.”

  Gayatri was back in the backseat of the car and she was so mad she wanted to cry. And then he was pulling away from her and that was worse than being homesick.

  Neil barging into her room to make sure she’d thrown her book away, the one she abused herself in.

  “Well if your writing is good we could look into a book deal?”

  “No,” Gayatri sat upright with more force than necessary. “That’s a commitment I don’t have time for right now.”

  “Alright alright, how about a guest editor spot? I’ll make some calls.”

  Neil didn’t talk to her anymore. He’d shut her out and Gayatri wondered if she was caught up in the bond that developed through working in such close quarters, one that naturally diluted over time. Or maybe she was unable to separate herself from the fiction of it all.

  “Okay I don’t see this going anywhere, I have a wedding to attend in the evening. Get back to me when we have something definitive to go on.” She said her goodbyes and left.

  In the time it took her car to find its way to the front, Sunaina called.

  “Where you at bish?”

  “The Lalit – don’t ask.” she heaved a sigh, “what’s up?”

  “We’re headed to the Sabyasachi showroom. Come along?”

  “Yeah I’ll see you there. Who’s with you?”

  “Just take Aurobindo Marg and you can skip the worst of traffic. I’m with Vir and Sohrab, the boys need to be fitted for their achkans and bhai’s in a bad mood because he got into a fight with his girlfriend–”

  Vir shouted incoherently from the back.

  “Oh wow, tell him we’ll go for cocktails once we’re done from there.”

  “Oh my god, perf!”

  Unavoidable as it was, Gayatri found herself sitting in chockablock traffic because the omnipresent blue boards and tape cordoned off half the road. It was a theory shared by many that the people that drove Wagon Rs were generally the worst drivers. She glared at the man poised to cut her off at the diversion and the jerky swerve left him gawking and skidmarks on the road. Stuck in more traffic, Gayatri sat fiddling with the magnets for seven and a half minutes, phone positioned to the right angle so she could find the right hook at her septum. Following a brief period where she’d considered permanently piercing she’d been gifted the set of magnetic studs that passed off as almost real. So she found herself working the faux stud with sweaty fingers, stuck at the Outer Ring Road junction. She took five sets of photos with and without sunglasses and a separate close up for the live feed. Even as the commentary poured in, she switched off her notifications and walked in.

  If Jane Austen ever wrote of the Bennet sisters living in Delhi, they’d surely mortgage the estate for an outfit that came in a signature red trunk. Tthat Sabyasachi and Delhi weddings are meant for each other is a universal truth.

  That Sunaina and the others entered without pausing to fully take in the grandeur of Delhi’s mecca did not go unnoticed by the staff’s eyes. None of them could’ve seen her for the mess of nerves that she was, perturbed even by the whiff of his cologne as Sohrab passed her by to the fitting room.

  Gayatri crept up from behind her. “What’s a good but noncommittal caption?”

  “Woah is that a real piercing?” Sunaina pointed at her septum.

  “No I thought it might be a bit much to get one just for an insta post,” she pouted in deepest contemplation. “How about a simple ‘Yaas’? Can’t go wrong with a yaas.”

  “Mmm yaas queen.” Sunaina brushed her hair off her shoulder. “Seriously though what is up with this Instagram story shit, you know it took me like forever to figure out how this works now, so many updates I’ve missed out on.”

  Gayatri pulled her in for a selfie. “Sorry I just had to do a post for this new pendant, some brand Lara’s mother or something has started.”

  Sunaina rolled her eyes for effect, not yet willing to acknowledge how hurt she was that Lara Varma who once was a her closest friend, hadn’t invited her for the engagement yet both Gayatri and Surya had been present for everything. She didn’t care to admit that she’d been following the wedding hashtag like a manic stalker one step shy of frothing at the mouth in disbelief and embarrassment.

  “Sorry, was that shady? I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

  They passed the displays, idly picking at outfits simply on how bright they shone.

  “No forget about that, listen I kinda need to talk to you about something.” Sunaina pulled out a delicate sari. “Just before Vir came over yesterday, in the evening I mean, something err … something that shouldn’t have happened sort of happened.”

  Gayatri pulled her into a different wing while picking out a floor length embroidered dress. An assistant came up behind them to handle the garments and directed them to the trial room. As the haphazard selection of clothes were brought in for their perusal, Sunaina narrated the story of how she’d almost slept with Sohrab and they’d only just managed to pull themselves together before Vir had barged in and declared that they come to the party.

  “So you and Sohrab Sood, really?” her eyes bulged for effect.

  “Shit dude, it’s like a little out of control.” Sunaina fanned herself. “I feel like I’m going to burst into flames if we’re in the same room for a long time.”

  “Isn’t he like … old?”

  “Not as such, yeah he’s older if you’re getting into semantics.”

  “Semantics?” she laughed, “Big words for little Sunaina.”

  “Shut up. I don’t know what to do about him.”

  “I don’t see if you have to do anything really. If it’s a crush you let it be and it’ll go away. Or you tell him and …” she shrugged.

  “I don’t know if it’s that simple G, I think … I don’t know what to think.”

  “HO-LY-FUCK, are you like falling for him? I mean he’s hot in the like daddy way.”

  Sunaina pulled out a deep blue ensemble. “Shush, one doesn’t sit in the house of god and talk that way about love.”

  “That and the fact that you’ve not had the best luck in love. Chill the fuck out.”

  “Exactly. So now I just need to clear my head and I figured this was a good place as any to do that.” She lost herself under the weight of the skirt.

  “I don’t know,” Gayatri found her thoughts a mess. She stared at the incoming call and wondered why Ankit was ringing her. “Come out and show me the lehenga na.”

  “Dude it’s way too much.”

  “Too much what?”

  She walked out in the double layered sari with painted flowers and sequins. “Just much much.”

  Gayatri gasped. “Oh my god you have to wear this or I’ll die! It’s perfect for the wedding.”

  “It’s weighing me down, like chainmail.”

  “Okay I don’t even know what you’re talking about it’s stunning.”

  “Fine, let’s find you something as well.”

  Gayatri chose a deep maroon anarkali – sequined all over so with every step she glittered from head to toe. And while she silently mourned the white hand painted sari she’d left behind, she was unaware that it would arrive in a week with a personalized letter.

  Gayatri gestured grandly to the clothes that lay around them. “Still think it was a good idea to have retail therapy here of all places?”

  “Papa’s going to kill me.” She turned to the sales lady, “Oh I’m also supposed to pick up an order for alterations, the name is Hassan Kochhar.”

  “Jeez he also is wearing a Sabyasachi outfit?”

  She turned back to look at Gayatri. “Yeah why?”

  For a moment she lost track of everything, they’d made their way back down the stairs and the full force of Sohrab dressed in head to toe black knocked her senseless. It was the way the coat hugged his shoulders, the infini
tude of the black fabric broken only by the starry buttons. Vir who was struggling with the collar of his bandhgala beckoned for help but she could’ve been hit by a meteor and not noticed.

  “What do you think?” he twisted his lips into a rakish grin.

  She nodded appreciatively, unsure of her words in the moment.

  “So basically at this point I think everyone at the wedding will be wearing a Sabyasachi except the bride.”

  Gayatri shook her head sagely. “No babe, we’re not wearing these to the actual wedding that’s done to fucking death. These are for the youngsters/Diwali party on Friday.”

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  I ALWAYS THOUGHT IT

  WOULD BE YOUR HAND

  (HOLDING MINE)

  The book did not belong to Sunaina, she was sure of that because she couldn’t stand Pablo Neruda’s hyperbolic verse, because any book she had on her person belonged to Faisal and thus had his name scrawled on the last page. More than that, she knew she could never leave a mess of dried flowers in the pages of a book because it wasn’t the 90’s and she didn’t live in a movie – that didn’t stop her from posting a picture of it though. The book belonged to someone else because the halfwritten lovenote started with Hassan’s name, but now the sun was vanishing and she had other places to be. It was the night of Surya’s youngsters/Diwali party and they were also celebrating Dhiraj’s birthday. The farmhouse had been pimped out and as ever the risks of tempers short-circuiting were high – not in the least because of the low neckline of her choli. Next to the delicately draped double-layered Sabyasachi sari was the dress Geetu had made for her. On any other night, the choice would’ve been obvious, but Sunaina couldn’t fight the feeling that she’d be stealing the spotlight with the sari. She wanted it to be all about Surya and as many eyes off her as possible.

  With Gayatri’s promise of helping her make a decision, she’d done her make up and hair to effortless perfection as time took turns slowing down and then speeding up so it felt like even though she’d been waiting for forever, it had only been an hour, but they were also running late. She primed her brows and double checked her teeth for any stains. Her lipstick was even, hair perfectly tousled, and the knock knocked at the perfect time.