Page 25 of 12 Years
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Where?’
‘Let’s go to Aer? Tomorrow at 7.30 p.m.?’
‘Aer at Four Seasons, Worli? Isn’t that really high-end?’
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s sponsored by Reliable Polymers. See you tomorrow.’
Aer, the rooftop lounge and bar, offers a stunning panoramic view of Mumbai and the Arabian Sea in the horizon. The bright lights of the city twinkle below it at night, while the darkness hides the less savoury bits, like all the dilapidated buildings and the slums. It has an all-white decor, with everything from the chairs and the tables to the bowl-shaped bar in the middle done up in a stark, minimalist white. Everything is high-end, as are the prices on the menu. If Reliable Polymers cancelled their deal, I would’ve to do shows at the Crayon Club for a month to pay for tonight’s meal.
I reached Aer first, and the hostess ushered me to a table near the edge, for a better view. I’d barely been there for five minutes when Payal reached as well.
‘Got stuck at the last Worli Naka signal, sorry,’ she said.
When you look that stunning, you don’t need to apologize for anything.
She had worn a short shimmery dress, the colour of red wine. Her lipstick matched the dress. Around her neck she wore a rose-gold chain with a tiny butterfly pendant. She had left her hair open, and it cascaded down to her waist in waves. She had a tiny mole on the left side of her neck, right where it curved up. And that was all I kept looking at for a while.
‘I said hi,’ she said again.
‘Oh hey, hi. Sorry. Come, please sit. Umm … You look amazing.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, blushing a bit. ‘What a view.’
She sat down across from me.
‘A glass of Prosecco, please,’ she said when the waiter came to take our order.
‘I’ll have the same,’ I said and then, turning to Payal, said, ‘Should we make it a bottle?’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Why not?’ I turned to the waiter. ‘A bottle of Prosecco, please. And some dips and pita bread. Can you make the dips without onion and garlic though? Jain-friendly?’
‘Yes, sir, we can,’ the waiter said.
‘I’m such a pain to be out with,’ Payal said after the waiter took our order and left.
‘It’s okay,’ I said.
The waiter returned a few minutes later with the wine and two wine glasses. He placed the sealed bottle in a silver ice bucket and left.
‘This is exactly like champagne. Strange that they’re not allowed to call it champagne,’ I said.
‘Yes, only sparkling wines made in the Champagne region of France can be called champagne,’ Payal said.
‘It’s like lassi not being allowed to be called lassi outside Punjab,’ I said. ‘Imagine Punjab saying, “Lassi is ours. Gujarat, you better call your Amul drink sweet dahi smoothie or something. Else we’re shutting down your factory and arresting you.”’
Payal laughed, hand over her mouth.
‘That’s what the Champagne people do in France, literally,’ I said.
‘It’s fun to come out with a comic. I get front-row seats to a free show,’ she said.
I smiled and proceeded to open the sparkling-wine bottle. The cork came out with a gentle pop. I carefully poured the wine into the two glasses and passed one to her. As we clinked our glasses, the waiter arrived with our food as well.
‘Thank you again for helping me with the ESOPs,’ Payal said, dipping the pita bread in some Jain hummus and taking a bite.
‘You don’t have to keep thanking me,’ I said.
