1.3 | Cellophane

i | astronaut

The team that built Blue Light should be advertising and making money out of their superhuman ability to soundproof a hoard of drunk, uninhibited sweaty young adults dancing and screaming to a mashup of TikTok famous songs that played in deafening volume. Ishita thought that night was going to be yet another quiet night with just her and a glass of whiskey to keep her company and not even the pretentious bouncers at the door made her think otherwise. She didn't notice the ugly flyers on the wall luring in the party-goers of Chennai with free drinks and free entry schemes for women. It wasn't until she opened the door to the not-so-famous restobar that she realised she'd stepped into a hellhole.

Months of blowing through her limited money at Blue Light had associated a sense of escape and relief to that shady bar. Ishita walked in, confident that a raging crowd wouldn't taint her perfectly planned night. She knew a secluded spot, far far away from the dance floor, and she trusted it to find her the non-existent peace and quiet that she was looking for. She looked at Vishant, the man behind the counter and her recent friend, and gestured to give her her usual. He grinned unnecessarily, obviously pumped up by the women trying to burn his clothes away with their illicit gaze. Good for him, she thought to herself, took her drink and went to her spot.

Ishita let herself fall onto the seat, pushing her bag to the side and crossing her legs. There were good days, bad days and horrible days. But it was the ambiguous days — the days when she did nothing worthwhile and felt empty and aimless as if walking through a cryptic blue haze — that disturbed her the most. On these days, her mental well-being took a steep hit downward and it felt like only a drink could cure her even though they were nothing but cheap bandaids. And for the past few days, every day had been an ambiguous day and she was using up all her money for these cheap bandaids.

Her best friend was married. Her other best friend was on the road to a happily-ever-after with her boyfriend. Both of them had jobs that would keep their bank accounts full and happy. And her bank account was starving, begging her to at least toss in some pity cash. She was incredibly happy for her best friends but at the same time, she was bitter and miserable that she couldn't have what they had. Not because she wasn't trying, but because she couldn't even if she tried.

Ishita was different from them. She wasn't built for a steady lifestyle like them — spinning on the same wheel for years together and finding joy in it. Ishita loved to go wild, soak up new skills, learn a new craft, share knowledge and sign up for rich experiences that would give her an endless amount of stories to tell. She was spontaneous and quite reckless, dictated by her heart and her heart alone.

And she was beginning to think her personality was the reason she was broke, unhappy and lonely.

She was beginning to hate herself.

She sipped the liquid and held the taste in her mouth before swallowing it. She had to figure out another means of income. After the art school she worked at closed due to low funds, she didn't have a guaranteed source. She picked up gigs that would pay her but she'd run out of them. She had to either start prepping for organizing workshops or get another job to pay her bills and add onto her savings. There was a three-month pottery course happening next January and she desperately wanted to take it up. She had five more months to save enough money to afford it comfortably.

She took another sip and realised it was the last one. Ugh, she thought, hoping she could sweet talk Vishant into giving her more and putting it on her tab. Before she could act on it, a looming presence sat across from her, placing a bottle of whiskey and a glass on the table. He was typing away something on his phone with one hand, his forehead scrunched. Annoyance curled Ishita's lips, ready to call this man out for barging into her space without permission. He was wearing a white button-up shirt, tucked in neat in black trousers. He had an expensive watch, glossy black hair that was styled to perfection and a thin platinum chain around his neck. Her eyes travelled lower, the first two unfastened buttons on his shirt getting the best of her. Seriously, she fumed to herself, who did he think he was? Walking proof that with money, one's manners went poof?