The Summer of Absolutely Nothing

10.

My first sip proved that indeed it tasted pretty bad.

Advaith looked at me anxiously. ‘I think I put enough Coke in to make it drinkable.’

‘It’s fine’ I said, wryly taking a second sip.

‘Hey, As, booze’s ready.’

Asmita, busy on a phone call with Rahul, picked up her cup without second glance and retreated to the balcony.

Advaith settled down on the sofa, and sampled his.

‘Cheers to college life, goody-goody.’

We chatted absently for about fifteen minutes, taking measured gulps, discussing mutual acquaintances (a surprising number of which we had); school and college politics don’t really change, from place to place, providing us with enough inane gossip as we both waited (or so it seemed) for the alcohol to hit the bloodstream.

The initial result was disappointing. No discernable change over came me; if not piss-drunk (literally), I had always expected to hit some great high (imagined in my mind as the mental equivalent of the guy springing wings in the Red Bull ad).

Three-quarters of a glass down, as I shifted places, Advaith eyed me with equal parts worry and amusement. ‘You’re not walking straight.’

‘What, really?’ I bounced up, thrilled. ‘No, look, I am!’ said I, wobbling across to him hastily, waiting for him to disagree.

My voice rang in my ears, loud and slightly sloppy (one of my major failings has always been my unladylike volume); I struggled to keep up my English, as though intelligent sentence construction were now a Herculean task.

I was now drunk! I was filled with all the expectant excitement one felt when one experienced a much-hyped pop culture phenomenon. However, unlike most of said pop culture, alcohol was not a disappointment at all (then again, I have very low standards, I even enjoyed Age of Ultron).

‘Let’s go up to the terrace!’

Advaith looked slightly uncomfortable; he clearly had a higher tolerance level from earlier drinking. ‘It might not be such a good idea. Your mom, you know, she wouldn’t like it -’

‘My mom. Pssssh..’ I attempted to make pooh-pahing sounds, but wound up producing wet, garbled sounds and a spit bubble for disdain.

‘Ok, then.’ he raised his hands in mock resignation, and reached to pick up the house keys.

He looked at me curiously, as I marched up the stairs; I, usually the quiet, restrained, sarcastic one of the three, was exuberant, wild and merry; he later also informed me that I was a blonde drunk (‘Aren’t the stars tooo pretty?’, trilled I) to which I responded with several dictionary-level insults.

‘Not reminded of you ex at all?’ Advaith asked as he watched me shakily ascend the first ladder. ‘I used to want to call her every time I got drunk.’

Halfway up the second ladder, I turned around and smiled at him, nearly slipping off the same step Rahul did. ‘Why would I think of anyone else when I’m with you?’

The implication of what I said hit me mid-sentence; my inhibitions weren’t that low. The way it had spilled out, with perfect honesty.

Silence.

‘That’s sweet.’ Advaith said, looking strangely naive in the moment.

A cold breeze swept in from the sea, the rain-like sound of rustling leaves set against the background of 2 am silence. Our city sleeps at night (that line by Imagine Dragons); in those few hours, the twelfth grader didn’t panic about his exams, the businessman stopped worrying about the losses incurred, the homemaker ceased to fret about her family, and the sundered lovers no longer cried.

The harsh lights of storefronts were switched off, and the soft yellow light of old-fashioned street lamps sieved through the trees, homely and warm; reminding me of an old Coldplay song - they ignite my bones. A clear night at the edge of the city, the stars shone benignly in the sky, dominating the slim yellow crescent moon. The white-tipped waves of the ever-present inky sea silently thrashed in the distance.

I was happy, a warm swell of feeling which was independent of logic, whether the alcohol or the starry sky. We talked, for what seemed like hours - we told our stories, not the obvious milestones, and marked failures, but the time he went to the beach with his uncle, and the day I fell of the swing. The small memories which build up a lifetime.

And when, Asmita came, eyes suspiciously red, a strangely sweet smile breaking on her face when she saw us, we didn’t ask her about what was wrong. It didn’t matter as much as the summer she learned to ride her bike.

As dawn broke golden over the horizon, we trooped down, and fell into our beds, waking only in time for lunch.