The Summer of Absolutely Nothing

16.

Ever watched an American high school movie?

At some point in the movie the p-word will be dropped on the lovably awkward hot-beneath-the-thick-frames nerd, who will foray forth into this now-acclaimed status symbol of popularity (I have no clue if America is anything like how Hollywood and Chicken Soup portrays it; could be their Chitra Banerjee Divakurni and - wait for it - Hollywood).

By the p-word, by the way, I mean party (my attempts to sound hip are poorly researched, as is the use of the word hip).

With the world becoming a smaller place,this culture has had influences worldwide; our populous country is no exception, for obvious statistics-related reasons.

Parties here are a watered-down version of the drunk make-out fests in the movies, and aren’t overly indicative of social distinctions, at least in Chennai. Still, much like cause and effect, only certain sets of people have them, and I have never never been in that set.

Until now. Yes, the aforementioned social circles make another cameo appearance.

Let me 'set the scene', to use Amy’s words - At this moment, 10:05 pm on a Friday night, I’m sitting in the balcony of a ninth floor apartment in MRC Nagar, The Lords - home to a high-end friend of As's whose parents were top executives, whose absence left the daughter to tarnish the family name. The view was beautiful - a Disney-esque castle with the silvery ribbon of Adyar river cutting past. I was stirring someone's endeavour at making a cocktail, gingerly sipping at it from time to time. It was a very tasteless, watered-down drink with a bitter edge that made me wince at each sip. I doubt that it was these dilute drinks to blame for the alcohol-induced lowered inhibitions that resulted in the fervent making-out in the bathrooms - doubtless large enough to accommodate more than one couple (I have no clue of booze social norms).

I was contemplating getting something different to drink, but was reminded painfully of Plath’s character in the Bell Jar, who had never mastered the art of ordering drinks, having no knowledge or taste for them. Maybe, Bailey's, the chocolate liquor which my mother had had given me once would be available. This was a rich household, after all.

'Care for a drink?’ a gravelly, deep voice behind me murmured, placing a glass of some pink concoction on the table next to me.

'Trying to be suave?’ I queried, as Advaith materialized, a sheepish smile on his face.

'Can’t pull of the 007 act? Oh, well. Can't probably handle that many women anyway.’ Advaith said, as he sank into a chair next to me.

'Done with your share of ladies for the night?’ I asked, wondering why he would choose to join me out here, when the dance ‘floor’ (basically a clearing in the ample living room, made by pushing the furniture back) was in full swing. Though not a flirt, he was still a 'full-blooded man’, the term used to justify all of men’s ogling, and the hot, well-dressed girls gyrating without restrain did seem like a place he would want to be.

Advaith pulled a face. 'It gets monotonous after a while.’

The music changed. Photograph, by Ed Sheeran, started playing.

'Not really party music, but eh, why not.’ I said, beginning to sing along sotto voce.

'Mini (a friend who was DJing) is attempting to create the prom romantic dance.’ said Advaith, frowning absentmindedly. Looking at me intently, he asked, 'Want to dance?’

'But I can't dance -’

'Foxtrot’s easy.’ His eyes, fixed on to mine - brown, and shining with warmth of feeling I couldn't quite place.

'Okay.’

He took my hand, and put his arm around me, and we slowly began to move to the strains of the song.

It felt different, somehow. Advaith wasn't being my sarcastic, fun-to-talk-to friend - he was courting, to use a quaint old-fashioned word. There was affection, in his voice, cutting at the ends of his sentences, and in the way he looked at me - heartsick.  

And as the song ended, my favourite line which brought out all the latent romanticism in me, the naivety and hope the years hadn't managed to kill.

'When I’m away, I will remember how you kissed me, under the lamp post back on 6th Street, hearing you whisper through the phone - wait for me to come home.’

Advaith leaned in, and kissed me. Gently, his lips grazing mine, and fastening.