Anirban got a message from his cousin that evening. “Let’s meet up for a bit before we part again, dear cuz,” it said. Chintan’s uneasy use...
Anirban got a message from his cousin that evening. “Let’s meet up for a bit before we part again, dear cuz,” it said. Chintan’s uneasy use of slang had always irritated him, and he stared at the word “cuz” for a while.
“Yo bro!” he replied. “Whenever, whatever, you say.” A plan was formulating in his head, whereby he would be able to hold his own in the encounter.
So it was decided that they would meet in the bar of the Rambagh that evening. Anirban persuaded Juan to accompany him, not a difficult thing to do as the famous Taj hotel was on his bucket list anyway.
Anirban took trouble to dress up stylishly in a black tee shirt and a designer cravat, with a long black shawl to protect him from the distinct bite of the winter evening.
The Polo Bar smelt of wealth, and class, and privilege. It was a compound smell, partly musty, with a whiff of ancient cigar smoke. The walls were cluttered with trophies and memorabilia and crossed swords and faded photographs, the cabinets stuffed with whiskies, single malts, cognacs, wines and liqueurs of every description.
Chintan Banerjea was studying the menu with deep interest. His eyes moved from right to...
