Pammi Will Wed Reghu

For her twenty-first birthday, Pammi put on an Australian accent. She ordered a Long Island at Harry’s, unsure of its ingredients, and then sat at the barstool guessing at the taste of alcohol and the people at the bar.

Her Long Island arrived. She started slow: small sips and conversation with women in stilettos. She started to talk of Michaelangelo but the ladies soon returned to their phones. She moved on timidly to surveying the men. On cue, one of the species approached. It was the barman, this time on her side of the bar.

“The second round’s on me,” he said, raising his glass to hers, “Cheers!”

“You can drink on the job?”

“I’m off duty now. So what are we celebrating?”

Mr. Suave Barman quickly added up her story: new to New Delhi, just got a job at the Supreme Court, just broke up with her boyfriend, still wanted to celebrate her 25^th birthday and Harry’s was the nearest bar.

One two ka four, the Suave Barman thought, Four two ka one.

“My name is Lakhan,” he sang, adding, “And you are?”

“Pammi. Friends in Australia call me Pam.”

“I like Pammi. I like Punjabi girls. And I love this song.” he said, starting to dance on the tune that just broke out, “Perfect break-up song.”

She remembers him expertly holding their drinks as they sashayed to ‘Let’s Break Up, o meri jaan’. She did not mind it, this new taste, and this camaraderie over what would become a newfound ritual.

That was seven years ago, exactly.

***

Ashraf finally managed to get through to her. He wanted to meet for her birthday, “Remember, where we first met?”

Pammi arrived at Harry’s Pub in Lajpat Nagar at 9 pm sharp. Ashraf walked in unhurried, 40 minutes later, looking as dapper as ever.

Fuck him, she thought.

“Two Long Islands,” he said, leaning across to the barman. He then turned his smile full-beam on her.

Fuck him, she thought again.

“Happy birthday, Pammi!” he said holding out one arm, the other concealing her gift.  

“Thank you. And it’s still Pam.”

“Were you waiting long? Sorry man, traffic was crazy today.”

“That’s funny because, you know, I ran into Reghu just now. And you know what he said? He said he was coming from the same direction. And it only took him 20 minutes because the roads were totally empty.”

“For God’s sake, Pammi. I’m telling you the truth,” said Ashraf, irritated.

“Oh, I’m sure, Mr. Lakhan. You always tell the truth.”

“Oh come on Pammi, you can’t still be mad about that,” he was irritated, then back to his usual self, “That was so long ago. I can’t even remember...”

“Seven years ago. It was seven years ago, today.”

Ashraf pursed his lips.

 “I still can’t believe you lied to me.”

 “It was just a joke.”

“It was not a joke, and it was not funny.”

“It may have gone a little too far.”

“Two whole months.”

“You are such a nitpicker. You know what I remember? Australia. Broke up with my boyfriend. Supreme Court. You even convinced me you were 25.”

“You were the barman! I’m supposed to say I’m 25. You lied to me about your name for two whole months. I said one little lie so I wouldn’t get kicked out of the bar.”

“Four.”

“What?”

“Australia. Boyfriend. Job. 25. Four little lies.”  

“Pfft! And I’m the nitpicker?”

“That you are.” Ashraf leaned in and gave her that Mr. India smile of his. “But I don’t remember any of that. What I remember is seeing a lady with a Long Island sitting alone at the bar in a lovely black dress, a lot like tonight.”

Fuck him, Pammi chanted, Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him.

***

Pammi took the robe from Ashraf and closed the bathroom door.

“I’m getting married,” she said, then came out wearing the robe.

“Excuse me?” said Ashraf.

Pammi shot down the urge to say ‘Excused.’
“You know the guy, vaguely,” she said.
She took the towel from around her head and began to dry her hair. 

“What are you on about?”

“Reghu. I’m marrying Reghu.”

“That’s fucked up. He just saw us yesterday at Harry’s, dancing to our song.”

Pammi picked up a hairbrush.
“Our song? What song is that?”

“The break-up song.”

“Yeah, but which one?”

“What are you doing to your curls? I love them the way they are.”

“Don’t change topic. Which song was it?”

“What the hell does it matter?”

“You don’t remember.”

“Sayya ji se aaj maine break-up kar liya. You were there when I asked the DJ to play it last night.”

Pammi turned around to face him.
“Yes, and that is not our song.”

“Pammi, you’re frigging annoying.”

“Our song was ‘Let’s Break Up.’”

“And what the hell is the fucking difference?”

Pammi faced the mirror and started brushing her hair again.

“The fucking difference is this: the first song was from the movie ‘Dear Zindagi’ and the second was from ‘Ae Dil Hai Mushkil.’

“And again, what the fuck does it matter?”

“What’s in a name? That which we call an Ashraf, by any other name – say Lakhan – would be as rotten...”

“Ah.”

Pammi stopped brushing her hair.

Ashraf nodded slowly, breathing out each sentence.

“You’re getting married,” he said.

“Yes.”

“To a guy called Reghu.”

“Hm.”

“Because my name is Ashraf.”

Pammi put her brush down.

Thanks to Nisha Susan's guidance, whose workshop 'Write Like a Girl' was where this piece was first written. I have made a few edits thanks to tips from friends Yuveka Singh and Rihan Najib!  For people who don't watch much Bollywood, there are a few references to Indian songs and cinema. Sorry about that, I hope the story still holds up. Send me your comments please, would love to hear what you think!