“The more I study history, the more I believe that Man created God in his own image. Religions are byproducts. Their heads are political. Cheers!” Anand clinked mugs with the waiting Hari. “Religion is materialistic; not spiritualistic.”

Hari made an impatient face.

“If you’ll suspend your possibly unique, passably interesting philosophy, for a sec,” he said, “Let one see what one can do about improving the quality of these complimentary snacks.” Anand sank back into the cushions and studied the glistening chandelier above his head. As usual as in swank hotels, it was of the large economy size, not the domestic.

Anand had nothing else to meditate on. He avoided looking at the noisy gang of brandy drinking brutes at the next table, backstreet boys who were likely to burst into rowdy songs at any moment. They’ll be bounced if they do that, Anand thought happily. A penguin-like waiter waddled up to them at Hari’s booming “Hallo?”

As Hari took up the matter of the side-snacks with the penguin, Anand lit a brooding cigarette, and blew smoke rings in the direction of the chandelier.

“We attempt to reach the highest truths, but all we can do is blow ineffectual statements at them,” chuckled his friend, with the air of one who has successfully negotiated a forthcoming plate of complimentary masala papads.

“Religion…” began the philosopher again only to be interrupted by an undertone “Look at her skin!” It took only a second for Philosophy to be abandoned in favour of Female Dermatology.

“Gods, what a complexion!” A hush descended on the next table, too. The object of their combined studies was a wavy-haired, slender, dusky beauty in a flowing dress that seemed to be made of wispy sashes of colourful fabric only, held together purely by willpower. A mermaid floating over a sparkling sea of reflections.

The ‘Compass Mahal,’ lived up to its funny name. It was on the outskirts of Chennai, near the airport, and combined Western facilities with ethnic splendour, welcoming overseas come-ins without driving away local stay-puts. Anand didn’t approve of the ‘think big’ scheme of its designers — it had a lobby “more like the inside of the Cosmic Egg,” one that out-lobbied any other hotel’s in the city — but liked the “lively ambience of the joint.” Hari disapproved of the tariff; he felt that “they had dipped the prices without having the usual courtesy of dimming the lights,” but “the food’s good.” “Probably cooked by a giant in chef’s clothing,” Anand had rejoined, no gourmand he, but both liked the policy of the management in allowing drinks to be served in the domed lobby, enabling them to drink in, not only the liquor, but international beauties of various sizes, shapes and colours.

The mermaid, by herself, made that evening worth its while.

“That’s Chitra Varma,” whispered the well-informed waiter when he brought them the plate of masala papads. Anand drained his beer without taking his gaze off the star, who was busily chattering into her cell phone, registering a whole gamut of expressions, ranging from merry laugh to wistful pout. The fascinated friends didn’t miss any.

Chitra Varma felt royally ditched. “Oh, forget it,” she said and sank back into the purple cushions of the couch. “Sorry, Chitty, you know Angie’s bf...” squeaked the phone. This evening was supposed to be one of those rare ‘be yourself’ occasions with her old friends, a party which was needed for her well-being, it sharing no quality, thank God for that, with the filmy parties she had to attend. Today she had to forego the company of her good friends, and go home. “Expectation leads to disappointment, Chitra,” as her father used to say. But she needed a ‘natural’ respite, in order to emotionally survive in the film industry, a day away from the madding crowd of aspiring starlets, failed actors, letches, lushes and leeches. Unction, friction, pain, gain, strain, jeers and leers. Chitra slipped the phone back into its pouch and found that leering letches could not be avoided. Two of them were smiling down at her, like benevolent waiters. Safety first, could be fans. She smiled at them.

“Good evening,” said one, “This is Anand, and I’m Hari.” He was also quite hairy for a man; long hair pony-tailed and gelled to submission. Anand was a slender plant, drooping on his stem as he bent slightly in her direction.

“What can I do for you boys?” she asked impulsively, sitting up straight.

“Have dinner with us…” blurted the plant. Longhair gave him a dirty look, switched back his earlier smile hastily for Chitra’s benefit, and looked at her hopefully.

Why not? Let’s be adventurous for a change, she thought, rising from the couch. “Lead the way, friends,” she said with a laugh, “But I’ll pay, is that okay?”

“We are feminists in these matters,” said Anand. “Speak for yourself,” said Hari, and the three made their way across the marble towards the ‘The Mariner,’ to the accompaniment of half-envious, half-admiring glances of the brandy brutes. One of them whistled. A low whistle from a low type.

There was no need to negotiate a good table; Hari himself was worth a good corner, and nothing need be said about the ‘face’ value of a film star. “One minute please,” said Hari after the other two were seated, “will be back in a sec.”

“Then why ask for a minute?” hooted Anand. Give him a beer, he blabbers. Give him a pretty girl; he will talk as much nonsense as a VJ. Give him the best of both, he could stand for election.

“Where’s your friend going?” asked Chitra, “The loo?”

“Maybe. But guess he’s gone to talk to Stephen, the guy who sings here,” said Anand, “Let’s order some funny food for Hari before he comes!”

Chitra frowned. The name ‘Stephen’ conjured up old memories, all of them disturbing. She shook them off with a toss of her head, and opened the menu, a booklet bound in brown hand-tooled leather.

(cont'd)