The Red Carpet Read Online Free Page A

gentleman to get absorbed in the kebabs, before diving suddenly into the crowd.
    He waved and smiled to passing friends, shaking his head when they waved him over. He felt free, elated, as if a great pressure had lifted. Perhaps they could go for a holiday somewhere before the wedding, he and Ashwini—if the parents didn’t prove too great a social barrier to such a plan. Ramu already knew where they were going to live—in that new apartment building in the center of town with the marble floors and the terrace garden.
    There they would throw parties where Ashwini will have done Everything. Not just the curtains, or the soufflé. Everything. And Ramu would pour the drinks and look urbane.
    A vague anxiety tugged at his brain.
    Supposing she said no?
    Was it, in fact, better to just trust to the mothers; repose faith in the Great Indian Marriage Machinery?
    He tried to convince himself: surely there was more than just his mother to his awareness of himself as being terribly eligible? Yet, he could not deny that he found comfort in the realization that Ashwini, surely, would not have put him (or anyone else) through the same analysis to which he had subjected her.
    He couldn’t spot her. The crowds were huge. He made his way over to where Swamy was standing by the bar. Ramu forced himself to act casual, hiding his impatience, hugging his secret decision to himself.
    “This place,” said Swamy, polishing his glasses morosely, “is a fucking zoo. Why that bastard has to go get engaged in this city, I don’t know.”
    “Because he lives here?” suggested Ramu.
    “Chuth.”
Swamy was at his most dogmatic. “What I say is, we go over, kick KK’s arse, say hello to his parents, and then fuck off—go to my house, play some music, have a few drinks, relax. Maybe order in some kebab rolls.”
    He started to move away, oblivious to Ramu’s reluctance.
    “Where’s Murthy,” Ramu said idly, trying to delay him.
    Swamy began to laugh. “He’s driving this chick around.”
    “What?”
    “Driving this chick around, trying to get laid. Denies it, of course. But took her shopping this morning; I rest my case.”
    “Really.” Ramu listened to Swamy with half an ear and scanned the crowds eagerly. Where was she? “Fuck. He must be desperate.”
    Swamy shrugged, as if to say they had all done such foolish things, and turned away. Ramu said something to him, not moving from the bar, tugging Swamy back like a weak but persistent sea current.
    “What?” Swamy turned around.
    “Who is she?”
    “Who?”
    “Murthy’s new girlfriend.”
    “Uh . . . what’s her name. That cute chick . . .” Swamy frowned, on the verge, Ramu recognized, of suggesting that for god’s sake wasn’t this all best discussed over a quiet beer, and could they please get the fuck out of this silk-infested social pigsty? But instead, Swamy abandoned the effort of mentally conjuring up Murthy’s love interest with evident relief. “Oh, there they are.”
    Ramu had stopped listening to him entirely, his attention captured by the woman walking towards him.
    Oh there she was.
    With a proprietary thrill, Ramu realized that she looked lovely, elegant. It was almost as if she were, like him, dressing especially well this evening. He tried to remain calm, regulating his breath as he might while swimming. Perhaps that was why it took him a few moments to recognize what he was seeing: Ashwini, as women will on such occasions, was wearing a silk saree shot through with gold over a lamé blouse, accessorized with diamond jewelry, an italian handbag, french perfume—and Murthy.
    Her voice, when he heard it, was pitched higher than usual. “Hey! Hi, guys!”
    Ramu felt a great silence wash through him.
    He dared not look at her directly. Murthy, he noticed, was wearing the surprised look of a man who was doubting his own good luck.
    Out of the corner of his eye, Ramu saw Ashwini lean across to air-kiss a startled Swamy on both cheeks. She turned to him,