People go places in droves here, Zaara thought, sipping her glass of rosé as she watched another group of men come stumbling into a bar called 224 at Kala Ghoda. She had heard some of the assistants at her Guess shoot talking about meeting up there for drinks after the wrap. Something about a disco night. Nobody had invited her to go but Zaara loved disco. And an adolescence of spring breaking through Europe had grounded her firmly in the belief that good music and a great outfit was all one really needed for a fun Friday night out.

But now as the men who had entered turned to look at her, first with surprise, then amazement and then with... hunger, Zaara started to wonder if friends may be just as essential, perhaps more essential than anything else, if one expected to enjoy themselves unharmed on an evening out in Bombay.

The bar, she felt, was filling up mostly with guys in groups, with one or two girls hidden away amongst them to somewhat balance the numbers. And no matter what their gender, they all seemed to be turning to her with expressions of eager curiosity.

She turned to the bartender, mostly just to hide her face.

“You want something?!” the bartender yelled above Stayin’ Alive.

Zaara hesitated. She had already had two glasses of wine. And she was notoriously a lightweight.

“Hey wait…” recognition came onto the bartender’s face. “Aren’t you the new Nectar girl?”

Zaara could practically see the billboard of her in that bustier blouse at Mahim station flashing in his eyes.

“Can I get another glass of rosé please?”

“Sure, sure.” With a knowing grin, he disappeared to the other end of the bar.

Zaara exhaled. Now she had something to do again. She’d wait for her drink, then drink her drink, then dance to exactly one song — hopefully it would be something Abba — and then she’d get the hell out of there in the Uber that was waiting downstairs for her.

Relief washed through her. There was a car waiting downstairs for her. So there was nothing really to worry about. Michael, the Uber driver, would make sure she’s safe.

“It’s on us,” the bartender returned with her glass of rosé. And with four other bartenders in tow. All of whom were grinning at her, a tad too enthusiastically. Instinctively, she took a step back.

Only to bump into the broad chest of a very tall man.

“Yo,” he growled. “You Zaara Pandit?”

“Uhm-”

“Yes she is,” one of the bartenders yelled.

The large man peered down at her face like he was checking for chicken pox. Then he turned to his friends and yelled drunkenly. “It’s her! The eyes are blue.”

The girl that was with them yelled back, “Leave her alone Vaidya.”

“She’s already alone!” he replied, then laughed at his own wit. “You’re here alone, aren’t you?”

“Uh-”

By some stroke of luck, Dancing Queen had started to play just then. She laughed! Suddenly filled with wild confidence and the fortuitousness of her favourite song being played just then.

“What are the odds!”

“Huh?” the tall guy grunted.

She didn’t bother replying. To her mind, in which the decisions were currently being made by two glasses of wine on an empty stomach, it seemed perfectly correct to take her third glass and walk past the tall man to the DJ’s deck. This was after all, the entire reason she had ventured out in the first place. She might as well make the most of it!

“Where they play the right music, anybody can swing, you’re in the mood for a dance...”

She threw up her hands and sang with gusto as she danced, not caring if the drop of her shimmery top was dropping a little lower every time she swayed her hips. If the entire bar had stopped to watch, she didn’t stop to bother about it. She’d danced like this all through her teens, all across Europe. And if London could handle it, so could Bombay.

“You can dance, you can SHIINE, having the TIME. OF. YOUR. LIFE” She threw back her glass of rosé and kept waving her hands to the beat. Yes. This is what it means to have fun. Not taking pictures and checking out other people’s pictures. But to feel at home in a rhythm. To feel your entire body responding with joy to song! To not have to perform exuberance for the camera but to actually feel it!

“WOOOHOOOHOO, SEE THAT GIRL. WATCH THAT SCENE. DIGGING, THE DAAAAANCING QUEEEEEEEN.”

She went on in that vein for the next two choruses. If she had been more lucid, she may have wondered why the DJ was letting a 40-year-old song go past one chorus, this early on in the night.

As the melody tapered off, lilting into some techno number she hadn’t heard, her hips automatically slowed to a stop. She straightened up, still laughing a little at the good fortune of being able to have a good time anywhere as long as they play the right music. Till she wiped the faint sheen of sweat from her forehead and realised... that she was the only person on the dance floor.

And there was a room full of camera phones pointed at her, with their flash on.

Panic, real and visceral, gripped her throat, which suddenly felt very dry. Had they all filmed her dancing like that?

Is that even legal?

The tall guy she had bumped into switched his torch off first and walked towards her with a grin. “That was quite a performance,” he said, as he came so close that she could smell his sweat.

Suddenly feeling sick, she put her glass down and rushed out of the bar. People crowded around her, yelling something along the lines of ‘selfie’ and ‘wait’ but she didn’t. Even in her wine-addled state it didn’t seem prudent to indulge these strangers.

And then in a blur of grisly steps and sweaty elbows, she was out the door and onto the dark, cobblestoned alley of Kala Ghoda.

The customers of 224 hadn’t followed her thank god. Or at least, they hadn’t followed her yet.

Zaara whipped out her phone and tried to call Michael the Uber driver, but his line was dead. She peered at her phone, horrified. The door swung open and she heard loud drunken hoots above the sound of September by Earth, Wind and Fire. The guy who came through the door was the tall guy from before followed by his large friends.

“Hey she didn’t leave!” one of his friends laughed. “Go for it Vaidya!!”

Zaara put her phone firmly to her ear again, even though the operator was clearly saying that Michael was out of network coverage area, please try again later.

“Do you need a ride home?” the large guy asked her. “Come on blue eyes-hypnotise, I’ll drop you...”

Suddenly, she was very, acutely aware of just how alone she was. And just how foolhardy it had been to come out alone that night, in a backless, shimmery top no less.

“Please, please, please,” she closed her eyes, praying. Tall guy, she could sense, was coming up closer and closer to her back. She could nearly smell the stench of Jaegerbombs on him now. Was she overreacting? Perhaps he would drop her home? Perhaps she should try Seher. But how long would it take for her to get here? What would the tall guy and his friends do in the meantime? Oh god, was she overreacting?

A hand was put on her shoulder and Zaara nearly jumped.

“Dude,” she said, more bravely than she felt, as she turned to see the tall guy looming an inch away from her. “A little space please.”

Tall guy let out a laugh and took a step closer. “Are you sure about that?”

She turned away, so he wouldn’t see how scared she really was, and dialled Seher, closing her eyes.

“Struck out Vaidya!?”

“Naah, she’s just playing hard to get,” he yelled, and took another step towards her. “It’s a thing with all these celebs. Don’t worry babe, I’ve fucked Isa Kaif in London too...”

PAAAAAMP

The sound of honking came like a reprieve. Zaara’s eyes flew open in absolute relief. Thank God for Michael!

But then her face fell. This wasn’t her Uber. This was some guy in a Jaguar honking in front of her. Another creep.

She turned on her heel, furious, to go back in. Maybe she’d get one of the seedy bartenders to call her a car.

“Zaara,” the man in the driver’s seat commanded, through the window he’d rolled down.

And for some reason, she stopped. The voice wasn’t like the ones upstairs. This was a voice she’d heard before.A voice that had stayed with her.

Even though she’d been asleep.

She peered through the window and looked carefully at the face of the driver, in a hoodie and jeans, at the wheel of the white car.

And even though his appearance was a complete contrast to the suited Forbes-type ones Neelu had plastered in every business magazine, she knew who it was.

“...Arjun?”

“Vaidya struck out!!!” The guys by the door fell over themselves laughing. Clearly piss-drunk. Tall guy just seemed pissed.

“If you have a boyfriend why the fuck would you come out alone, whore?”

He turned to Arjun then. “Your girl’s a fucking tease dude...”

“Zaara get in the car,” Arjun Bajaj said, his voice deadly with authority. Too authoritative for a guy she didn’t know at all.

But she wasn’t about to argue at that moment.

She opened the door, grateful, and stumbled in.

Riva Razdan is a New York University graduate and currently working as a screenwriter and author based in Mumbai. Her debut novel Arzu was published by Hachette India in 2021