Mrs Goody Two Shoes XX

In high spirits

It takes one party to shatter a carefully constructed image. It takes one drink to not care about it

It is past midnight. I hear a mouse scurrying by and turn around to see where it is scampering away. It stares at me with beads of eyes, its breaths short and fast, frightened of this stranger in the room. I used to be scared of this fur balls once upon a time, but after ‘Ratatouille’, I have made peace with them – I mean, I have learnt to tolerate them.
It is past midnight. The mouse scurries away once it has sensed that there is no imminent danger to its nocturnal escapades this night. I start to miss it – the soft taps of its paws, the swish of its fur scraping the furniture, a light, nearly inaudible thud where it falls on the rag which we call carpet. These sounds were keeping me company a moment before as I swim in the created delirium. A generous dose of weed and a stiff peg of vodka has set me afloat. I am “so high that I could almost see eternity” – I am, indeed, singing the song in full-throated ease, reckless in my adventure.
You may be wondering what has landed me, who is usually the careful-of-my-image kind of person, in this situation that can kill my character with the slow poison of malicious gossip that will do the rounds for months, getting more coloured with each version, if I am discovered. But do not worry. I have already been exposed and hence, I am not wasting time by caring any more.
This is how I have landed up with the glass in one hand and the cigarette in another. I had come home earlier than usual in the evening to get some things ready for the husband’s birthday the next day. I was about to keep the Black Label bottle in the bar cabinet when the gang of teens from our complex came in. “Didi.” Their sweetened chorus warned me immediately to be on guard, but as is the norm, my heart was melting already, and I was ready to give in to even murder.
“We are organising a party, but you have to tell our parents that you are invitng us. And didi, could you please give us one bottle of vodka? Pleeeeeeeease!” Before a split second, I was in. So I arranged for the chips and the snacks and the alcohol, they arranged for the weed and the music. There is a penthouse on our terrace. I escorted everyone there like a teacher.
I was leaving, honestly. But Sam, that’s Samir really, called out, “Didi, join us for one drink, c’mon.” I don’t quite know how many drinks went down and how loud the music got, but after a while, I found police tapping at the door. I came out of the smoky haze, smelling of every illicit thing. “What’s the trouble sir?”
Seeing a sari-clad lady probably made the officer rethink once before screaming out a threat. “Stop this music right now. And OUT all of you. Think how sad your parents will feel when they see you like this! Shame!”
I don’t why they bring parents into every little thing, but as if the word was an incantation, a few sets of parents arrived. If glares could kill, I would be dead but I am not and I am writing this. The teens were dragged out, the music stopped and a numbing hush fell. The dirty looks at me got dirtier as I stood there, cigarette in one hand, drink in the other.