The clubhouse had been arranged for purpose: chairs pushed to the walls, an old but serviceable sound system at the front, a Bluetooth speaker that Freddy D'Souza had brought himself because the society's system had the audio quality of a transistor radio from 1987. The floor was the standard vinyl tile of housing society clubhouses everywhere — slightly cold in the morning, slightly sticky in the afternoon, and capable of producing a squeak under rubber soles that was audible across the room.
Nirmala arrived at six fifty-eight, two minutes early, because she had been a school teacher and could not be late to anything that had a start time. She was wearing the teal yoga pants and a plain white kurta over them, which she had decided was a reasonable compromise between the outfit Rekha had suggested (a sports bra and something she described as a "tank top") and what Nirmala actually felt comfortable in.
Rekha was already there, in full fluorescent pink athletic wear, talking to a man who was standing near the door with the posture of someone who had not yet decided whether to come in or leave. He was tall, slightly built, wearing a formal collared shirt tucked into dark trousers above a pair of brand-new white sports shoes that still had the sticker on the sole. He was looking at the assembled group of women — fourteen of them, ranging from Mrs. Apte at sixty-six to a young mother from Block A who had brought her toddler and parked it in a corner with biscuits — with an expression that Nirmala, who had spent thirty-one years reading the faces of twelve-year-olds who hadn't done their homework, immediately classified as: deeply regretting a decision but too proud to back out.
She found a spot near the back of the room. He found a spot near the back of the room. They were, by accident, standing next to each other.
"New?" she said.
"Yes. You?"
"Yes."
