The Six Types of Love

AYUSH

The sun is setting as I walk out of the screening room. It paints the glass of every building outside rose gold. Outside of the grand halls and arches of the Ziegfeld Theatre are the throngs and throngs of paparazzi. The attention is inebriating. I am surrounded by hundreds of people who I have spent the last year with. The very people who made my dream a reality, who made the images I painted through words come to the big screen for everyone to enjoy for eras enduring. It's too much, and yet, it's not enough.

I walk briskly to the bathroom, feeling the urge to fix my appearance before facing the blinding lights and after-party. As soon as I am in the bathroom, I let my act down in front of the mirror that has a border of shining lights. The charming smile looking at me turns into a face cut from stone. However, the eyes that look back at me can never have their spark extinguished. I let my eyes wander lower, checking to see if my sparkling blue suit still looks impeccable. After running a hand through my crisp hair and pushing my circular gold glasses further up the bridge of my nose to cover up my energetic brown eyes, I text the driver to come and get me. I take one more deep breath and walk out of the bathroom.

When I get outside, I see Anshu and Viraj, the leads.

"Ready to face the music?" Anshu asks, his white kurta accented with fake diamonds shining light everywhere. His hair is messy but in a stylized way and he is wearing the same fake gray contacts that his character wears.

"Ready as I'll ever be," I respond rearranging the smile on my face to be as nonchalant as possible, to not betray the fluttering and satisfaction I feel.

"Let's go out on three. We can't let Marc and Kaira get all the attention now, can we?" Viraj smiles deviously, lacing his fingers in mine. His eyes are almost completely black, and he is slightly unshaven. He's wearing the same kurta as Anshu, except in black, to emphasize how their characters are identical yet opposite. Viraj is facing me, and I lean in to give the forest of stubble on his cheek a kiss. He squeezes my hand three times and then lets go. We walk outside the theatre into the hordes of reporters and fans who never fail to humble me. For does one ever truly get used to fame?

"How do you feel your movie will do at the box office?"

Click. Flash. Smile. Change position.

"Do you feel like Anshu and Viraj did justice to your characters?"

Chuckle at a fake joke. Hug Viraj and Anshu. Take a picture with the entire cast.

"What does this mean for your other books?"

Look for Johnathon and Naina to take a picture with.

"Will you ever finish The Six Types of Love?"

And then get into the limousine and go to the Ritz. The alcohol starts before we even reach the hotel. Drinks with names, colors, and flavors most people can't even fathom are being passed around. Even at the hotel as I get out of the limousine, still sober enough to realize attention is being paid to me, my smile never leaves my face. My security gets out with me and takes me into the hotel. Almost everyone is already there. Drinks are ordered and given loosely to anyone within the vicinity of the bar. This night, this moment has been on everyone's mind since Seitz Production House decided to produce my book two years ago.

The raucousness and joy, sense of accomplishment, and drunkardness are all the rewards of a job done well. Every time my glass nears the edge of sobriety, someone comes and fills it with the elixir of confidence. Tonight we are not colleagues, but we are family, saying hello to a new era of success and goodbye to one when we would see each other every day. It is bittersweet to experience the joy of completion with the sadness of departure. Each empty glass is a little bit more pain gone. However, even then, everyone must leave at some point. No party can last forever.

Before Viraj leaves, he pulls me aside and thanks me for everything I have done for him. He gives me a lingering kiss that tastes of vodka and chocolate. I kiss him back, but he breaks it to tell me something.

"I love the perfume," he thanks, looking at me with something more than love, adoration maybe, obsession almost.

"It's to remember me by," I whisper into his ear, like if someone hears what I'm saying all my success will vanish.

"As if someone could forget you," he replies, and I just laugh. I see him desperately stumble to the elevator, trying to find his balance. I can see the bottle of Ocean by Prada in his back pocket. Drunken logic I presume. Why else would he have it on him? It makes me chuckle as I sit down at the pristine white bar. I realize everyone has slowly left, Viraj being the last one. Basking in my solitude, I gesture at the bartender, who seems blissfully unaware of who I am, something I am infinitely grateful for.

"Can I have a vodka Diet Coke?" I ask. He nods and before I know it, I am sipping on the bitter, sweet taste of the only mixed drink I have drank since I was seventeen, when I first started writing. Back then, little did I know that my books would not only define the trajectory of my life but also so many others. I put my drink down on the sleek white countertop and look at the inside of my hands. The deep but sparse lines of my palms and the textured tips of my fingers remind me of something Papa said to me so many times: "Bacha, your hands are clear. You are lucky enough to have the choice to design your future in any way you like." I pick up the glass again, saying the only two words I have to say to myself, my parents, my past, and my future: thank you.