Coughing Fit

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 Elegant, sweeping fabric draped the walls from floor to ceiling, pinned at strategic places, the colour a luminous and sultry slate grey. The fabric appeared to shimmer in the late afternoon sun, the effect further enhanced by an overhead chandelier, approximately a metre wide at its largest point, dripping with thousands of tiny crystals. The chandelier reflected the light source from within its centre, not visible to the naked eye, but its power magnified, reaching far beyond its source.

Heady perfumes of jasmine and sandalwood wafted through the room, designed to relax and calm the attendees, as was the gentle strumming of the sitar from the corner of the room, conducted by a short man who bent his face away from the group, towards his instrument, focussed entirely on his music. The shisham table was elegantly set in the British style, a nod to one particular attendee. Upon the table, the bone China plates and scrupulously polished silverware were positioned at almost mathematically set points in front of each diner. The head of the table was vacant, the chair larger than all others, carved from teak, and patterned elegantly with distinctive images of tigers, elephants, and fish.

Beneath the chandelier, and contained by the drapery, huddled 8 of the most significant dignitaries in the world, having flown in from far reaching lands, each having their own stake in this union. As the happy-couple-to-be glanced around, they noticed an opulent orange sari, a crisp white thawb, and a tailored English morning suit.

After an hour of being intimidated to silence, at last, Rajesh arrived. His navy blue Kurta hung from his body as it should, the fabric delighted to have been woven for him, sewn for him, and fitted to his frame. His black hair, slightly greying at the sides, was styled as always, the curls tastefully retrained back from his face, and not a hair out of place. Both Meg and Aarav felt their spines relax, just a millimetre, knowing that they were now protected.

In contract to Rajesh’s understated entrance, they knew a team of security waited outside, some in black heavily armoured cars, some positioned immediately outside the front door, standing, heavy weapons at the ready in case of emergency. Usually, Rajesh had one gargoyle looking man positioned on each side, but this meeting was entirely confidential. No doubt, his team, along with others, already had the place mapped out, with someone watching every possible entry point, ready to act and protect those inside.

As Rajesh approached the last remaining seat – at the head of the table, naturally – his step faltered, a step or two from reaching the back of the grand chair. In an uncharacteristically undignified manner, he began a barking cough, which quickly escalated into a deep, hacking, wrenching expulsion of air and phlegm. He gripped onto the back of the chair, taking short, shallow inbreaths where he could, his cough turning into retching. His knees buckled, as the group watched him calmly. Meg’s eyes darted around, searching the faces of this powerful group, willing someone, anyone to help Rajesh, or to call in a member of their team. Nobody moved, except for Khepri, who reached gracefully for another sip of her martini.

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