There's a helipad on top of a sunny room in surprisingly sombre colours for someone named Layla. She does, however, dance and drink - though no one ever seems to come down the helipad, they arrive at the 21st floor by lift instead. As they choose a sundowner from Bengaluru's best-stocked gin collection and head out to the terrace past the voyeuristically glass-wrapped room, they look down at the knotted snakes of the city's traffic-scaled streets, they look up longingly at the helipad, sigh into their Bombay Sapphire over having to navigate their way home after dinner, and then go peek into the kitchen theatre, impatient for their cauliflower tabbouleh and goat-milk panna cotta. Except for the smarter sheikhs who have booked a room, or are at least staying for the late-night buffet at The Creek downstairs, flowing till Silicon City is ready to reboot at midnight.
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