The best evenings in this city end later than planned, and the one question that spoils them is asked at eleven: who is driving. With the house, nobody is. The car is close by for as long as the night lasts, and everyone goes home the way they came out — looked after.
Set down at the door; the car held near by the hour, not circling, not parked across the city. When you step out, it is there — no valet slip, no app at midnight, no surge.
One car for the table. At the end, each friend is dropped at their own door, and the house can tell someone at each door that they are home.
Came in your own car? A driver of the house takes you home in it, with your sarathi following to carry him back. The car is in your porch in the morning, and nobody has driven who should not have. A driver for your own car.
The route is yours, the journey is watched, the sarathi waits until your door closes — and if a friend is unwell, the car stops where it is safe and waits without a word.
The house drinks nothing and judges nothing. It is there so that the evening can be what it is, and the road is never part of the story told the next day. For an anniversary or a birthday on the same night, the car can arrive dressed for it; for the old city’s food after midnight, the evenings page has the walks.
Inside every written figure: the car, your sarathi, fuel, every toll, parking at both ends and GST. Nothing is added on the day, and no meter runs.
Reserve the eveningTell the house where the evening begins. It will work out the rest.