Those Pricey Thakur Girls (16 page)

She ignores the sarcasm and ploughs ahead. ‘Sikh people have testified that they heard you incite the Hindu crowd from the back of a truck in Tirathpuri. They say you were the one who started the chanting of the slogans
Blood for Blood!
and
A Life for a Life!
which spread like wildfire to the rest of the country.’

‘That is all
rubbish
,’ Motla snaps testily, his smile wearing and tearing. ‘These are faceless and baseless accusations made up by that half mad reporter Shekhwati.’

‘You mean, Shekhawat?’ Mitali corrects him, looking taken aback. ‘From the
India
Post
?’

‘Yes!’ Motla nods. ‘See, this Shekhwati and other people are just doing name-calling, but when I ask them to supply proof, they slink away like shadows!’ His eyelids stop flickering suddenly, and his eyes lock into camera. His smile grows steadier, wider, more assured. ‘I
tell
you what,
I
tell you
what
!’

‘What?’ Mitali prompts, moving a little closer.

‘Let me issue a challenge to the Indian media today, on
your
programme! You people give big talks about my briefings to ten-ten civil service officers, to an army of party workers, to a colony full of common people! Yes ki no?’

‘Yes,’ she says.

‘So if you can find even
one
civil service officer,
on
e party worker and
one
common people to testify against me, I will myself walk to the closest police station and surrender humbly. Bas!’

Mitali looks startled but makes a quick recovery. She says, with the satisfied air of somebody who’s got their scoop, ‘Well, that’s fair enough. A defiant challenge being issued here on
Viewstrack
today by MP Hardik Mot –’

Varun waddles forward and punches the pause button on the VCR. Dylan pushes his hair off his forehead and shakes his head.

‘Well, Shekhwati, what do you make of that?’ Hira raises an eyebrow. ‘We’ve just had a direct challenge made to us.’

‘I know,’ says Dylan, still reeling.

Hira steeples his fingers. ‘So have you dug up anything new here in Delhi that we could use for this? Or has DeshDarpan become your new whipping boy?’

Dylan acknowledges this thrust with a faint grin. ‘You should’ve written that piece yourself, Hira.’

‘Oh, I agree.’ Hira nods. ‘As it stands, you’ve made me look a right monkey.’

‘What I said was justified,’ Dylan maintains.

‘Mostly,’ Hira concedes. ‘I’m not sure why you took off on that sweet newsreader though. I wouldn’t have done that – that was just mean. Poor Ms Mathur.’

‘Thakur,’ Dylan corrects him, flushing.

‘Thakur.’ Hira’s keen eyes gleam with sudden, speculative interest. Dylan gets the feeling he wants to pursue the topic but all Hira says is, ‘So, what about Motla? And the non-findings of the SIC? Should we make a hoo-ha about it? Or will the Prime Minister’s Office have a coronary?’

‘You have the answer to that,’ VO says heavily. ‘You’re the Fop, not us.’

‘What a revolting word.’ Hira grimaces. ‘I’m assuming it means Friend of PM?’

‘Yeah,’ Varun nods stolidly. ‘So you tell us.’

‘Let’s
go
for it!’ The words burst out of Dylan before Hiranandani can speak. ‘It was all so clear from what he said – all we need are three unshakable, unbreakable witnesses. People who won’t back down, who will be willing to reveal their identities.’

‘But people are too scared to talk, Dylan,’ Hira says. ‘That’s why the SIC failed. Motla knows that, that’s why he issued such an arrogant challenge!’

Dylan shakes his head. ‘That’s all eyewash. The SIC failed because somebody high up muzzled it. People
want
to talk. How about we just print our interviews directly in the paper?’

‘We’ll ruffle too many feathers…’ begins Varun, looking uncomfortable.

‘Ah, but what are ruffled feathers,’ Hira murmurs, ‘before people who have lost their lives, that too in such a sickeningly barbaric fashion? And he’s named us personally! If we don’t take up this fight, our motto
Truth. Balance. Courage.
will become a complete joke.’

The trouble with bloody Hiranandani, Varun thinks in disgust, is that I never know when he’s serious and when he’s just being facetious. Sarci fucker.

‘Let the Sikh associations fight it,’ he suggests warily. ‘It’s their war, not ours. God knows they’re rich enough.’

‘It
is
our war,’ Dylan says, his eyes blazing. ‘Don’t back out at this point, VO!’

There he goes again, Varun thinks resentfully, channelling Bade-papaji. It’s like
he’s
the official grandson, not me.

‘Taking him on will push up our circulation figures too,’ Hiranandani says thoughtfully.

‘See?’ Dylan grins. ‘Circulation! It’s a
good
idea, VO!’

Silence. Except for Varun Ohri doing a gulping fish imitation. Bloody Stephenians, he thinks, feeling harassed. It’s like the mafia around here.

‘One IAS officer, one party worker, one common man,’ Dylan says, leaping lithely to his feet and counting off on his fingers. ‘With testimonies that no legalese can shake. And who won’t go hostile on us. That’s enough to nail him
.
And after this character certificate Motla’s just handed me, people in Tirathpuri will be falling over themselves to tell me stuff!’

‘I approve it.’ Hiranandani nods with sudden decisiveness. ‘Go get ’em, tiger.’

‘Don’t mind me,’ Varun says lightly. ‘My granddad just owns the paper. Now can we watch that interview again? Fast-forward that ugly bugger Motla’s bits and linger on Dutta. She’s hot. That nose ring sends shock vibrations straight down to my jaded loins. Weren’t you two an item not so long ago, huh, Dhillon meri jaan?’

‘We were in college together,’ Dylan says matter-of-factly. ‘And we sort of keep in touch.’

‘Ah,’ Varun murmurs. ‘
College
and all.’

‘The family business does a gross disservice to your vast talents, VO,’ Hiranandani says resignedly. ‘You should run a gossip magazine. That’s your true calling.’

6

‘S
o what do you make of that Shekhawat boy?’ Mrs Mamta asks the Judge in the privacy of their bedroom.

The Judge looks up, immediately interested. ‘His name starts with D,’ he says. ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed.’

She snorts, picks up her maroon comb and starts to work it through her long rippling hair. ‘Well, thank you for not bringing
that
up. I didn’t think you could be so subtle.’

‘She read better after he coached her. Looked better too.’

His wife sniffs. ‘Anjini spent all day getting her look right. I don’t think you can give him credit for that.’

‘And when we play, he keeps looking at her. With stupid, mooncalf eyes. And when he carries in the table, he uses it as an excuse to hang around like a bad smell.’

‘You’re very observant,’ his wife says drily.

The Judge looks at her curiously. ‘Do you like him, Mamtaji?’

‘I like him,’ she says. ‘And I know what you’re thinking, but the Shekhawats are a good Jaipur family, everybody knows that – and Christians aren’t Muslims, you know. Besides, after the whole scandal with Chandu, we can’t afford to be too choosy.’

The Judge throws back his head. ‘Don’t take that girl’s name in my presence! And what rubbish! We can be as choosy as we like!’

‘Do you think he earns well?’

‘I could ask old Shekhawat,’ the Judge says dubiously. ‘Should I? Does Debjani even like him?’

‘Eshwari seems to think so,’ his wife says. ‘Find out, LN. But do it subtly. And if it isn’t much – his salary, that is – please don’t snigger.’

Her husband looks injured.

‘Am I a bloody lala?’ he demands. ‘Or trading class trash to go grubbing for salary slips? The lad’s a journalist, isn’t he? I’ll go to the club library and take a look at his articles. See if he’s got an intelligent head on his shoulders.’

‘Do that then,’ Mrs Mamta says. ‘But first…’ She hesitates.

‘What?’

‘Well, he’s from Bombay,’ Mrs Mamta says slowly. ‘Things are different there. He could just be… amusing himself with our Dabbu. I’ve heard he has quite a reputation. Juliet has told me herself, many times. She says she has no control over him.’

‘Arrey, how can parents not have control?’ the Judge demands, forgetting for the moment that his third-born ran away with an unknown Estonian on the eve of her wedding. ‘What kind of world are we living in?’

‘The
real
one,’ she replies crossly. ‘And handle this carefully, or you’ll end up losing your last kot-piece crony.’

‘That’s true!’ the Judge says, much struck. ‘How horrible! Should we just let it go, Mamtaji?’

‘No no, sound out the Brigadier,’ Mrs Mamta decrees. ‘But
subtly.
And if the boy is not serious, he should stop coming over to our house at once.’

And so, the very next evening, when Dylan enters the living room after a long, sweaty, discouraging day digging up leads in Tirathpuri, he finds both his parents sitting on the couch, eyeing him solemnly.

‘Are you serious about Dabbu?’

For a moment, Dylan has no idea what they’re talking about. Then, ‘What’s all this?’ he enquires, not very pleasantly. ‘A court martial?’

‘Because if you’re not, you’re not to go over there to play cards any more!’

Dylan absorbs this. So the ball-squeezer has told her parents that he kissed her. Well, she’s a newsreader – he ought to be grateful she didn’t announce it on DD’s national network last night, just as cheerfully as she announced the ‘findings’ of the Special Investigative Commission. And now they’ve all made the faster-than-lightning leap from kissing to love to marriage. Typical.

He allows himself to flashback to the encounter upon the stairs for the first time since it happened, and his stomach promptly goes so Russian ballerina that he staggers against the wall weakly, a movement his mother doesn’t miss.

Oh, please. You haven’t exactly made me go weak in the knees
.

Why the hell had he kissed her? God knows he hadn’t planned it. He hadn’t planned any of it. He just wanted her to stop looking so damn shattered about that write-up in the
IP
, that’s all. But his parents are making it sound like she’s embroidering pillowcases with a D&D monogram – all on the basis of one kiss!

‘And what a punishment that’ll be,’ he drawls, very sardonic. ‘Playing kot-piece and eating Maggi is the current high point of my life.’

The Brigadier makes a hasty gesture. ‘You’re not to mess around with my friends’ daughters, sir! This is not some Bombay floozie we’re talking about.’

Dylan shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Bombay girls aren’t floozies, Dadda. You can’t just make sweeping generalizations like that.’

‘Bobby!’ The Brigadier bristles. ‘Explain to him!’

‘Sonna, listen,’ Juliet Bai says placatingly. ‘Her father has noticed that you seem interested. He has enquired whether this interest is serious. If it is, fine, we can take things further. If it isn’t, you can’t meet her again.’

‘But how can I decide if I’m serious about her if they won’t even let me meet her?’

‘You’ve met her seven times,’ the Brigadier points out. ‘Once, for an entire day. That’s enough.’

‘What is this, the fifteenth century?’ Dylan demands. ‘And did he happen to mention if
she
likes me? If she’s serious about me?’

The Brigadier is at a loss. ‘No, he didn’t mention that, actually,’ he admits. ‘He said, Find out if your boy is interested, then I’ll ask my girl if she’s interested.’

‘Mujhe Jesu, what a fellow!’ Juliet Bai claps a hand to her forehead. ‘Try and use your
brains
, Bobby. Laxmi Thakur is experienced, he has married off three girls. He knows how to play this game, how to hide his own cards while coaxing others to show theirs. You, it’s only your first time, but you have to try to be cunning too! Sonna, do you like the girl? Tell me honestly now.’

But an entirely new thought has entered Dylan’s mind.

‘Bobby and Bobby,’ he asks suspiciously, looking from one to the other. ‘Did you guys set this up?’

‘Of course not!’ the Brigadier snorts. ‘And talk to us respectfully!’

But Juliet Bai isn’t listening.

‘See how he’s avoiding answering?’ She nudges her husband. ‘He likes her. I know. She’s just his type. Angelic. Her face reminds me of the Madonna in the grotto in my mother’s garden. He used to light candles before it, remember?’

‘And I smashed it with a cricket ball, remember?’ Dylan snaps.

‘That was an accident.’

‘Whatever,’ he says, suddenly furious. ‘Can’t I ever come to Delhi without you guys trying to arrange my marriage? I don’t have time for this. And I’ll be damned if I’m interested if
she
isn’t interested.’

Dylan spends the next three days digging up the whereabouts of the ten civil service officers who were present at Motla’s ‘cancers’ briefing. Most of them have been transferred outside Delhi, three are posted abroad. Every single one, he discovers after three days of spadework, has been promoted. Except one, who has been shunted sideways and transferred to the wilds of rural Karnataka. Bingo
,
Dylan thinks and sets about trying to get hold of his phone number.

When he gets home, hungry but energized, his mother serves him cold shoulder for dinner, while his father makes it a point to bring up the Thakurs, mentioning how the Judge is sulking, how Mrs Mamta has enquired after him, and how there are shadows as purple as jamuns under Debjani’s eyes. But Dylan doesn’t want to think about Debjani’s eyes.

She stands for everything I despise, he tells himself, shovelling rice onto his plate. She doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the news she reads, all she cares about is looking pretty and getting the pronunciations right.

Later in the night, moodily crunching coconut kalkals straight from the box, he decides that perhaps he owes her, if not an apology, then at least an explanation. With the result that when Eshwari trips down to Gambhir Stores to do her mother’s shopping the next evening, she finds a gawky young boy leaning against the worn wooden counter, winking at her in a familiar fashion.

‘Do I know you?’ she asks with her usual friendly smile.

‘No,’ he says with a grin, his voice wavering peculiarly between squeaky and deep. ‘But I know you.’

Eshwari crosses her arms across her chest. ‘Okay…?’

‘I’m Ethan,’ the mysterious stranger says meaningfully. ‘E for Ethan. I believe your dad’s into the karma of first letters,
Eee
shwari?’

‘How old are you?’ she asks good-naturedly. ‘Four?’

‘… teen,’ he says defensively. ‘And I have a girlfriend, so don’t get any ideas.’

‘Listen, pipsqueak
–
’

‘Let’s talk business,’ he interrupts cockily. ‘Is your sister going out anywhere tomorrow? Far from Hailey Road?’

Eshwari stares at him. He stares back, his grin widening, and she can dimly see the promise of future hotness through the pimples and fuzz on his face.

‘Ethan Singh
Shekhawat
!’ she exclaims.

‘That’s right. So, is she going anywhere? What time? And how mad is she at my brother?’

Eshwari, much relieved, sings like a canary. Now all I need to do is supervise what she wears tomorrow, she tells herself as she hurries home excitedly. White chikan salwar kameez, I think, with that pink and firoza dupatta, yes, that’s very princess-in-the-towerish... And I have to ensure she washes her hair tonight, not with Anji didi’s smelly concoction, though.

And so, when the appropriately attired but completely clueless Debjani alights hunchingly from a DTC bus in front of the AIR studios the next morning, she finds the tall lithe figure of Dylan Singh Shekhawat lounging against the Shalimar Pan Bhandaar kiosk, waiting for her.

Debjani instantly unhunches. Her chin shoots up into the air, she tosses her dupatta in a regal gesture over her shoulder, and stalks right past the lounging Shekhawat, totally ignoring his half-sardonic, half-goofy smile.

‘Hey!’ Dylan demands as he scrambles to fall in step with her. ‘Didn’t you see me?’

Debjani whirls to look at him.

‘I did, but as your father said you’d gone back to Bombay on some urgent work, I assumed it was an unpleasant hallucination brought upon by indigestion.’

Damn, Dylan thinks. So Dadda fed them some bullshit story to cover for my absence. Why hadn’t Ethan found this out yesterday?

Aloud he says, ‘Uh, I did go to Bombay. But now I’m back. Hi.’

‘That was quick,’ Debjani says ironically. ‘As far as I know, Air India flies to Bombay only once a week.’

He looks caught out. She smirks and starts walking faster, files clutched to her chest. Dylan gives chase.

‘Dabbu, wait!’ he pleads. ‘Listen, I’ve come especially to meet you. Can’t we talk?’

‘What about?’ She walks even faster.

‘I want to apologize,’ he says. ‘For… you know…’ His voice falters and drops as she stops and looks at him ‘… for kissing you.’

Her eyes widen. ‘When?’

Dylan comes to a halt, giving a short, disbelieving laugh. ‘You’re going with amnesia? Wow,
that’s
mature.’

She stops too.

‘Uff, of course I know when,’ she admits crossly. ‘Just why exactly did you kiss me, anyway?’

Because I’m a horny bastard. Because I couldn’t help myself. Because your face is the face of the Madonna in my dead grandmother’s garden.

He shrugs. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’ His eyes lock into hers. ‘Whyn’t you stop me?’

‘I did,’ she says at once.

‘Liar.’

There is a long pause.

Finally Debjani says, ‘Ya, okay, so I didn’t. Big deal. Why are you apologizing? It wasn’t
such
a dead loss as kisses go, you know.’

He raises his eyebrows.

‘Quite the little kiss connoisseur, aren’t you?’

Debjani, whose only long lingering kisses have been from Moti, Voti and their off spring, manages to look convincingly worldly-wise. ‘Oh, one gets around... you know how it is.’

Dylan, who has always believed in gender equality and in girls having their fair share of fun, immediately wants to line up everybody who has ever touched her and shoot them dead.

‘Well, that’s kind of a relief,’ he says casually. ‘Then you understand… that it was just a kiss.’

She gives him a withering look, throws her dupatta over her shoulder and starts walking again. Dylan strides alongside, his long legs easily keeping pace with hers.

‘Still, no matter how many people you’ve allegedly kissed, I realize that your value system is slightly different from mine.(This had sounded far less glib when he rehearsed it at home!) So I just wanted to say that I’m sorry if my actions led you to think there was some, er… (why is this so damn
difficult
?
)
serious intention behind that kiss… because there wasn’t. At least, not yet.’

‘Is that it?’ she says in a small, tight voice.

Dylan reminds himself that he has important work to do. He has to get on a train to rural Karnataka tonight and interview an IAS officer about a closed door briefing from his rabid ex-boss. He really has no time for this.

‘Yeah, pretty much. That’s about it. Sorry again.’