Those Pricey Thakur Girls (19 page)
Read Those Pricey Thakur Girls Online
Authors: Anuja Chauhan
‘Shhh!’ Eshwari nudges him hard. ‘The mics are on.’
Satish is wearing a martyred look today – he always looks martyred at school events where he has to play ‘wimpy nursery rhymes by sissy bands like Cool and the Gang and that crown prince of gay dorks, Eric Clapton.
‘Eric Clapton isn’t gay,’ Eshwari had told him as they walked back together from Gambhir Stores last night.
‘His songs are,’ Satish had replied doggedly. ‘The lyrics are so… so
basic.
What
is
all that moaning about her looking so
wonderful tonight
? And if she’s looking so wonderful, how come at the end the fucker gets an aching head and she helps him to bed? Is he
impotent
?’
‘Steesh,’ Eshwari had sighed. ‘Just let it go, okay? Do it for the school.’
‘Why can’t we ever play heavy metal at these school events?’ he had grumbled. ‘You’re a big shot in school, why can’t you make it happen? Why is it always sissy shit like Rod Stewart and A-ha? Why not Megadeth? They have deadly drum solos. I tell you, Bihari, I’ve
had
it. I can’t sit behind you giggly, lipglossed chicks and tap out “She’s So Fresh” any more. My dick will fall off.’
Now he scowls down at the crowd, perking up slightly at the sight of his newest girlfriend – the second one since GG and he broke up a while ago – sitting in the front aisle with her cute little friends. They’re sitting in the middle of the large, banker-blue Modern contingent, cheering wildly in order to drown out the boos of the big jhund of Delhi Public School, Mathura Road students sitting right behind them. Satish acknowledges the Modernites with a half-hearted wave as Mohit Razdan, Modern’s fair and handsome lead guitarist-cum-vocalist, loosens his school tie and addresses the crowd. ‘Hey there, people,’ he calls out. ‘We’re gonna start with our solo, Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight”.’
The Dipsites boo, Satish’s new girlfriend and her buddies scream and cheer. Mohit strikes up the opening chords and Satish joins in dutifully, rolling his eyes and making covert gagging gestures at Eshwari with his free drumstick at the same time.
Mohit’s voice is deep and melodious, he has all the chords down pat (they’re dead easy, Satish has assured Eshwari) and the song is a hot favourite with the crowd.
As Eshwari joins in on ‘You look wonderful tonight’, she realizes that every time he hits the chorus, Mohit is turning to look right at her. His hazel eyes (he is Kashmiri) bore right into hers, and a couple of times she’s actually scared he’ll fumble the chords.
The duet and group song go off well and soon they’re all bowing to the usual mix of cheers and boos. As they troop backstage Mohit comes up to her and grabs her hand urgently.
‘Eshwari.’
Eshwari turns around.
‘Hey, Mohit. Good job. You sang really well.’
‘You sang well too,’ he says, his voice sounding strangled.
That’s overstating it, she thinks, she’s just one of three backup singers who join in the choruses now and then. Satish has told her (often) that the school band only picks her because, for some reason, audiences tend to boo less when she’s on stage.
Basically you scare the crowd shitless, Bihari
.
Mohit’s hand is warm and clammy, his eyes are bulging slightly and he is looking all pent up, like he is about to burst. Eshwari wonders if he’s going to ask her where the bathroom is.
‘I like you,’ he says suddenly. ‘I’ve liked you for ages. Can we go to the school farewell together?’
Huh? What? He likes me? Okay. Wow. Well, he’s nice enough, Mohit Razdan, he’s popular and everything, but he reminds Eshwari, just a little, of boiled white channa. The kind her mother has stopped cooking because BJ says they give him gas.
‘Let me think about it, okay?’ she tells him kindly, because she is basically a kind girl. ‘I have to go home early today. Can’t even wait for the results to be announced.’
Mohit’s face falls. Behind her, she is aware of Satish Sridhar’s girlfriend jumping up and down, yanking at his tie and kissing his neck. She’s acting like a groupie, Eshwari thinks. So wannabe. Like this isn’t Kamani Auditorium in freaking New Delhi but Madison Square Garden in freaking New York City. She realizes Mohit is talking to her.
‘I thought you and Sridhar were an item. But clearly you aren’t. So I thought…’
Eshwari leans around him and clicks her fingers at Satish.
‘Steesh, you have to drop me home. You promised. C’mon, can we go?’
Satish disengages himself from the sticky little number’s arms and lopes up to them.
‘You’re such a bloody coitus interruptus, Bihari,’ he says good-naturedly. (His girlfriend giggles loudly behind them.) Then he turns to Mohit. ‘Kya gaaya, man. You had the dames all stoked.’ Then back to Eshwari, ‘Okay, let’s go.’
Mohit, not very sure if he’s being mocked, smiles uncertainly and lets Eshwari’s hand go. She smiles back at him, a strictly perfunctory smile, and walks towards Satish’s bike.
‘Did the terrorist ask you out?’ Satish asks in a conversational voice.
‘Yes, he did. Did you have any clue he liked me?’
Satish snorts. ‘He’s been turning to look at you soulfully every time he says “Wonderful Tonight” for the last two months. Haven’t you noticed?’
‘No,’ Eshwari admits. ‘But I noticed today. Don’t call him a terrorist just because he’s Kashmiri, Steesh; seriously, you are
so
messed up.’
‘He’s just so… wet,’ Satish says, handing her a helmet. ‘Like Maggi without Tastemaker. Are you gonna say yes? What about milord’s no-dating-till-you’re-twenty-one rule?’
His tone is casual but his eyes are searing. Eshwari swallows hard and sits down on the bike, cradling the helmet in her lap.
‘I don’t know. He’s cute.’ She looks up at him. ‘What do you think I should do?’
He hesitates for a moment and then shrugs. ‘Go ahead,’ he says lightly. ‘He’s a nice guy. Give him a try.’
‘Princess Elizabeth of England,’ says the Judge, sitting on the terrace parapet early on a thunderously brewing Sunday morning, ‘woke up one morning and found she was queen.’
‘Huh?’ Dabbu sits up, blinking, and gives a little scream when she spots her father. ‘You’ll fall over, BJ!’
‘You are queen,’ he says smugly. ‘Everybody wants to marry you. You can pick and choose.’
She looks at him, confused. Of course, she knows she has become popular. People recognize her wherever she goes now. Is that what BJ means?
‘The phone’s been ringing non-stop. Rishtas are pouring in – it’s a
monsoon
of rishtas! I’ve never seen anything like it before, even in the reign of princess Anji.’
Dabbu’s eyes light up. ‘Really?
More
than Anji didi?’
‘It’s the TV, of course,’ he says. ‘In all fairness, Anji never read the nation the news with a white rose in her hair. So, do you want to see them all – or only the ones your mother and I shortlist?’
‘I want to see
everything
,’ Debjani says, rising lithely from her bed, feeling better than she has felt in weeks. ‘Let’s go.’
In the Parliament Street office of the
India Post
, the editor-in-chief pops his head into Dylan’s cubicle, a big smile on his face.
‘The phones are ringing non-stop,’ he announces. ‘Compliments – and information. It’s a
monsoon
of information! Everybody’s talking about how the
India Post
has risen to the challenge issued by Hardik Motla! One down two to go, they’re saying. We’re getting a lot of leads for the other two witness stories too! Do you want to see them all, or just the stuff the team shortlists?’
‘I want to see
everything
,’ Dylan says, rising lithely from his chair, feeling better than he has felt in weeks. ‘Let’s go.’
Dabbu’s list of reasons for turning down perfectly nice,
healthy, decently earning incomepoops under thirty
(compiled by Anjini Singh and Eshu Thakur)
He said ‘intrusting’ instead of interesting.
He said Moti looks like he is in great pain and the kindest thing to do is to put him to sleep.
He said Mandakini was his favourite actress.
He said a lot of the brave children in the 26 Jan parade exaggerate their brave deeds to win the award.
He said, ‘What a good system! We will also name our children alphabetically!’
He didn’t know who Hardik Motla was. (Who IS he, anyway?) He said,
seven
times in one evening that ‘we don’t believe in dowry’.
He said, ‘Nothing can be done with this country.’
He had hairy ears. Like Yoda.
He asked, ‘Are you sure you are the
real
Debjani Thakur? I don’t want to meet any fakes.’
He came first in
every
exam,
all
his life, from nursery to IIT to IIM.
He had an uncool bum.
He waggled his tongue at Eshwari when he thought no one was looking.
His mother wore a spondylitis collar, his sister’s arm was in a cast and his bhabhi was on crutches.
But the
real
reasons for turning down every single incomepoop, Debjani admits to herself, as she selects her attire for yet another lunch date, are these:
He didn’t have long dimples in his lean cheeks.
He wouldn’t stealthily drop a large clean handkerchief into her lap if he saw her weeping.
Her life wasn’t on hold till he kissed her again.
He wasn’t Dylan Singh Shekhawat.
Dylan stares in exasperation at the pudgy young Sardar in the blue shirt. He had sounded promising on the phone – a native of Tirathpuri and an eyewitness to the rioting. But now he’s not even sure this Sardar
is
a Sardar. There is something distinctly impermanent about his long, bushy beard. And his turban is very inexpertly tied.
‘So you were
there
?’ he asks again. ‘In Tirathpuri? You
saw
what happened?’
The Sardar(?) nods. ‘Oh, yes, I saw everything. You’ll put my pikchurr in the paper, no? Nice big one?’
‘Most people,’ Dylan says sardonically, ‘want to retain their anonymity. They’re worried about the safety of their families.’
‘Oh, I have no problems, ji.’ The Sardar shakes his head. ‘Why to be afraid? Of whom to be afraid? You didn’t bring a camera?’