Read Those Pricey Thakur Girls Online
Authors: Anuja Chauhan
‘And
mine
,’ Bonu chimes in.
‘No, it won’t,’ Samar responds, swivelling to look at her in astonishment.
‘It’s
our
house,’ Bonu says, crossing her arms across her skinny chest. ‘Mine and Monu’s. Mummy told us. You won’t get it because Anji mausi isn’t really your mother, but,’ she smiles encouragingly, ‘I’m sure you’ll get something nice from your real mother’s family, so don’t feel too bad, okay.’
Samar considers this. It sounds like it could be true, but it doesn’t factor in the fact that he is Bauji’s clear favourite.
‘What about the other mausis?’ he asks.
Monu shrugs. ‘Mummy says they all have a hissa. Not Chandu mausi, though, because she ran away.’
A tight knot forms in Samar Vir’s stomach. It must be all that pizza he has eaten.
He says, his voice shaking slightly, ‘BJ loves me
best
. And Anji-ma’s the eldest. Why would BJ leave his house only to you two channas, huh? Because your papa looks just like a bhatura?’
On screen Freddy Krueger gibbers manically in his green-and-red striped jersey. In the living room Monu-Bonu, behaving in a manner the angelic child actor from
Masoom
would definitely have disapproved of, jump Samar Vir Singh, who sidesteps them smartly and grabs them by the scruff of their collars and thunders: ‘Say sorry!’
‘Sorry,’ Monu says immediately.
‘
You
say sorry!’ Bonu flares, baring her little teeth. ‘How
dare
you call my papa a bhatura?’ She struggles out of his grasp, spits on the floor and runs out of the room.
‘All in favour of First Officer Dev Pawar, raise your hands!’ cries out Binni’s husband Vickyji, getting to his feet and thumping the dining table with vigour. ‘Majority wins.’
The Brigadier’s phone call last evening, in which he placed his eldest son’s proposal before Mrs Mamta, has led to a high-level conference at 16 Hailey Road. The whole family is gathered in the drawing room to discuss the ‘situation’. The arrival of two sons-in-law – one from Bhopal, the other from the US – has only added to the war-room like atmosphere.
‘That’s just silly,’ Eshwari remarks. ‘Majority has nothing to do with it. What Dabbu says goes.’
‘You be quiet,’ Binni snaps. ‘Ma, she should be in the drawing room with Monu-Bonu and Samar. Chabbu,
go
.’
‘
No
,’ Eshwari says combatively, tossing her spiky fringe out of her eyes.
Binni scowls. She has never really forgiven Eshwari for thumbs-downing Vickyji outright when his rishta came for Binni, five years ago. Eshwari, then only twelve, had taken one look at his photograph, drawn a horrified gasp and blurted out, ‘Don’t do it, Binni didi! He can’t even shut his mouth – you’ll spend your whole life keeping him from swallowing flies!’
Which was a slight exaggeration. But it can’t be denied that Vickyji’s teeth radiate out wondrously, like the rays of a cartoon sun. They are also nicely spaced – like modern housing – with a half-inch gap between each tooth. This causes his spit to sometimes spray out. Add to that his short stature, wispy curls and sing-song nasal voice, and one can understand why his wife avers that looks are nothing, it is
character
that is of supreme importance.
And Vickyji’s character is top ka, declares Binni loyally. See how much guts he has! Doing his own business instead of being a salary slave like that boring Anant Singh.
Basically, I’ve got a dud set of brothers-in-law, Eshwari muses gloomily. The first is a handsome bore, the second is a thook-spraying loan solicitor and the third is so persona non grata that I’m not even allowed to mention him. I
have
to get Dylan into this family.
‘Of course this can’t be settled by a show of hands,’ the Judge says testily. ‘Sit
down
, Vickyji.’
Vickyji sits down, not at all abashed.
‘Either way, it’s a problem of plenty,’ Anant smiles gravely. ‘Which is great news. You’ve become such a star, Dabbu. Well done.’
‘I’m a little surprised, ekchully!’ Vickyji admits. ‘Because theek hai, she is reading the news and all, but it’s not like she’s very beaut – I mean,’ he amends hastily, with an apologetic glance at Debjani, ‘she’s no Binni, let’s just say.’
He looks at his fair, buxom, bold-eyed wife with proprietary pride. Binni blushes.
‘B for beautiful,’ Eshwari murmurs, nudging Debjani. ‘D for dowdy. E for, um, excruciatingly ugly.’
Anjini waits for Antu to jump in and extol her virtues too. But he doesn’t. He isn’t speaking to her at all. Why has he even bothered to come? she wonders petulantly. If all he’s going to do is ignore me! I’ve a good mind to sleep on the terrace with the girls tonight. Shrugging her shoulders, she says, ‘Dabbu likes Dylan. And we know the family.’
‘
I
know the Pawars,’ Binni chimes in.
‘The mother’s Christian, no?’ Vickyji enquires. ‘And before that, what was she? Matlab, her family couldn’t have converted more than 300 years ago.
Must
have been some scheduled caste before.’
‘They weren’t any schedules 300 years ago,’ the Judge says, looking distinctly thunderous.
Mrs Mamta hurries in to fill the breach. ‘Dev is nice too. Earning so well.’
‘And the Pawars don’t have any demands.’ Binni throws down her trump card.
But the Judge just snorts ungratefully. ‘They’d better not – or they’ll end up in jail! “Demands” (he makes exaggerated inverted commas in the air) are against the law! Why do people always say “we have no demands” like it’s so very noble of them? Demands indeed!’
He glares at Vickyji. The bugger has got his wife to move the court, demanding the division and sale of the very house we’re sitting in, he thinks with a strong sense of ill-usage. Bloody hypocrite.
‘Besides, a
lot
of people,’ he continues meaningfully, ‘pretend to have no demands at the time of the wedding, but later they sit on top of your chest and never stop demanding!’
There is an awkward silence. The Judge glowers at Vickyji. Binni blushes. Mrs Mamta makes soothing sounds. Then Vickyji gets up, mutters something and hurries out of the room.
‘My friend Saahas has no “demands” either,’ the Judge informs the room in a calmer voice.
‘Ya, but I’m just saying, Bauji, that for such an educated, fair, well-to-do and eligible boy to have no demands is unusual. But for a dark, ordinary fellow, and a half-Christian at that,’ Binni curls her generous lower lip, ‘it’s not such a big thing, after all.’
‘Dev Pawar is butt ugly,’ says the incorrigible Eshwari. ‘He looks like he’s wearing diapers.’
‘Eshwari!’ her mother says, shocked.
‘This child is spoilt,’ Binni declares. ‘Ashleel. Shameless. Aur bhejo Modern School.’
‘And he isn’t a nice person either,’ Eshwari continues doggedly. ‘He turns down girls because their gums are too big.’
‘
You
want to turn him down because his
bum
is too big!’ Binni glares at her. ‘What
is
it, Vickyji?’
Her husband has just popped his head into the room and is looking at her meaningfully.
‘I want to talk to you, Binni,’ Vickyji says, winking now. ‘Privately.’
Binni gets up, tosses her dupatta over her shoulder and walks out. Probably for a quickie, Anjini thinks morosely. Lucky girl.
Mrs Mamta turns towards her fourth-born.
‘So, Dabbu, what do you say?’ ‘Well, his butt
is
rather well padded, by god’s grace,’ Debjani admits.
‘Not about his backside,’ the Judge says patiently, wondering for the millionth time why the Almighty had thought it fit to bestow him with so many daughters and not even one single uncomplicated son. ‘About whether you want to marry him.’
Debjani hunches up and hugs herself, her hair obscuring her face.
Why
has Dylan done this sudden about-turn? Because he saw her at Berco’s and realized he couldn’t live without her? Seriously? Does she still want him? If only she could speak to him.
‘Bauji, I’d just like to understand, it isn’t a Dev-versus-Dylan situation, is it?’ Anant asks in his low, pleasant voice. ‘I mean, there
are
other rishtas.’
‘Well, she refuses to consider NRIs,’ Anji says. ‘And of all the other offers, these are the only two she hasn’t rejected outright.’
‘I don’t see what the rush is,’ Anant persists. ‘She’s only twenty-three.’
‘Antu, good boys go like
that
!’ Anjini snaps her fingers. ‘We can have a long engagement, of course.’
‘Do Antu others as you would have them do Antu you,’ the Judge pipes up, looking mighty pleased with his pun.
‘He means,’ Eshwari says helpfully to Anant, ‘that you and Anji didi got married when she was twenty-three too.’
‘I
got
that, Eshwari,’ Anant says patiently. ‘Still…’
‘Arrey, what is the need for a long engagement?’ Binni demands breathlessly as she re-enters the room. ‘Vickyji has explained everything to me. You follow your heart, Dabbu.
I
won’t put any emotional pressure. We don’t want you running away like that crack Chandu did! And don’t worry if you don’t choose Dev, I will give some excuse to the Pawars and manage everything!’
Dabbu stares at her sister, stunned. ‘Really, Binni didi?’
Binni nods vigorously. ‘Really.’
‘So that’s settled,’ the Judge says, his tone satisfied. ‘So now, Dabbu, what do you say?’
The entire clan turns to Debjani. She looks around the room, her eyes going from Eshwari to her father to finally settle on Mrs Mamta Thakur, who smiles at her encouragingly.
She throws back her head and sits up straighter, her cheeks flush a delicate shade of pink.
‘I choose Dylan,’ she says composedly.
‘Hello, could I speak to Debjani please?’
Mrs Mamta Thakur smiles. The Shekhawat boy sounds a little nervous, which is just as it should be.
‘Hello, Dylan,’ she says warmly, mentally adding this new name to the roster of ‘her’ boys. ‘I’ll fetch her, just hold for a moment, all right?’
She walks out to the verandah, bouncing a little with suppressed excitement, and beams at the gaggle of pretty sisters sitting there shelling peas. They look back at her questioningly.
‘It’s Dyllllan,’ she bursts out, trilling roguishly over the ‘l’s, her eyes dancing.
Everybody instantly starts jumping up and down and squealing with excitement – so loudly that the dogs starts to bark in the sand pile outside. Mother and sisters push the stunned Debjani to her feet. She runs into the drawing room to get the phone, then races back to the door, very red-faced, and slams it shut behind her. They hear the sound of a latch being drawn.
‘Cow!’ Eshwari gasps. ‘Ma, I keep telling you we need to get an extension line!’
But her mother isn’t listening. Sudden tears have risen to her eyes. She leans against a verandah pillar.
‘And so another one flies the nest,’ she reflects. ‘Enjoy these days, Dabbu.’
Inside, Debjani picks up the receiver, her heart slamming madly against her ribs.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi,’ Dylan says, his voice unusually hesitant. ‘So, how are you?’
She laughs. ‘I’m fine, I guess. And you?’
‘Oh, I’m good,’ he replies, sounding rather rueful. ‘I’m the laughing stock of my whole family, but that goes with the territory, I guess.’
She doesn’t ask why. That would be coy, and Debjani doesn’t do coy. Instead she says, ‘This feels kind of weird.’
‘What?’ There is a hint of laughter in his voice, he is clearly starting to feel more confident. ‘That somebody wants to marry you?’
He wants to marry me, Debjani repeats dazedly to herself. Dylan Singh Shekhawat. Writer of scathing editorials, owner of a dirty reputation, a strong, shadowed jaw and that perfect,
perfect
butt.
‘Not somebody,’ she replies honestly. ‘Just you. I mean, what happened? Don’t you want to flit from flower to flower and sip, without ever paying nectar tax?’
‘No,’ he replies, his voice warm and disturbingly intimate. ‘I want to make my proboscis exclusive to you.’
Debjani determinedly ignores the curling effect these words have on her toes.