Those Pricey Thakur Girls (3 page)

‘No,’ Debjani agrees, ‘it isn’t. Ma, can we go home now?’

They load up in the Ambassador which, perhaps aware that there is now a celebrity on board, starts up with minimum fuss.

‘I’m so happy,’ Mrs Mamta Thakur says complacently, biting into her kulfi. ‘See the rishtas that will pour in for you now! All the best boys from the best communities – Rajputs, Khatris, Brahmins!’

‘Rishtas would have poured in
anyway
,’ says the Judge grandly. He has none of the proper subservience that befits a man with three daughters married and two more to go. At every rishta negotiation, his attitude has always been one of condescension – like he is doing the boys’ side a huge favour by bestowing upon them the undeserved jewel that is a Thakur daughter.

Mrs Mamta sniffs. ‘LN, we can’t act like that whole kaand with Chandu didn’t happen,’ she murmurs. ‘That would be foolish.’

The Judge doesn’t reply. The fact that Chandralekha, their third born, threw aside the nice Rajput second lieutenant with the sword-of-honour-from NDA her parents had found for her, and eloped with a shady American-Estonian a night before her wedding, still rankles.

Hacked my nose off in front of the whole biradari, he broods. That too without the anaesthesia that saving on the expenses would have provided! The tent-wallah refused to return the advance, so did that thug of a caterer even though he didn’t have to fry even
one
paneer pakoda.

‘If she had mentioned only once that she wanted to marry that lalloo Lippik, I would have relented,’ he sighs. ‘But she never let on, never even hinted. Am I so scary?’

Everybody ignores this plaintive query.

‘How do rishtas matter anyway?’ Eshwari asks. ‘We all know Dabbu is going to marry Moti-the-mongrel and they’re going to live happily ever after!’

‘That’s not funny, Eshu.’ Mrs Mamta Thakur frowns. ‘She’s twenty-three – we have to start looking.’

‘Ma, my world’s just opening up and you want to shut it down again!’ Dabbu looks upset.

‘Arrey aise kaise?’ her mother says soothingly. ‘We’ll find you someone nice, beta, like we did for your sisters.’

Debjani and Eshwari greet this statement with a strangled silence.

‘Unless,’ Mrs Mamta gives Debjani a sly look, ‘you have somebody in mind already?’

‘I
don’t
,’ Debjani groans.

‘Dabbu turns down everybody,’ Eshwari complains. ‘For the weirdest reasons – she doesn’t like boys who have too much money or boys who have too much muscle. She doesn’t like boys who want you to laugh at their jokes. She doesn’t like boys who flick their hair back, like
this.
’ She tosses her head. ‘She doesn’t like boys who wear acid-washed jeans, or boys who breakdance. She doesn’t like NRIs – too obnoxious; or IFS officers – too pompous. She doesn’t like boys who say twunty instead of twenty. She doesn’t like any boys
at
all.
’

‘Clearly, Moti’s our man,’ the Judge says, not entirely unhappily. Dabbu is his favourite and he is in no hurry to see her wed.

‘Shut up, Eshu, I can speak for myself!’ Debjani says crossly. ‘Ma, I don’t like oversmart, flirty guys who think they’re god’s gift to women. And I don’t like freaks. Is that too fussy of me?’

‘Have you
ever
had a crush?’ Eshwari demands.

‘Have you ever
not
had a crush?’ Dabbu shoots right back. ‘Right now you’re crushing on the guy who doles out the tokens at our Mother Dairy, aren’t you?’

‘Hai, not that pahadi!’ Mrs Mamta exclaims, horrified.

‘Chinkies are
cute,
Ma,’ Eshwari says dreamily. ‘All the cutest basketball players are Manipuri, you know.’

‘Why couldn’t I have had five fine sons?’ the Judge wonders randomly in the front seat. ‘Instead of five demented daughters?’

‘Ma!’ Eshu appeals. ‘See what BJ’s saying!’

‘My girls aren’t mad,’ Mrs Mamta bristles. ‘You don’t kn –’

‘They’re making us fight,’ the Judge warns her. ‘Watch out, Mamtaji!’

‘I
hate
show-offs and flirts,’ Dabbu says, rather intensely.

‘Duly noted.’ The Judge nods at her in the rearview mirror.

‘I think it’s better to have lots of crushes than none at all,’ Eshwari asserts. ‘It shows that you don’t take yourself too seriously.’

‘But I don’t!’ Dabbu insists.

‘Well,
I
think it’s a self-esteem problem,’ Eshwari declares. ‘You think people may not like you
,
so you quickly say they aren’t good enough first. That way you’re safe.’

‘And you think, just because you’ve taken psychology in class eleven, you know
everything
,’ Debjani flashes, her cheeks very red as she realizes that her parents’ silence probably means they agree with her sister. ‘If I had low self-esteem, how could I have done what I did tonight?’

‘That’s… different,’ Eshwari says slowly. ‘I don’t know how, but it is.’

‘Well, at least meet some boys now, Dabbu,’ her mother coaxes. ‘You don’t have to marry them.’

‘She’ll never allow herself to like anyone,’ Eshwari predicts. ‘She’ll wait too long and finally end up with nothing, like people at weddings who don’t join the buffet queue till really late to show how non-desperate they are, and then get only raw onion rings and rice to eat.’

‘Well, I’d rather be like them than like the bhukkads who elbow everybody else out and stuff their faces,’ Dabbu retorts, ‘and then get the loosies.’

Eshwari, who has a delicate stomach, gasps at this crack.

Debjani grins.

‘
I
think you should start looking for a job,’ the Judge intervenes. ‘People will recognize you instantly – it will help you no end in interviews.’

Dabbu blinks. ‘This
is
a job. They pay 500 rupees a bulletin. If I settle into a weekly spot, I’ll be picking up 2,000 rupees a month. HTA was only 1400.’

‘But advertising was a
career
,’ the Judge replies. ‘This is a job. Not even a job, a hobby. You need to do more with your life than just sit in front of a camera and read, Dabbu. You have an MA in English, after all.’

‘Bauji, please…’

‘What about law?’ he persists. ‘Why can’t you do law?’

Yeah, right, Dabbu thinks disgustedly. So I can spend my whole life being compared to
you
and falling short. Which reminds her…

‘Ma, did Anji didi call?’ Dabbu asks.

Mrs Mamta gives a guilty start. Anjini had called. And said that Dabbu had read well but looked like a first-time schoolteacher – scared and stiff. I thought her supta vastha would end spectacularly tonight, Anji had fretted, but she still looked sort of half asleep. I wanted to reach into the TV and open her hair. Stupid girl. Anyway, I know how to fix this – I’ll come over and dress her for the next broadcast myself.

Being a mother of five girls involves a certain amount of mendacity.

‘Of course she phoned!’ Mrs Mamta says brightly. ‘She said you were
too
good. And to say congratulations and a big hug from Antu bhaiyya and her.’

‘And Binni didi?’

‘She couldn’t get through, I suppose,’ Mrs Mamta replies casually. ‘The line was busy all evening. I’m sure she’ll call tomorrow.’

The truth of the matter is that the Judge and Binni aren’t on talking terms. Binni is sulking at him. And the Judge, it must be admitted, is sulking right back. They haven’t spoken in three months.

As BJ has banned everybody in the house from talking to or about Chandralekha, Debjani knows better than to ask if her third sister called after the broadcast. Instead, she sits back, satisfied.

At home, after Eshwari and she have carried their mattresses to the terrace, laid them out and sprinkled them thoroughly with fridge-cooled water, Debjani lies back on the chilled sheet and stares at the amaltas canopy above her, replaying her big day in her mind, still hardly able to take it all in.

There are four trees in the garden whose branches nod to the terrace: a jacaranda, an amaltas, a harshringar and a champa. The girls sleep under whichever tree happens to be in flower. It is a recent ritual, started last year after the Big Three left and Debjani (finally) got to call the shots at home. She loves the seclusion and the stars on the terrace. These April mornings she often awakens to find tiny, cup-shaped, sunshine-yellow flowers curled up inside her bedclothes or upon her pillow. Sometimes she will go halfway through the day with amaltas petals caught in her long wavy hair.

Thank god it went off so well, she thinks now, cuddling her pillow. I read smoothly, I didn’t panic. I didn’t screw up. Hopefully they’ll give me a regular slot soon. Maybe – her heartbeat quickens as she has a sudden, glad premonition of good things to come – maybe success, fame and perhaps even romance are just around the corner. Maybe Ma’s right. Maybe my ‘tunn’ in the sun has finally come!

2

‘Dhillon meri jaan? Where’s the column? All done?’

Dylan Singh Shekhawat, sprawled in his office chair, hammering away at the typewriter with his back to the sublime view of Ballard Estate bathed in sunshine below, doesn’t bother to look up.

‘Patience, bastard,’ he says, his voice a deep, pleasant drawl. ‘Hira’s bitchy tone is a little hard for me to manage. But I really don’t get this – you own the bloody paper. Why can’t you get him to write his own damn column?’

Varun Ohri, fat, fair and five feet tall, rests one fleshy buttock against the edge of a conveniently placed desk, and addresses his investigative editor with sweaty candour.

‘I’m a third generation rich kid, baby. My manliness has been leached by a lifetime of luxurious living. I can’t yell at editors-in-chief – especially ones who went to school with the Prime Minister of India, like our man Hiranandani. I can only plead with his minions. So give me the damn article, pronto.’

‘Okay.’ Dylan frowns down at the sheet. ‘But hang on a sec, I’m forty words short. Let me think.’

‘C’mon, c’mon, just wrap it up,’ Varun urges. ‘I’ll get you VIP passes to all the horny movies at the International Film Festival, pukka.’

Dylan looks up and grins briefly. Lean dimples flash on either side of his firm mouth, softening the impact of his slightly hawk-like nose. ‘Deal. Here, want to see what I’ve done?’

Ohri waddles over and scans the typewritten sheet. ‘What the fuck! DD bashing? Hira will freak when he sees this. You know he’s up to his nose advising the PM on this Operation Credibility.’

‘Don’t be idiotic, VO,’ Dylan replies in a bored voice. ‘Hira isn’t an old woman. He likes people to have their own point of view. Just because he’s tight with the PM doesn’t mean he’s his ass-wipe.’

‘Doesn’t it?’ Varun snorts. ‘You’re being extremely naïve.’

‘In that case he should’ve hung around and written his column himself,’ Dylan replies. ‘Instead of telling me do it. Well, I’ve
done
it. He said I could write whatever I liked as long as it was show-bizzy – and this is.’

‘He meant write something
safe
. About the rise of the star sons Sunny Deol and that new Kapoor kid, or the parallel cinema scene, or about blooming
Buniyaad
or something.’

‘Who’s Buniyaad?’ Dylan asks, genuinely clueless.

Varun Ohri looks at him in frustration. Bloody Shekhawat. Just because he’s got some cosy St Stephen’s bonding going on with his boss, in this town teeming with journos from St Xavier’s Bombay, he thinks he can get away with anything. ‘Bastard, winning Bade-papaji’s award for Excellence in Journalism has gone to your head,’ he grunts. ‘I’m telling you, Hira will flip over this.’

‘He won’t,’ Dylan insists. ‘He’s from
College
, you know. He’ll think it’s a damn good joke – even if it’s on him
–
and next time, he’ll think twice before getting me to write his columns for him.’

This is entirely possible. Dylan Shekhawat is quite the establishment’s darling. Even Bade-papaji Purshottam Ohri, Varun’s grandfather and founder of the
India Post
, famously known as the Fat Old Man of Indian Publishing, has a soft spot for him. He says Shekhawat reminds him of himself in his prime. As Bade-papaji now resembles a squat, gnarled and chubby hairball, this seems unlikely. But as his ‘prime’ was
so
very long ago, in a Lahori village
so
very far away, there is no photographic evidence to disprove his claim.

‘Look, take it or leave it,’ Dylan shrugs. ‘Or wait for Hira to rewrite it. I’ve got a train to catch. It’s not like I’ll even get a byline for this shit.’

Ohri nods quickly. ‘I’ll take it. If you’re cool about the bawling out he’ll hundred per cent give you, why should I care? Anyway, I agree with what you’ve written. But at least add forty words more, fucker.’

Dylan nods, drumming his fingers on the arms of his chair, frowning at the typewritten sheet, his dark hair dishevelled. Then he leans forward and hammers out a short burst of words.

‘Done!’ Dylan gets up and stretches lazily, towering over Varun. His white cotton shirt partially comes untucked from his pants, revealing a sliver of lean brown belly below. He tucks it back in and reaches for a bulging rucksack lying behind the desk.

‘Pull it out and stash the carbon, will you? I’m in a hurry.’

‘Hot Friday night date, huh, Dhillon baby?’ Varun asks leeringly.

Dylan glances up, suddenly serious. ‘No,’ he says.

‘Oh?’ Varun looks interested.

‘Have you ever eaten all kinds of oily shit late in the night, VO? And then rolled over in the morning and seen the congealed remains on the plate – the chewed up bones or that orange rim of grease around the mutton curry – and
shuddered
?’

‘Oh, yeah. I
own
that feeling.’ Varun nods emphatically. ‘But with me it’s usually Bikaner ka bhurji straight from the packet, or sometimes Milkmaid right out of the can.’

‘Well, that’s exactly how I feel nowadays whenever I roll over to find my “hot” Friday night date in my bed on Saturday morning.’

Varun looks at him uncomprehendingly. ‘Girls aren’t food, fucker. What kind of pervert are you?

Dylan flinches. Then he straightens up. ‘Never mind,’ he says shortly. ‘I’d better hustle or I’ll miss the train. I’m going to Delhi.’

‘In this weather? You’ll broil your balls off.’

Dylan shrugs. ‘Hira wants me to work on some stuff out of Delhi. Besides, I’ll get to eat some decent home-cooked food. I’ve had it with this ragda patties shit.’

Varun eyes him speculatively. ‘More anti-Sikh-riot sob stories? I wish you’d let that go. It’s been more than two years now. Move on.’

‘I
have
,’ Dylan assures him, scratching the dark stubble on his jaw. ‘But the findings of the Special Investigation Commission will be made public any time now. I’m going to the Trans-Yamuna areas in Delhi to cover people’s expectations from it. And once the findings are out, I’ll record their reactions.’

With that he slaps palms with Ohri, shoulders his bag and heads out, striding quickly through the
India
Post
offices – past the receptionist’s station, past Bade-papaji’s legendary 1920s typewriter gleaming brassily in the showcase, past the great glass doors emblazoned with the words
Truth. Balance. Courage.

Walking down the dingy, paan-stained corridor, he encounters Mitali Dutta, a tall athletic girl with lashings of kajal, dressed in a block-printed kurta and jeans. She is tugging at the grill of the elevator and trying to light a cigarette at the same time.

‘Dyl!’ Her sexy mouth, rendered sexier by the silver nose ring that hovers above it, parts in a warm smile. ‘Long time. Not running any more?’

‘I run in the morning now,’ Dylan says, hitting the ground floor button. ‘The evenings have become too hot. You look exhausted, Mits.’

‘God, yes,’ she says, pulling off her scrunchie and shaking out her hair. ‘The tapes need to go out by the end of the week, so naturally, it’s nuts in there.’

‘How’s
Viewstrack
doing? Circulation rising?’

‘Like the sun,’ she replies. ‘It’s climbing every month. You should get the hell out of print. Seriously. TV is where the action is.’

Dylan nods, not very interestedly.
Viewstrack
is a video news magazine, a recent phenomenon that has taken the country by storm and is giving DeshDarpan its first taste of serious competition. Video cassettes with visual news stories recorded on them can be rented just like movies from video-lending libraries for ten rupees a day – they cover issues ranging from separatism, corruption and environmental damage to astrological forecasts and the extra-marital affairs of Hindi film stars.

‘What’s your lead story next month? Can one ask?’

Mitali smiles. ‘One can ask but one can’t tell,’ she says archly. ‘All I can say is that it’s close to your heart.’

‘Ah.’ He smiles as they emerge on the ground floor. ‘You’re covering the SIC’s findings on the anti-Sikh riots. Top-billing my favourite MP, Hardik Motla.’

She laughs. ‘No comments, but if you take me to the Bombay Gym, who knows what I might, er,
reveal
two drinks down?’

Dylan gives her a quick smile. ‘That sounds tempting. But I have a date with the Lobster.’

When petite Juliet Lobo met dashing Second Lieutenant Saahas Singh Shekhawat on his Mangalore posting in 1958 and married him almost immediately, both families were appalled. But Juliet and Saahas didn’t care – they were happy in their little billeted home and soon they produced Dylan, the 14th Rajputana Rifle’s favourite child, practically a mascot.

‘You’ve done the impossible, Shekhawat,’ Saahas’s Commanding Officer would often marvel, dandling the large-eyed, hawk-nosed, muscular infant. ‘You’ve created a Christian Rajput. What the hell is a Christian Rajput? Either you’re meek and mild, or blood-thirsty and wild. You can’t be both! Poor confused child – give him a Coca Cola, someone!’

Undeterred, Saahas and Juliet proceeded to create two more Christian Rajputs – Jason Singh Shekhawat and, after a long gap, Ethan Singh Shekhawat. All three boys grew to be tall and handsome like their father, musical and devout like their mother, and extremely creative in their ways of doing mischief – a trait that was their very own and inherited from no one on either side of the family.

With three such energetic creatures hammering away at their defences, the families thawed eventually and the boys ended up spending most of their holidays at their Grandma Lobo’s home in Mangalore. They ran about under the banana tree canopies in nothing but baggy shorts, strings of rosary beads bouncing on their sun-browned chests, playing football in the waves, their aquiline Rajput noses (‘just like the spouts of those big aluminium kettles, ba!’) peeling in the hot summer sun. For more lively entertainment, they tied a thin string to the bell inside the convent and jerked it from their home across the street at midnight, leading the nuns to believe that the chapel was haunted. They phoned the Vaz Bakery and ordered cakes iced
Happy Birthday Suzannah
or
Get Well Soon, Marietta
and derived much merriment from watching them languish unclaimed in the shop window for days on end.

Because Juliet Bai had told them her own love story a million times, making it sound more and more lyrical with each retelling, the boys grew up to be almost naïvely romantic. She also impressed upon them – especially on Dylan, the eldest – that girls were pure, delicate creatures who needed to be cherished, respected and protected. With the result that when Dylan, after seventeen years of living in an all-boys home and studying in an all-boys school, burst upon the co-educational world of St Stephen’s College, he was starry-eyed, hopeful and looking for his one true love. This attitude, coupled with his undeniable hotness, skilled guitar playing and prowess at football, naturally caused all the girls to throw themselves at him. He fell violently in love and confessed his feelings in his straightforward style. She led him a merry dance and after three tumultuous months, dumped him for being ‘too boring’ and took up with a senior who treated her badly. After that he learnt the art of keeping girls guessing. That worked much better. Ten years on, he is a master player, an accomplished flirt, wary of commitment, and the only kind of ‘protecting’ he is into comes from the chemist and costs ten rupees for a pack of three.