Those Pricey Thakur Girls (39 page)

‘My life is over,’ Eshwari says dejectedly. ‘O-V-E-R
over.
What will I do with myself now?’

Debjani squints at the drooping figure lacing its shoes before the mirror.

‘You’ll get over it,’ she says sleepily. ‘Last day of school does not equal last day on the planet.’

‘Cow,’ Eshwari replies, fastening her ponytail. ‘You’re just saying that because you didn’t exactly
shine
in school. But I’m so popular and all… suppose the best part of my life is already over?’

Debjani sits up and shakes back her hair.

‘You’re being silly,’ she says firmly. ‘And for heaven’s sake, wear a slip under your uniform today. All the boys will write on your shirt – and you know that’s just an excuse to grope.’

After dispensing this very valuable advice, she clambers out of bed and goes looking for the newspaper. It’s been five days since DD’s remarkable volte face, which the Thakurs had read about in the paper just like everybody else and breathed a massive sigh of relief. Mrs Mamta had immediately organized a Satyanarayan ki puja. The house is still reeking of havan samagri. All Debjani has to do now is maintain the fiction the creepy Hiranandani invented – that she simply read what she was given to read, and that is that.

‘But start looking for a new job,’ her father has advised her. ‘Because, in a few months, when everybody’s forgotten about all this, they’ll sack you under some pretext or other.’

So Debjani scours the morning paper looking for jobs. She also waits, much to her own disgust. Waits for the phone to ring, waits for an electric-blue Maruti 800 to roll up outside the gate and set the dogs yapping, waits to be waylaid and jerked about and kissed as she walks to Gambhir Stores and back. Not that I did any of it so he would show up here and fall on his knees. Or to prove I love him more than Mitali ever could. I did it for India, for Democracy, for Freedom of Speech, for Sexy Jaw and Awesome Butt. Oh god, please don’t let me have to be the one who phones him. Let him phone me
.
Here’s an opening for self-motivated sales people to sell Eureka Forbes’s new range of vacuum cleaners. Must have good English and good complexion. Should I apply?

Panties should be red,

Films should be blue,

Mr Gaur should make babies

With Mrs Mattoo

‘That is the lamest little verse I have ever seen,’ Eshwari says, distressed. ‘Who’s written it so big on the blackboard? Think how upset Mrs Mattoo will be. Erase it immediately.’

‘I don’t think Gaur will be too thrilled about it either,’ Satish remarks. ‘And stop looking at me like that – I didn’t write it. Anyway, nobody can find the duster.’

Eshwari looks around, hooking her thumbs into her school bag straps. The last bell has just rung, school is officially over and everybody is busy autographing everybody else’s uniforms. There is pandemonium in Satish’s classroom. A few people are crying. Cake crumbs and popcorn kernels dot the ground, which is sticky with spilt Campa Cola.

Eshwari sighs, mounts the teacher’s desk and starts rubbing off the two objectionable lines with the palm of her hand. The chalk proves stubborn. She frowns. ‘Is this
paint
?’

‘Putai paint,’ Satish says, peering at it. ‘It’s water based, thankfully. Here, use this.’

And with that he unbuttons his shirt, balls it up and hands it to her. Whoops and moans break out from the class immediately. Eshwari is on the verge of whooping herself. So the beast has a hot chest. Who knew? She shrugs, takes his shirt and busies herself with scrubbing off the paint.

Satish’s gesture starts a trend. Boys who have never had one nice thing to say about Mrs Mattoo suddenly start stripping to save her distress. Eshwari, standing atop the teacher’s desk, finds herself knee-deep in male nipples. As this is the engineering section, there are no girls in the class. Just despo, wanna-be IIT types, all of whom, she is sure, are busy looking up her skirt. She jumps off the desk and walks out of the classroom, her cheeks flaming.

‘Hey, Bihari, wait up!’

Satish runs after her, buttoning his shirt. She notices with some satisfaction that the scrubbing has blurred the words ‘PRIVATE PROPERTY NO TRESPASSING’ his current girlfriend has doodled and then decorated with hearts all over the front of his shirt.

‘Lemme write on you,’ he says, producing a micro-tip pen and waggling it in the air above her shirt.

‘No way.’

‘But you’ve let everybody else do it,’ he complains. ‘There’s practically no space left to write… no fair, Bihari.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ she says. ‘You live next door, anyway. It’s not like I won’t see you any more once we’re done with school.’

Satish’s eyes widen. The wolf-puppy grin flashes, accompanied by a knowing glint that makes her want to slap him.

‘You’re asking if I’m gonna stay in touch with you after school,’ he gloats.

‘I’m not!’ she snaps. ‘I’m just trying to avoid being felt up by you, that’s all. Bye now.’

And she walks away, feeling close to tears. She never expected to feel so emotional about leaving school. It’s all so unsettling. Besides, she’s not smart – like Satish, who will get into IIT for sure and therefore knows, more or less, where his life is going. Eshwari is clueless about what lies beyond the low red walls of the school she’s queened for so long.

She wanders out to the bleachers, sits down and stares at the basketball court blindly.

Presently Satish sits down quietly beside her and slides a plate of steaming hot sambar vada under her nose.

‘For the last time,’ he says dramatically. ‘Go for it, Bihari.’

And she does. It has never tasted as good as it does on this gorgeously cool but sunny, perfect February day. As she scoops up the last of the sambar, he grins at her companionably. ‘Awesome, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘Better than sex.’

‘Like you would know,’ Eshwari scoffs.

‘Oh, but I do, Bihari, I do,’ he says mysteriously. ‘Can’t get into the details of when and where and with whom, you know. Would be ungentlemanly.’

‘Liar.’

‘Oh, no.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s true. You said your folks won’t let you go out with anyone till you’re twenty-one, so I have to do
something
to pass the time till then, don’t I? Keep my hand in, so to speak. Hone my skills. So that on that distant day, when we finally hook up, you’ll be fully satishfied with my prowess.
Satish
-fied, get it, get it?’

‘You’re disgusting!’ Eshwari slams the plastic plate down onto the bleachers. ‘Talking about your girlfriend in such an obnoxious fashion! Sexist pig.’

He crosses his arms across his chest, which, now that she’s seen bare, she doesn’t want to dwell upon too much.

‘There’s sambar on your shirt,’ he observes.

‘Fuck you.’

‘Why’re you so mad?’ he asks, rather amused.

‘I’m not.’

‘You are. Your nostrils are all flared. It’s because you’re jealous, I suppose.’

Eshwari tosses her head. ‘Please. Far from being jealous, I’ve decided to follow your example. So gimme some good-friend advice – who do I pick, Mohit Razdan or Jai Kakkar?’

He goes very still. Then says, very casually, ‘But I thought Milord’s imposed a total cock-block till you turn twenty-one?’

‘He has
not
imposed a –’ She pauses, draws a deep breath, then continues in a cooler voice, ‘That can be worked around.’

‘No, it
can’t
,’ he responds with sudden violence. ‘That’s not
fair
. How come the rule applies to
me
but not to Kakkar or Razdan?’

He’s jealous, she thinks with satisfaction. Good
.

‘Jai’s nice and mature,’ she replies steadily. ‘And I love the way Mohit plays. It’s so
sexy.
There’s something incredibly hot about a guy who can make music with his fingers – unlike somebody who, you know, bangs like a bandar on the drums.’

Satish flinches, his eyes hardening, going from puppy to wolf in seconds.

‘I get it,’ he snarls. ‘I’m being punished for taking you at your word and moving on with my life. For going out with other chicks after you turned me down.
Twice.
What was I supposed to do, huh, bubblewrap my dick and sit till your dad says you’re old enough to go out with boys?’

Eshwari stares at him in frustration. ‘Why do you talk like that? It’s
gross
!’

‘Like
what
?’ he replies, genuinely bewildered. ‘Honestly? I should lie?’

‘You’re doing this just to get to me,’ she says. ‘Going out with girlfriend after girlfriend. Giving me all the gross details. You think if you do this, I’ll crack.’

He laughs. ‘Is that what you’ve been telling yourself ? That is just sad.’

‘I
don’t
want to go out with you,’ Eshwari insists. ‘Get that into your stupid head.’

‘But you don’t want me to go out with anyone else,’ he says. ‘You’re just a dog in the manger. Bitch, rather.’

Eshwari gets to her feet, her face white, her eyes blazing, and stalks away. She is walking home when he catches up with her again.

‘Well, at least Mattoo’s modesty wasn’t outraged,’ he observes, his voice unsteady. ‘We managed to clean the whole damn board before she showed up.’

There is a tense silence. Eshwari swallows but doesn’t speak. ‘Eshu?’ His deep voice is almost pleading. And for the first time ever, he hasn’t called her Bihari.

‘Good.’

‘Yeah,’ Satish agrees, his relief palpable. ‘But Gaur saw it. He pretended to be hassled but I could tell he was pretty happy.’

They walk in silence. Satish’s house will come up in about three minutes. He walks as slowly as he can, hoping she won’t notice that he’s deliberately dawdling.

‘So… you weren’t serious about wanting my advice on picking between Razdan or Kakkar, were you? You were just kidding, right?’

Eshwari stops abruptly and turns to face him.

‘Oh, no,’ she says coolly. ‘I was serious.’

Satish ducks his head. She can’t see his face.

‘So if you’ve got some proper, mature advice to give,
give
it.’

He mutters, still looking down, ‘Why do girls always say that? How can I be mature at seventeen? Besides,’ he looks up, and his voice hardens, ‘why d’you have to pick? Make up for lost time and screw ’em both.’

Eshwari stops, shutting her eyes, gritting her teeth and counting till ten. Then she turns slowly. Traffic trundles up and down Hailey Road behind her. Seeing the expression in her eyes, he suddenly, fervently, wants for her just to stay quiet. It doesn’t bode well – for him, for her, for everything. But it’s too late.

‘I never liked you, Steesh,’ she says simply. ‘Not that way. I made up that story about BJ saying I couldn’t date till I was twenty-one so you wouldn’t feel too bad about me turning you down. Sorry.’

‘Liar.’ It is Satish’s turn to spit the word out now, and he does it with full vehemence and zero conviction.

Eshwari, not very sure herself if he is right or wrong, laughs scornfully. ‘Oh, it’s true. BJ never made any rule for me. He doesn’t do stuff like that. And even if he did, do you really think I wouldn’t have broken it if I liked a boy enough? If he was somebody romantic and charming, who knew how to
talk
, for heaven’s sake, who didn’t just walk up to a girl and say, “Duh. Be my chick.”’

Three school buses laden with Modernites wheeze past them, blowing serious amounts of exhaust fumes into their faces.

The two of them stare at each other in silence.

‘Good luck with the terrorist then,’ Satish says lightly. ‘Or with Kakkar. Or with both. Let ’em take you to the farewell. Have a nice life.’

This hurts. She is suddenly, painfully aware that for her, the entire excitement of the class twelve farewell was building up to that one critical moment – when stupid Satish Sridhar would ring the doorbell and she would open it looking all gorgeous and glowing in her emerald green georgette sari with the tiny ruby-red choli and (maybe, if she has the guts) a red rose stuck Dabbu-style behind her ear.

He would’ve fallen to his knees, raised his snout and
howled
, she thinks, furious. With sheer longing. Oh, I
hate
him. He’s crass and rude and horny and immature. I never want to talk to him again.