Those Pricey Thakur Girls (40 page)

She turns around, and with a swift, frustrated gesture, lets her bag drop off her shoulders. It reveals a square clean space at the back of her shirt – about ten inches by ten inches – entirely free of scrawled
All the best
s and
Collars up you’re a Modernite
s and
Best friends forever
s and
xoxoxox
s and
See you in Harvard Business School
s
.

‘I saved that for you, asshole,’ she says as she whirls around again, her voice low and furious. ‘But now I think I like it just the way it is. Have a nice life too.’

And scooping up her bag, she walks away.

‘Lord, what is this foul beast, VO?’ Dylan demands, looking down with disfavour at a plump yellow-and-black body frisking unsteadily around Varun’s chubby calves. ‘And why has it just dipped its snout inside a jar of tar? What massive paws and ears and, um, private parts. Is it yours?’

‘You should ask,’ Varun replies bitterly. ‘Its name is Hottie – because it’s so
hot
and all.’

They are sitting out in the garden of the sprawling Ohri mansion on Sardar Patel Marg. It is a beautiful spring day and Bade-papaji has invited Dylan and his parents for brunch to celebrate his release. Seated under a pergola bedecked with fragrant chameli blossom, Bade-papaji is holding forth to the Brigadier and Juliet Bai on the future of journalism in India. ‘The days of DD’s hegemony are over,’ he predicts as he wades steadily through the pomegranate juice and south Indian snacks. ‘TV will open up now. No option. It has to. I’m thinking that we should also start a news channel. Varun and Dylan can run it together. We’ll call it Purshottam Ohri Television – POTV.’

The Shekhawats, pinioned into place behind massive paper dosas, have no option but to sit and listen to him. Varun and Dylan, who are eating idli, are more mobile, and have managed to move out of Bade-papaji’s direct booming range.

‘Potty might’ve been a better name,’ Dylan says critically, taking in the black-and-mustard colour scheme and generally lower-middle class demeanour of the mutt. ‘It could have been the official mascot of POTV. And why shouldn’t I ask?’

‘Because it all happened in
your
parents’ house only,’ Varun returns feelingly. ‘Mitali met this chick there who got talking disparagingly about pedigreed dogs – they keep having sex with their mothers and sisters, apparently, and are totally inbred and sickly and mind-fucked as a result. She spoke glowingly of what she called mixed breeds – by which she meant mongrels – claiming that they are hardy and loyal and so
honest
and so
kind
and so
brave.
Mits fell for it like a ton of bricks, of course. And that is why I am now the proud owner of this epitome of honesty and kindness and bravery that you see before you. So fuck
you
very much.’

Dylan goes very still.

‘You met Debjani?’

‘Yeah, the one who declared your innocence on DD – that’s how the PM got to know about your case – you know that, surely?’

Dylan shrugs. ‘She read out the news DD gave her to read,’ he says curtly. ‘What’s so extraordinary about that?’

Varun looks at him in utter non-comprehension. ‘They did
not
give her that news to read. You know how DD works. That’s what they’re claiming now, of course, but that’s just some post-facto, face-saving bullshit Bade-papaji and Hiranandani helped them come up with. Why are you talking like such an ass?’

Dylan doesn’t reply immediately. He bends down, picks Hottie up by the scruff of his neck and glares into his intelligent yellow-flecked eyes.

‘I don’t know,’ he mutters.

Varun looks at him in concern. The last few days have seen an incredible turnaround for Dylan. And it’s
all
, Varun thinks, getting rather worked up, a direct or indirect result of Debjani’s broadcast that night.

‘Why aren’t you more grateful, fucker?’ he demands. ‘She said you guys were family friends. Why haven’t you called and thanked her yet? What’s the score?’

‘There’s no
score
,’ Dylan says right back. ‘Why’re you being such a nosy choot?’

There is a short, confused silence.

‘
I
know what happened!’ Varun says finally. ‘You hit on her and she turned you down. She
would.
She’s that kind of girl – a good, sensible girl who’d have slapped away your oily coils and seen right through your harami charm.’

Dylan swears. A little too loudly. The dosa-eating trio turns and looks at him.

‘Mamma,’ Dylan manages to ask. ‘Did Debjani come to see you while I was in lock-up?’

Juliet Bai looks distressed. ‘Yes, sonna, she did. I wasn’t very nice to her, I’m afraid.’

‘Why didn’t you
tell
me?’

‘Because you got out of jail just three hours ago,’ the Brigadier says. ‘And then you spent one hour eating and one hour bathing. And then we came here. We haven’t yet told you that the St Columba’s principal came to see you, have we? Or that Miss Patsy called from Goa? Why this sudden interest in Dabbu all over again? Haven’t you messed around with her enough?’

‘Bhai, very pretty girl,’ Bade-papaji says approvingly. ‘Very soni kudi. And what guts! Like the girls in the Lahore of my youth – with bodies like lilies and hearts like lions. But then, this Dylan is just like me.’

Abruptly, Dylan gets to his feet and starts casting about for the car keys.

‘Arrey, where are you going now?’ his mother asks.

‘To Hailey Road,’ he replies shortly. ‘VO, can you drop my folks home?’

‘Of course,’ VO says immediately. ‘Not an issue.’

‘Thanks for the meal, Ohri saab.’ Dylan smiles as he shakes hands formally with the fat old man. ‘And for all your support. Wish me luck.’

Purshottam Ohri flashes twin rows of broken yellow teeth in a happy grin.

‘Luck!’ he roars, thumping Dylan on the back approvingly. ‘And tell your girl to quit DD and join my soon-to-be-launched-channel POTV. Theek hai?’

‘Theek hai.’ Dylan laughs as he runs lithely across the lawn towards the parked car. Hottie cavorts along with him companionably, tongue lolling, ears flapping. To Juliet Bai, misty-eyed with hope and happiness, it looks like a long line of her future grandchildren are racing across the grass with them, wearing nothing but white cloth diapers.

Let Dabbu not be too angry with the way I fussed over Mitali that day, ba, she prays. These wretched boys also, they don’t say anything – who knows what goes on inside their stupid heads all the time…?

Then she frowns.

‘Bobby, maybe Dyl should go there tomorrow. The Thakurs will be busy today – it’s the day of the Hailey Court inauguration.’

But the electric-blue Maruti 800 has already reversed out of the gate and zoomed away.

15

T
he gracious Roman façade of Hailey Court is swathed in gainda phool and gladioli. A monstrous shamiana patterned with bright diamonds of red, green and yellow has been erected in the garden. A pink ribbon flutters across the fancy wrought-iron gate, stretching from the naked belly of a simpering stone cherub standing atop one gatepost to the bosom of a winged angel standing atop the second.

‘Bhai, whatever you say, this building is ekko piece!’ declares old Mr Gambhir, who is catering the boxes of veg patties and pineapple pastries that will be handed out after the ribbon cutting. ‘Elegant. Sober. Matlab ki,
top ka
!’

Neighbours, vendors, dogs, cows and random passers-by caught in the jam caused by the general commotion nod in agreement.

‘Suna hai, each and every flat is selling for one crore,’ somebody whispers.

‘Suna hai, each and every flat is cursed,’ whispers somebody else. ‘The ghost of the Pushkarni, na, she’s angry they sold her house – the workers have heard her walking about at night, gnashing her teeth...’

Inside Number 16, the general feeling is one of being under siege. ‘First, non-stop construction for almost a year,’ the Judge grumbles, pacing about the drawing room. ‘Then all those journalists… and now this band-baaja-baraat! When will things get better, Mamtaji?’

‘Soon,’ she tells him soothingly. ‘We’ve been through some rough patches this year, but things are looking up now. Dabbu didn’t get arrested, AN and family will be back in Number 13 with all their debts paid off, Eshwari will finish school, Vickyji’s business is showing profit, and best of all, Anant is here, finally, to take Anjini home.’

The Judge stares at her uncomprehendingly. ‘What? In which world are you living? You
know
things are far from well! Anant looks like a dead man walking – and every time Anji laughs I worry that your bone china ice cream bowls will shatter inside their cabinets.’

‘You just don’t
like
Anjini,’ Mrs Mamta says, her calm voice shaking slightly. ‘And there’s nothing wrong with their marriage that a good conversation won’t fix.’

‘Well, I hope you’re right.’ He purses his lips. ‘But where are they going to have it in this house crawling with people? Have they gone out?’

Mrs Mamta nods.

‘But only next door, to look at the Hailey Court flats,’ she says. ‘Ashok took them – Anant didn’t look like he wanted to go, but Ashok insisted. I think he’s hoping they’ll buy one flat – the builder will give him a commission if they do.’

‘It
would
be good if they bought here,’ the Judge reflects. ‘Imagine, if we could keep all the flats in the family. How happy my mother’s ghost would be!’

Mrs Mamta shoots him a sour look.

‘Joke, Mamtaji, joke,’ he says hastily. ‘There’s no such thing as ghosts – somebody should tell Bhudevi that!’

But today the ghost of the Pushkarni seems to be lying quiescent. No dark clouds hover above Chachiji as she gets dressed in Debjani’s and Eshwari’s bedroom. Humming
Joh wada kiya woh nibhana padega
, making final adjustments to the folds of her fearsomely embroidered zardozi sari, she smiles benignly at Dabbu, who is hunched upon a stool at her feet, painting her horny toenails a shiny maroon.

‘Your foot must look nice when you raise your sari and kick the genhu cup and enter the house,’ she tells her aunt earnestly. ‘Gulgul bhaisaab is going to click pictures. Don’t fidget now, you’ll smudge it.’

‘Sorry, dear, sorry,’ Chachiji says, her jowls creasing into a dreamy smile. ‘I will be still as stone now, I won’t move even
one
muscle, see! You will think ki I have died, so still will I be!’

‘Good,’ Dabbu says as she carefully paints the last hoofish toenail. ‘Now don’t jump just because I’ve finished, stay still
.
Let them dry properly.’

‘Pass me that bowl of bhindi then,’ Chachiji says with self-conscious martyrdom. ‘I can at least do some work – I hate to sit idle, na.’

Dabbu passes her the bhindi and a long, wicked-looking knife. Chachiji starts to chop.

‘Where’s your uncle?’ she asks offhandedly. ‘Gone for his morning walk, I-suppose-so?’

It is almost eleven, way too late for a morning walk, but Dabbu doesn’t point that out.

‘I’ll go look.’ She smiles. ‘You look really pretty, Chachiji!’ And she
does
look nice today – the colour of her sari makes her skin look brighter, her hair is secured in a neat bun and there is a soft, hopeful glow in her eyes.

‘Thuttt!’ she snorts, colouring up and waving her knife dismissively. ‘Stop talking like Anjini – it won’t make you look like her.’

And having re-established her no-nonsense credentials with this remark, she settles back in her stool to chop bhindi and wriggle her toes.

There’s no
gratitude
in this world, thinks a deflated Dabbu as she walks out to the garden You can do anything for people – wax their chests, paint their toes, risk your job and defend them on live national television – and still they act like you did nothing at all. Like they got manicured feet and a prime-ministerial intervention all by themselves. Not that I want their gratitude. I don’t want anything. I’ve
had
it with doing things for people.

And even as she reflects thus on the thanklessness of the universe, a brand-new puppy from Moti and Voti’s latest litter wanders up on unsteady paws and piddles against her foot.

Dabbu stares down at it with huge, betrayed eyes, and sits down abruptly upon the platform around the champa tree.

‘Dabbu mausi! Look.
Look!
’

Samar is lighting rockets in the driveway. The twins, seated on the stairs, are watching fascinated, their chubby hands clasped over their ears. Rocket after rocket sizzles, then ignites and shoots into the sky to explode with a satisfying bang. Samar grins.

‘You should do that at night,’ Dabbu calls out to him, her voice just a little shaky. ‘It’ll look much prettier then.’

‘I don’t want
pretty
.’ Samar looks disdainful. ‘Hey, Monu, c’mon, you light one.’

Monu shakes his head vigorously.

‘Don’t be such a phisaddi,’ Samar says. ‘I’ll hold your hand. Come!’

Monu approaches, shrinking. Samar hands him the chid-chidding phooljhadi, then wraps his fingers around Monu’s wrist. They lean down to the rocket standing inside the Campa Cola bottle together, hold the phooljhadi to the dangling fuse, and step back sharply.

Nothing.

A nervous giggle from Bonu.

The boys try again. The fuse splutters, flames lick at the base of the rocket, the gold of its wrapping slowly turns black, but there is no gorgeous hissing, no sudden shooting up from the mouth of the bottle into the white, waiting sky.

Somebody chuckles. The boys turn round.

‘There’s one in every pack,’ Vickyji, lounging against a pillar, calls out to the disappointed trio. ‘These Cock brand crackers come in packs of five – four light up nicely but one is always defective, you notice and see. It’s how the firecracker company-wallahs make their profit. That one’s the dud, boys, it won’t light.’

Indignant protests from the children.

‘But that’s out and out
cheating
!’

‘What
chors
!’

‘We paid for
five
!’

Meanwhile, Dabbu, sitting under the champa, her chin in her hands, is hit by a supremely depressing epiphany.

I’m the dud, the one daughter in Ma-BJ’s pack of five who fizzled out, achieving zilch. D for dud.

Tears rush to her eyes. She wraps her arms around herself tightly, leans back against the tree and lets them roll.

Dylan is having a hard time getting to Number 16. Traffic is clogged up all along Hailey Road. Freshly bathed people trying to get to work are now sweating and swearing with equal intensity.

‘Madarchod, sadak pe tambu laga rakha hai!’ fumes a man on a scooter. ‘Who puts up a tent all the way across the road? No civic sense! Days of decency are truly over!’

He spits, rests his feet upon the road and manoeuvres his scooter around sharply, almost knocking over a shapely woman in a bright yellow nylon sari.

‘Look where you’re going!’ she says shrilly. ‘Blind or what?’

The man folds his hands in leering mock contrition and zooms away. Dylan, watching from his car, leans out.

‘Are you all right?’

She nods. She has a broad face, big kohled eyes, a flashing nose stud and a thin maroon mouth.

‘Thenks for aksing.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ He switches his gaze back to the crazy pile-up of traffic ahead. ‘Damn!’

‘I can so you sortcurt.’

Huh?

It’s the lady in the yellow nylon sari. She is leaning into his window, radiating an appealing smile and a strong scent of desi gulab. Dylan swallows.

‘You want to go to Hailey Court?’ she asks him.

‘Huh? No. Number 16.’

‘Same thing. I also want to go there only. If you reverse little bit and take a right after that paan sop and go down the back lane, you’ll reach it quickly. I can so you.’

‘Thank you so much,’ he responds, pleasantly surprised. ‘Please get in. Quickly. I need to get there fast.’

‘So do I,’ she says grimly.

Dabbu abandons herself to a good, no holds barred blubbering session. She hides her face against her knees and just lets everything flow, making good use of her loose sweatshirt to sop up the flowing liquids. Finally, she stops. Her eyes feel swollen, the rough ground is pinching the back of her thighs through her jeans, and she can sense a killer headache coming on.

‘Damn it,’ she mutters, straightening up and leaning against the trunk of the champa tree. ‘This is
so
pathetic.’

Something falls into her lap.

Something light and soft and – she discovers as she opens her eyes – blue-checkered.

‘Oh,’ she says blankly as she looks up to meet Dylan Singh Shekhawat’s part-sarcastic, part-ardent dark eyes. ‘You.’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Um… you have snot.’

‘So what?’ she says belligerently.

He grins. He is feeling suddenly, absurdly happy. ‘So nothing. How are you?’

Dabbu picks up his handkerchief and blows strongly. ‘I’m fine.’

Then why were you crying? he thinks but doesn’t ask. Instead, he looks around – at the big tent, at the well-dressed children lighting crackers, the stack of boxed snacks and the obvious air of festivity in the house. To this, he adds her tears and a sudden fear snatches at his heart.

‘So you’re getting engaged?’ he asks lightly. ‘Should’ve invited us, na. We called you for our parents’ anniversary, after all.’

Debjani frowns.

‘I’m not getting –’ she starts to say, but then she looks beyond him and gasps, ‘Oh my god, what is
she
doing here?’

Dylan turns. ‘Who?’

Dabbu clutches at her hair, shrinking behind him, then points with one shaky finger.

‘Oh, her,’ Dylan says. ‘I brought her.’

‘What!’

‘Who
is
she?’ he asks interestedly. ‘She has a certain, quite
delicious
concupiscence.’

She punches his shoulder. ‘Shut up! She’s… oh god, Dylan, she’s Chachaji’s
rakhail
!’

‘Raquel?’ he replies, bemused. ‘As in, Welch?’

‘His
mistress
,’ Debjani hisses.

Dylan’s eyes light up with huge enjoyment.

‘Chachaji has a mistress? And she’s here at your big family function? Wow, you guys are pretty broad-minded.’

‘Shut up,’ Debjani says, appalled. ‘This is an international incident. Poor Chachiji! I have to go and tell Ma right
now
.’

She starts to hurry away but strong fingers close around her upper arm. ‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ he says, his voice like silk. ‘You stay right here and talk to me.’

Oh my god, that was so
hot
, Dabbu, jerked backward, thinks chaotically, almost buckling at the knees. And he’s here – he’s here – he’s here. I could die of sheer joy. Well, that’s if he’s here because he loves me, and not because he’s really in love with Mitali and he’s here, just to, you know, say thank you.

‘I’m here to say thank you,’ Dylan continues. ‘Please stay and hear me out – your latest pity projects can wait till then.’