Those Pricey Thakur Girls (42 page)

‘What’s with that bitchy little lip curl? Just now, when you said Mitali?’

She turns away. ‘Nothing.’

‘You’re jealous.’ He grins. ‘Because I trumped your extempore speech on DD by jumping off a terrace eight floors high.’

‘Six,’ she tells him dampeningly. ‘And this isn’t kot-piece – there’s no
trumping
going on.’

‘Yeah,’ he says, and the smile has gone right out of his voice. ‘At least if this were kot-piece, we’d be partners.’

Silence.

‘Dillu! How
brave
you were!’ Anji rushes up and envelops Dylan in a soft, scented embrace. ‘Well done!’

Binni hangs back a little, arms crossed across her chest.

‘Yes, very brave,’ she allows grudgingly. ‘But what about your five-year-old girlfriend?’

Dylan reels slightly: is he being accused of paedophilia?

‘She means your girlfriend of five years,’ Anji explains. ‘Juliet aunty told us about her. The one who works for
Viewstrack –
she studied with you also.’

Dylan’s brow clears.

‘Mitali’s not my girlfriend,’ he replies steadily. ‘In fact, I think she may be in love with my friend Varun. She’s a nice girl, though.’

Anjini waves a dismissive hand. She isn’t interested in the ‘nice’ Mitali.

‘See! I
told
you, Dabburam!’ Then she remembers something. ‘Did you meet Charles Sobhraj in jail, Dillu? Is he cute? Or is he creepy and old and chinkie looking?’

‘I never made it into Tihar jail, actually,’ Dylan admits a little sheepishly. ‘Sorry.’

‘Oh!’ Anjini internalizes this. ‘Oh, well, okay. Now listen, don’t the two of you go planning a summer wedding just because you’re in a hurry to, you know,
do it.
It’ll be dreadfully hot, and Dabbu, your sari will go limp, and if it’s white you’ll look like one of those sad Benarasi widows. Now October is a good month – we’ll get narcissuses and those lovely shaggy chrysanthemums…’

‘Anji didi,’ Debjani hisses, scarlet faced. ‘Shut
up
.’

‘Oh, but why, Dabburam? He just jumped off the tenth floor to save your chachi’s life, sweetie, obviously he wants to marry you!’

‘
Sixth
,’ Debjani says again, rolling her eyes. ‘And you can’t just assume –’

‘Yeah,’ Dylan puts in. ‘Don’t go making any assumptions, Anjini. I could’ve done it out of love for Chachiji.’

Eshwari comes running up, hand in hand with Samar. ‘What’s happening, what’s happening? Is the engagement back on?’

‘Shut up!’ Debjani hisses.

But Eshwari has made a discovery.

‘He’s
drunk
!’ she chortles delightedly. ‘Go for it, Dubz, take advantage of him while he’s drunk! Grab him by the but –’

But before she can complete her instructions, she is pushed aside by an emotional Gulgul who appears out of nowhere, throws his arms around Dylan and kisses him fervently.

‘You saved my mother!’ he blubbers. ‘I am in your debt for life!’ And then, in a slightly altered tone, ‘Arrey wah – solid muscle tone, ya. You’re a jimmer! Where do you do your jimming?’

‘Hello, namaste, I’m the dvelupper,’ a man Dabbu has never seen before in her life pushes in and says hoarsely. He is flashily dressed and, being pale and hairy and knobby, somehow gives the impression of being made entirely out of ginger tubers. ‘I dvelupped Hailey Court next door. After marriage, if your wife decides to sell her one-sixth share in this property and dvelupp it into an apartment building, please call me, okay?’

‘This is ridiculous!’ Debjani roars, her cheeks flaming. ‘Stop it! Right now!’

Sheepishly, the Thakurs fall silent. It is an irreverent sort of silence, with a lot of eye-rolling and silent nudging and giggling, but it is silence, nevertheless. Dabbu frowns at all of them awfully, while behind her, Dylan looks on, his expression one of comic alarm.

The Judge and Mrs Mamta, shaken but relieved, walk out to the verandah and join the group of spectators. Dylan catches their eye from behind Debjani, raising his eyebrows in silent enquiry. They both nod – Mrs Mamta smilingly, the Judge resignedly.

‘Debjani,’ Dylan says, his voice very deep. ‘Dabbu? Stop bullying everybody and look at me.’

But Debjani can’t. Somehow, looking at her large, ill-assorted family is suddenly much easier than turning around to face Dylan’s gaze.

‘We can go away if you like,’ Anji begins to offer but she’s drowned out by a furious hiss of whispered objections.

‘Nooo!’

‘That’s not fair!’

‘I want to
see
!’

‘This Anji always spoils all the fun!’

Slowly, Debjani turns around. ‘If you ask me whatever it is you may be planning to ask me, in front of my entire snickering family, I will never, ever forgive you,’ she tells him.

Dylan laughs, his eyes alight with possessive tenderness, wraps her fingers around his arm and then, ignoring the chorus of protests that rises from the Thakurs, walks her out of the verandah and into the garden.

He leads her into the annexe. Pausing halfway up the narrow winding staircase, he pulls her to him. ‘Now where were we?’ he asks, his voice teasing.

She kisses his neck.

‘Here, I think?’

His eyes darken. With a sudden movement, his hands come down to cup her face.

‘Why did you do it?’ he asks, his eyes stabbing hers. ‘I was watching you from the lock-up in that wretched police station and I’ll never forget how you looked at that moment. Seriously scary, like some nut-job suicide bomber about to blow.’

‘Well, thanks a
lot
,’ she begins to say indignantly but he interrupts her.

‘Why’d you do it, Debjani?’

‘Is that what you wanted to ask me?’ she demands. ‘Coz I was expecting another question
entirely.
And not th –’

He gives her a little shake.

‘Why?’

She sighs.

‘Well, I couldn’t get your letter out of my head…’

‘Ah! So Bonu finally coughed it up?’

‘Yes.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Which is a whole other story – but let’s not get into that now. And then your creepy boss told me you were a snake and I almost believed him…’

‘Hira? Where’d you meet him?’

‘Never mind. But then that seedy little cat showed up. The one Moti was trying to eat that first day. So I
knew
you were telling the truth.’

His arms tighten around her.

‘So when you made that newscast, all you had to go on was the
cat
?’

She nods.

‘Weren’t you scared?’

‘Oh, no,’ she says airily. Then she adds, looking up candidly, ‘Well, I didn’t know
then
that it was such a big crime to make up and read out your own news. If I’d known, I probably wouldn’t have done it.’

‘Such refreshing honesty,’ Dylan says ruefully as he pulls her to him.

A few minutes later, Debjani emerges, rosy-faced and thoroughly kissed, and announces blissfully, ‘You’re better looking than all my brothers-in-law. I
think.
Because, to be fair, I’ve never seen the Estonian.’

He grimaces. ‘Thank you. Am I also the better kisser?’

‘You’re goodish,’ she allows, twirling a lock of his hair between her fingers.

His eyebrows fly up. ‘
Ish?
’

‘Ish.’ She grins.

‘I’ll show you
ish
,’ Dylan says, his voice thick with outrage.

But Debjani pushes him away – not too far, just far enough to get a good look into his eyes.

‘Anji didi’s right, you know,’ she says conversationally. ‘October is a good month. Not too hot, not too cold.’

‘Just like
you
,’ Dylan murmurs, his cheek against her hair as his hands slide smoothly up her back, beneath her shirt.

‘What are you doing?’

He smiles at her through spiky lashes, his gaze unfocused. She can feel his heart, it’s thudding hard and fast, obviously he still hasn’t got over that dive from the sixth floor.

‘Checking for wings,’ he murmurs as his lips graze her forehead. ‘I
know
you have wings. Don’t deny it – you hide them under your T-shirt and pretend to be a mere mortal like everybody else.’

Debjani wrinkles up her nose.

‘But actually I’m a
chicken
?’ she asks breathlessly even as she, very accommodatingly, lets him make an extremely thorough search.

Dylan has her pushed up against the wall, but at this he draws back, allowing her shirt to slide down again, much to her disappointment.

‘You really don’t know how to flirt.’

‘I
know
,’ she agrees fervently. ‘Thank god we’re beyond the flirting stage!’

Dylan stares down at her, a queer smile upon his lips, a what-the-hell, burn-the-boats light in his eyes.

‘So will you be my Raquel?’ he asks. ‘And my wife? And my kot-piece partner for the rest of my life?’

There is a pause. A very long pause. So long, in fact, that he starts to feel rather uneasy.

Then she tilts her head.

‘Is this proposal being made under the influence of alcohol?’

‘No,’ he replies steadily, kissing her fingers. ‘It’s being made under the influence of Dabbu.’

This draws an appreciative grin. But she quickly turns solemn again.

‘Well, you’re no Balkishen Bau…’ she says, considering.

Then her arms go around him tight. She kisses his cheek, a kiss so full of hope and love and trust that it brings the sudden sting of tears to his eyes.

‘So don’t mind if,
just
for kot-piece, I pick another partner.’

A very cowed Ashok chacha, with six stitches in his cheek and his stomach bandaged up, stands by and watches resignedly as Chachiji kicks over the cup full of genhu with her manicured foot and enters her Hailey Court flat, glowing like a new bride.

‘Thank you, bhaisaab,’ she tells Justice Laxmi Narayan as she puts a tika for him after the puja. ‘You have kept my nose from being cut.’

‘Yes yes,’ the Judge says, looking rather cornered, and not wanting to talk about the cutting up of any body parts. ‘Ahem! Mamtaji, if you are done, can we please go home?’

And so, after admiring the marble flooring, the modular kitchen and the stainless steel Diamond sink, the L.N. Thakurs return to Number 16. The Judge and Mrs Mamta retire to their room, where the Judge tries to take a nap, but is prevented from doing so because his wife is busy jangling open various Godrej cupboards, rootling through her caché of jewellery, watches, saris and perfume bottles.

‘We’ll need to do so much shopping!’ she says. ‘Thankfully I’ve already bought her wedding sari and we have enough pretty new salwar kameezes, but what will we buy all the honeymoon clothes with? They’ll go to Goa, she’ll need a new swimming costume, sandals, nightgown, nightie, underclothes – so many things! How will we manage?’

‘Easy, Mamtaji,’ he says. ‘We’ll economize by serving only mutton at the reception. Like we did at Anjini’s wedding.’

Mrs Mamta sits on the bed with a thump. ‘But these people are Christians. They’ll want chicken and fish. Maybe even pork!’

‘Then forget fancy underclothes,’ the Judge says, reasonably enough. ‘She’s already caught the boy, he can’t back out when he sees her plain cotton chaddis.’

At which aggravating remark Mrs Mamta bangs her Godrej almirahs shut and turns to glare at him, her hands on her hips. ‘Maybe if you hadn’t run up such a huge phone bill at Gambhir Stores, we would have enough money for her trousseau.’

‘Ph-phone bill?’ the Judge stammers weakly, looking undeniably guilty. ‘What phone bill?’

‘You
know
what phone bill,’ Mrs Mamta says awfully. ‘I asked young Mr Gambhir and he told me everything. I can’t
believe
you could be such a lying, sneaking, cheating, two-faced hypocrite, LN!’

‘I’m sorry,’ the Judge says, red-faced and ashamed. ‘I couldn’t help myself. Especially after she had the baby. I had to get in touch again – I
had
to.’

Silence.

Then Mrs Mamta giggles. Just like her daughters.

‘Does this mean we can invite them to the wedding, LN?’

‘Of course,’ he responds eagerly, relieved that she isn’t angry, after all. ‘Chandu, the Estonian and little Hendrik Lippik! That will solve our fancy underwear problem too! Chandu can choose it. And the Estonian can pay for it. Haha.’

Happier than she has been in years, Mrs Mamta kisses him on the forehead, leaves him to his books and goes off to sit with her daughters.

‘Doesn’t Chubs looks pretty?’ Anjini asks with a proprietary air as she drapes Eshu’s jade, green georgette sari over her tiny red choli.

‘Yes,’ Mrs Mamta sighs in satisfaction. ‘She’ll be Miss Modern too, wait and see – the third in the family.’

Jai Kakkar arrives to pick Eshu up half an hour later, very handsome in a formal shirt and tie. He is carrying a small posy of red carnations, which goes perfectly with her sari.

‘You look
lovely
,’ he declares, his eyes alight with admiration.

Ten minutes later, the doorbell rings again. Samar and Bonu answer it.

‘Hi, kids.’ It is Satish, reeking of aftershave. His shirt is crisply ironed, his upper lip and jaw have been scraped naked so scrupulously that angry little dots stand out on his chin. ‘Is everything okay with Chachiji and all? That was quite an impressive thump. I saw it from my window.’