by Mahesh Rao
“You really think you can find some sponsors?”
“Of course I can. Before you know it, the whole country will be stampeding to find out about your monasteries.”
“Thank you. I mean that. You’re really very lovely when you put your mind to it.”
He gave her an awkward kiss on the cheek and walked away, raising his hand high above his head to say goodbye. It did not occur to Ania that the funds for Dev’s project could come from her family or indeed his own; their charity extended only to long-standing, prestigious causes. More minor ameliorations to society would have to be accomplished on someone else’s dime.
She poured herself a little more tea. The day was getting warmer. She slipped off her jacket and closed her eyes, turning her face up toward the hazy winter sun. The woman at the next table continued to watch her.
CHAPTER FOUR
THINGS SHIMMERED. OR they glittered. Or they gleamed.
Dimple understood that there were fine gradations in the luster of objects, that some kinds of dazzle were far more acceptable than others. But she worried that these nuances would always escape her. In the Khuranas’ drawing room, there were silver photo frames and lamps; on an occasional table lay an antique brass candle snuffer. She presumed that these all gleamed in a legitimate manner. But in some Khan Market shop windows there were those resplendent dinner sets at which Ania and her friends would roll their eyes: the wrong kind of radiance.
This business of rightful shine seemed to extend to almost all areas of life. There were saris and belt buckles and curtains and cell phone cases and pen tops and earrings and table legs, all of whose sheen had to acquit itself in an appropriate manner. Dimple looked around the room once more. She supposed she would learn.
Heels sounded on the parquet, and Dimple stood up.
“Hello,” she said to the tall woman in the doorway, who was holding a bunch of long-stemmed hydrangeas.
“Do you know if anyone is here?” the woman asked.
“I think Ania is coming down now.”
“Oh, well, I’ll just carry on.”
Dimple had run into Marina before. The woman came to the Khuranas’ twice a week with an assistant to see to the flowers in the house. She could probably have dispatched the assistant to replace the arrangements, but if someone had free run of the Khurana house twice a week, why wouldn’t they take advantage of it?
Dimple wondered whether it was appropriate at this stage in their friendship for her to make her own way up to Ania’s bedroom. They had spent hours there in the past months, but she had always been led there. It was difficult to know what to do.
She could hear the clack of claws on the stairs as poor, ancient Sigmund made steady upward progress. There was a low growl and a snuffle. The clacking stopped. Sigmund had reached the first floor.
Dimple walked to the entrance hall and admired Marina’s handiwork on the center table. Through an open door came a faint, comforting waft of furniture polish. Soon she returned to the French doors and, using her phone, took a picture of herself with her back to the garden. Sitting on a bench on the patio, she cropped and sharpened the image, applying various filters. And then she deleted it.
One evening as a guest of the Khuranas at the Delhi Gymkhana, Dimple had overheard the infamous socialite Nina Varkey describing a village in Austria: “It’s pleasant, there is a lovely view of the lake, a clock tower, and those charming wooden houses. A picturesque village, but I would say there is absolutely no need to stop there—it’s a place to pass through on one’s way somewhere else.”
Dimple pictured the village as Nina’s words ran through her head. They were oddly familiar words. They seemed to her a perfect articulation of how these people viewed her. She had made herself picturesque over the past couple of years, slimmed down to achieve the correct angles, learned to appreciate the value of a great blow-dry. But still the gaze was always fleeting, the interest already on its way elsewhere. Even Dev, the most attentive of Ania’s friends, had a dutiful set to his face when he spoke to her, as though he were listening to a hospital patient narrate her symptoms.
These people. She couldn’t believe she was in their midst. These people who seemed to have been created to sell newspapers. At best, they allowed themselves to be glimpsed getting into a sleek car or being ushered through a faraway door. But she had got much closer.
Led by Ania, Dimple had seen so many sights for the first time, her face remaining impassive only with great effort. Elderly women, wild with drink, being led down the stairs by a waiter, their diamonds catching the light; duffel bags full of cash heaved onto a table after a game of rummy; girls in high heels asleep in men’s laps; a woman made up for a photo shoot breast-feeding her five-year-old son.
She thought of her mother, rail thin, clinging to a personal brand of austerity that even their poorer relatives could not understand. A plea for an ice cream on a hot day was to be refused not because of the expense but because acquiescence was the thin end of the wedge. Her mother was nobody’s fool. If there were treats to be had, she would decide when to buy them. When Dimple was ten, she had once stolen loose change from her mother’s purse, bought and eaten three bars of chocolate, one after the other, and then vomited them all up in terrified heaves in a gutter outside the coaching center.
She heard her mother’s voice again, pitched soft and low, so that the students on her verandah would be forced to concentrate to catch every word. The young men with bobbing Adam’s apples and downy mustaches, heads bowed over their texts, creatures of such habit and discipline: early-morning prayers and patriotic songs, the raising of the saffron flag, an allegiance to all that was pure and righteous. Her mother reveled in their shared beliefs, that India was an exclusively Hindu country and should return to its former Hindu glories. And in the room on the other side of the open window, Dimple would also be listening to her mother while using a razor blade to sharpen her pencils, each shaving cascading into one flawless curl.
* * *
—
“I THINK I’M going to try a shorter style for the summer,” said Ania.
Dimple immediately stopped her exasperated account of a colleague’s idiosyncracies. She had noticed that Ania, like many in her circle of friends, would change the subject with a startling abruptness whenever it suited her.
“Even the thought of another Delhi summer is making my neck itch,” said Ania.
“The summer here makes me long for home. There’s nothing like the cool breeze that comes off the lake first thing in the morning.”
Dimple hardly ever referred to her hometown but felt comfortable enough doing so with Ania, who had displayed a genuine curiosity about her life rather than a sneering disdain. It was true that Dimple had been surprised at the extent of Ania’s ignorance. But she also felt energized at the unusual prospect of being the person who could finally impart some useful knowledge.
“Actually I was in the hills this last weekend,” said Dimple.
“Where?”
“Simla.”
“Ugh. Why?”
“Ankit and his sisters asked me to go along with them, and I thought, haan, why not?”
“What the hell is wrong with you? You went to Simla with them?”
“They’re the first people I met when I moved to Delhi, and they’ve all been really sweet to me. You know, they’re not stupid or anything. You can have really interesting conversations with Ankit. And we all went to a fun fair. It was really good fun.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Seriously? A fun fair, for God’s sake?”
Dimple put her hands in her lap and widened her eyes in apology.
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t think there was anything wrong with that,” she said.
“My God, if there’s anything you’ve learned from me, surely it’s the meaning of irony and context. I mean, we’ve all done completely ridicu
lous things but always knowing that they are ridiculous and awful. But to actually do them thinking they’re normal and acceptable . . . What were you thinking?”
“It was just a bit of fun.”
“You’re insane. Anyone could have been photographing you. Imagine turning up on someone’s Instagram looking like you’re having the time of your life at a fun fair in Simla.”
“People take pictures of you, not me. Anyway, I was happy to be there.”
“Life isn’t always about fun, Dee. We have responsibilities. To ourselves.”
At the Khurana home, Dimple had seen a small Chola bronze of a reclining Parvati that cost more than the entire apartment building where she lived. Ania owned a sapphire ring that had once belonged to a famous German aristocrat. Dimple’s interest and anxiety were not motivated by envy but by a vast greed for knowledge. Who made these things? When? At whose request? Who sold them? And how did they end up in a mansion on Prithviraj Road?
The move to Delhi had been difficult and daunting. When Dimple had first arrived four years ago, there had been everyday arguments in the dirty flat she’d inhabited with five others; a long commute often sharing a single metro seat with two other women; the knowledge that she was being cheated on every transaction by brokers, agents, and middlemen; but now, at last, there was a measure of contentment. She felt that these days she laughed more and worried less, although sometimes when she was with Ania and her friends she had begun to worry more again. At least she no longer fretted constantly about jobs in other industries that paid more and offered increased job security. Her own job was fine, and she found it interesting, mostly, and it had given her the opportunity to meet people who would never have crossed her path before. Her greatest stroke of luck was meeting Ania at the launch party of a restaurant she was promoting at the time. Knowing her tastes now, it was astonishing that Ania had even made an appearance.
“I think a short style for the summer would be perfect,” said Dimple.
* * *
—
ALONG WITH HER acts of mercy at Dr. Bhatia’s hospital, Ania also paid occasional visits to a shelter for stray cats and dogs in East of Kailash. She never seemed to have enough time to contribute to the paperwork or to help with the cleaning or feeding, so she pitched in by taking selfies with the most photogenic inmates, which were admired by her many thousands of followers on social media. The shelter was grateful for her efforts, as each post inevitably led to substantial publicity and at least a couple of animals finding caring homes.
In some ways, Ania’s initial interest in Dimple’s affairs could be placed on the same spectrum of charitable instincts as the one that led her to the animal shelter. When Dimple stared in confusion, widening her large brown eyes, Ania’s heart gave a little flip. But over time she had become genuinely fond of Dimple and didn’t see why the girl shouldn’t reap the rewards of a superlative Delhi social life just because of her unfortunate beginnings. These handicaps could be overcome, provided one had an excellent instructor. Ania would be able to impart the gloss that Dimple required, acquaint her with the necessary culture, mention her to the people who mattered. Her experience with dear Renu had taught her that people were often unaware that they required assistance; when they found themselves the subject of a kind intervention, they were usually overcome with gratitude.
In the study fireplace, there was a flare and crackle as the last smoldering log settled. The empty glasses smelled of scotch, and a cold draft pressed its way around the closed door. As she called for one of the maids to turn off all the lamps and prepared to go upstairs, Ania wondered what she could do about the Ankit situation.
She wondered if she was being harsh but knew that she was acting in Dimple’s best interests. It would be altogether too depressing to see her end up with someone like Ankit, after all her progress. Dimple would defend him, it was in her nature: he had a lovely face, but more than that, he was respectful and honest; she owed his family many kindnesses. Besides, their business was doing so well; in fact, they were opening a second branch of Tip-Top Fashions soon. But poor Dimple, it would all be such a terrible waste.
Ania saw the cheap cardigans and gaudy shawls in the shop, the nasty sequins strewn on an ill-fitting pair of jeans; she could picture, unwillingly, the apartment upstairs with extra chairs and gas cylinders crammed onto the balcony; the cycle rickshaws outside the shop, their drivers throwing their bidis into the churned-up mud; the sapling outside the door almost dead in its pot.
It was up to her to make Dimple see all this too: that life with Ankit would soon thrum with disappointment, and, even worse, contempt. Ania’s Delhi was unforgiving. If it saw a scar or a wart, it turned away for good.
She knew that she had to be realistic. There were men in her circle who would try to unbutton Dimple’s blouse in the back seat of a car but would be horrified at the suggestion that they might date her. Dimple had to be protected from those beasts. What was required was a good-looking and charismatic man whose family was not too overbearing, someone who would appreciate Dimple’s qualities: her curiosity, her loyalty, her good sense.
She had to arrange matters to Dimple’s best advantage. She would make the people she knew accept Dimple in the way she herself did.
Now, who?
Bunty was still unattached. He was sweet and very attentive in bed, apparently, but there was that reptile of a mother to contend with.
She hadn’t seen Sohail for a year or two: could he have left Delhi? He was presentable and well-mannered but had an inept air about him. Maybe it was the way his eyes bulged slightly, but he had the look of a man who had never made a woman orgasm.
Satpal was nice enough and from a reasonably cultivated family who wouldn’t consider themselves too grand for a girl like Dimple. But God, that earnestness and all those bloody Rumi quotes.
Savio was lovely but too sarcastic to be straight.
Shantanu was probably one of the most handsome men she had ever seen, but, of course, he was all too aware of that. Plus, it was embarrassing to go out with him, he was so weird about tipping.
Fahim.
Ania had known Fahim for two or three years now, perhaps longer; it was so hard to tell. As a journalist, there was a time when no one knew who he was and then, all of a sudden, everyone knew him. He was seen at rooftop parties in Jor Bagh; he would wave from across the room at receptions in foreign embassies; some haughty dame at the next table was always pressing him to have the steamed ginger pudding at the India International Centre. Of course, it was around the time one of his big stories broke, and people did want to know about how he managed to go undercover and whether he was shot at and that sort of thing. But then people lost interest quite soon; and in spite of that, Fahim was still seen everywhere that one went. Perhaps he was still doing stories on unspeakable things. Ania felt terrible that she didn’t know and resolved to take a greater interest in his life.
She began to prepare for bed, pinning her hair back, making sure the air purifier had been turned on.
Since her triumph with the colonel and Renu, she was more convinced than ever that providence left little clues for mortals to find, encounters and opportunities that would glow at the right moment in a world humming with hazard. There was, after all, a reason she had recently run into Fahim at an art fair. Someone a few years younger might be preferable, but he was a fine choice.
The hot-water bottle had been filled for her and tucked under her quilt. She put it in her lap as she dabbed some serum under her eyes. The warmth flooded over her lap and rose up into her chest, a little like the warmth she felt when she knew she had been intuitive enough, humane enough, to transform someone’s life.
Across the room her phone beeped.
She picked it up, read Dimple’s message a few times, and walked slowly back to the bed. Ania forgot that she hadn’t yet applied night cream on her neck or her arms and got under the covers, her
hands pressing down on the roiling heat of the hot-water bottle. In the dark she listened for another message, but none came after the one she had already read.
“Oh my God, Ankit is here, look don’t worry, everything’s fine. But I think we’re just about to do it. See you tomorrow!!”
CHAPTER FIVE
IT HAD BEEN another bad night for Fahim. The first shades of light were leaking into the room through a gap in the curtains. He dared not look at the time again. His insomnia was always worse when he slept in a strange bed. His eyes throbbed, and he was conscious of the heavy thud of his heart. He swung his legs to the ground and walked to the door. The corridor was silent, the stairs in complete darkness. There were probably still a couple of hours left before morning definitively arrived. It seemed wrong, indecent, to be awake.
The interview with Altaf Masood was a coup not because he was a newly elected MP but because he was an ex-cricketer, a superstar whose number 9 jersey could still be seen on train platforms and street corners all over the country, a name breathed with awe in all the cricket-playing nations. This would be a special profile, filmed in the garden of Altafbhai’s constituency home, a relaxed and engaging portrait of the man who promised in his speeches to bring to the legislature the focus and energy he had once brought to the crease.
For months Fahim had persevered, drawing on all his charm and determination to set up the interview. He had met Altafbhai a number of times over the years and had even joined him as part of a raucous drinking group one humid night in Mumbai. On occasion he had told people that they were related in order to get closer. He had courted Altafbhai’s managers and publicists, and had asked a mutual friend to introduce him to Altafbhai’s wife.
And now there he was in Altafbhai’s huge house, in the dusty plains of Uttar Pradesh, so far from Delhi, welcomed like a guest, waiting for someone to bring him a cup of tea. His crew would arrive later that day and begin their checks. Altafbhai had agreed to a quick breakfast to go over the format of the interview. Fahim walked to the window and soon saw the first signs of activity. A man was raking leaves on the front lawn; a wheelbarrow full of firewood had appeared on one of the paths. The curls of mist began to disperse as a hint of gold tinged the clouds.
