by Mahesh Rao
“No, no, I don’t write anything. I mean, some things obviously, but not like her. I work in PR. Publicity for start-ups.”
“Excellent. I am very much in favor of start-ups. This is how our country will come forward, through the vision of our young people who are all so brilliant. I will take you to the engineering colleges of this area. You will see what brilliance we have here.”
“Yes,” said Dimple, the word catching in her throat.
Altaf’s phone rang, and he excused himself with a delightful bow. They all watched him leave, vaguely aware that this was how infatuations began. But they also knew that Altaf was a man accustomed to infatuation and that he would treat theirs with kindness and understanding until it retreated and settled into mere adoration. Ania never voted, but here, finally, was a politician who could win a tick in the box from her.
* * *
—
THERE WAS STILL quite a bit of filming to get through the following day. The crew had been put up in one of the outbuildings, and Fahim spent the morning there, preparing for the shoot. Ania’s time was taken up with a lengthy search for her tofu extract face-cleansing capsules, which had slid to the bottom of one of the two large cases she had brought on the weekend trip. She had also carried a vintage hat box, thinking that it would contribute to a charming picture if paparazzi photographed her anywhere en route. The hat usually housed in the box was unsuitable for the trip, so the box was empty.
“What’s in the round box?” Dimple had asked as they set off.
“Nothing, it’s empty,” Ania had said without further elucidation.
For Dimple, it was another mystifying aspect of Ania’s life, a practice to try to decode later, during a break in her office work.
Ania and Dimple had buttery parathas for breakfast, hoodies thrown over their pajamas. Then they walked to the guesthouse, amazed at the number of petitioners there, the queue that stretched toward the front gate and did not seem to move.
“It reminds me of Shivratri in Nainital, all the people waiting to enter the Mukteshwar temple,” said Dimple.
Ania looked on in generalized sympathy. It reminded her of nothing. She had not stood in line for anything since boarding school in England.
Later they lazed about on the verandah, chatting and checking their phones. Ania mentioned Fahim from time to time, nimble little references to the awards he had won and the friends they had in common.
“So what do you think of him?” she asked finally.
“He seems so great, such a professional at all this.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
Dimple knew that Ania’s actions were often influenced by a range of motives, all benign but involving a complex network of social obligations and strictures. At first, on their way to Saharanpur, she had not even bothered to try to puzzle any of them out. The imminence of the encounter with Altaf Masood had been too overwhelming. But now Ania’s intent had become clearer to her, and she found herself swept along with the general euphoria.
She said, “No, what I meant is Fahim is really great. Funny, handsome, great.”
Ania looked satisfied and swung her legs off the sofa.
This was no longer the real world. She was on an adventure and felt able to suspend all normal rules. The house had a touch of theme park for her—it was a place where she could sit and shriek in a giant teacup or eat sweets until it was time to go to bed with a stomachache.
“Let’s have a look upstairs,” she said to Dimple.
“I don’t think we can just wander around his house.”
“Why not? He’s a public servant, and we are taxpayers. We have a duty to see what he’s up to. Come on.”
The first-floor corridor was lined with large framed photos of Altaf, in cricket whites, in the national team colors, at the wheel of a sports car, a formal portrait with his wife and children.
“She’s pretty,” said Dimple.
“Fabulous eyelash game,” said Ania.
They caught a glimpse of what looked like the master bedroom: a bedspread of pink silk, a white dressing table, touches of gold. It was difficult to imagine Altaf in that boudoir, his large male presence among those frills and tassels—he was a man who looked like he would happily bed down in a barn.
At the end of the corridor a servant asked them if they were lost.
“No, not all,” said Ania. “Altafbhai has sent us. You carry on.”
Dimple was aghast at the liberties they were taking but managed to find it within herself to follow Ania through the house, her gait determinedly casual.
They walked through a family room, leatherette sofas mushrooming from every wall, a games console in front of a giant screen. Up a short flight of stairs, they could see another corridor, curtains drawn over its windows. This part of the house looked largely unused. A musty sourness seeped from the ceiling.
They walked on, peering into rooms. In one they saw a roll of bedding and a plastic clothes horse, in another a mass of bathroom fittings—taps, rails, brackets—all scattered across the floor. A room at the end of the passage contained a life-size bronze statue with angel wings, its head crowned with a lampshade.
They walked into the room for a closer look.
“Do you think she turns on?” asked Dimple.
“I can’t see a switch,” said Ania.
“Her ass is even bigger than mine,” said Dimple, giving the statue’s bottom a sharp slap.
The bulb under the lampshade sparked alight, and both women screamed.
“Oh, do it again. No, let me,” said Ania.
They took turns at turning the lamp on and off, rapping the bronze buttocks with their knuckles, choked with laughter. A maid heard them and hurried into the room, panic written all over her face.
“Is something wrong?” she asked. “Shall I fetch sahib?”
“No,” said Ania, composing herself, “we just came into the wrong room. Is there a way out at the bottom of that staircase?”
They left the house, still snorting and setting each other off, their faces freshly beautiful with their abandon. Again they were asked if they were lost or whether they needed anything. They passed through the vegetable garden and spotted a door set in a high wall. It was unlocked and led to steps bordered with potted palms and tubs of marigolds. Here the grounds felt cut off and private.
They walked around a hedge and saw the swimming pool, an egg-shaped affair, its green water a little murky. A head crowned with a great rosette of hair was making its way up to the far end.
“Wonder who that is,” said Dimple.
The head turned around and began its return journey.
“That pool looks like it hasn’t been cleaned for a hundred years. She’ll probably be dead by the time she finishes her next lap,” said Ania with a shudder.
They both squinted as the head approached the near end, its neck still firmly erect, chin raised high. The breaststroke was stiff and tentative, the kicks feeble, as if the swimmer was as disgusted by the water as the spectators.
“That can’t be his wife. Didn’t he say she was away?” said Ania.
“Do you think it’s his mistress?” asked Dimple.
“I don’t think she would be allowed to swim up and down in front of everyone like this. I mean, there are party workers and constituents and, for God’s sake, a TV crew.”
The head reached the pool ladder, and two slim arms emerged from the water to adjust the rosette. The resettling complete, the head turned around and set off again.
“She’s too old to be his daughter,” said Ania.
“Sister?”
“Does he have one? No idea. Let me google,” said Ania, reaching inside her handbag.
The sun dipped behind a cloud, turning the water a cloudy gray. The frail kicks continued.
“Two brothers, no sister,” s
aid Ania.
“Maybe she came with the house,” said Dimple.
They walked back to the house, arms linked, looking forward to lunch.
* * *
—
FAHIM HAD FINISHED filming for the day and was on the front lawn telling Dimple about his preferred techniques to draw information from an interviewee. Ania joined them where they stood under a giant neem tree; matters seemed to be progressing well, but she had to guard against any complacency. According to Fahim, it had been a great day; and when the interview aired, they were really going to break the mold. Audiences were accustomed to seeing politicians thundering at them from a podium or looking stiff and surly in a studio. Earlier that day, they had filmed Altaf rustling up some eggs in the kitchen to make him seem even more accessible and unassuming—though the cook had been on hand to help, as Altaf had never handled an egg in his life.
Dimple appeared to be listening to Fahim as though he might ask her to repeat it all verbatim. Ania took the opportunity to leave the room and slip upstairs.
Everything in their guest room was oversize: the twin beds with the massive headboards, the reams of heavy curtains, the fruit basket covered in printed cellophane. The spikes of the enormous pineapple had easily broken through. Ania sat on the edge of a bed to perform her facial yoga and then allowed herself to lie back.
She called Renu to give her an update.
“I’m supposed to be going on a short trip tomorrow at sunrise with Fahim and Dimple. There’s some sort of fort here that everyone keeps insisting that we see; poor things, it’s their one tourist attraction. So I’m going to pretend I’m ill and drop out. I’m sure that if they’re left alone for a couple of hours, something will definitely happen.”
“Still matchmaking? I’m the auntie, remember, not you.”
“Oh, but, bua, if I didn’t bother, where would you and the colonel sahib be?”
“Yes, of course, you hardly need to remind me. Without you, my dear colonel would never have come into my life. Although, I should probably tell you that it all happened a lot sooner than you think.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, very soon after that first meeting, we both knew. And at our age it’s really not advisable to dillydally. So we were meeting each other at various times and places right from the start. Mostly at my friend Mona’s home.”
“But, bua, how terrible of you. How could you not tell me?”
“You’re not really surprised. You had an inkling, didn’t you?”
“I promise you, I didn’t.”
“I’m sorry, you seemed to be having so much fun arranging all those teas and whatnot. Neither of us had the heart to spoil your fun, and we were, of course, so grateful to you.”
“Well.”
“You’re the sweetest thing. Now, I think you should go ahead and see the fort tomorrow. You’ve gone all that way, after all. It would be such a shame to miss it. If Fahim and Dimple are interested in each other, things will proceed naturally once you all get back to Delhi. Now, call me again whenever you can, darling. Lots of love.”
Ania couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit annoyed with her bua and the colonel for their chicanery. There really was no need to creep about behind her back. It seemed a little unappreciative after all the trouble she had taken.
On a whim, she called Dev. It was a habit that annoyed him, since he preferred only to text, but she felt cajoling him into conversations would make him less socially awkward, another helpful endeavor she had embarked upon.
“Are you busy? You sound distracted,” she said.
“I was just getting ready to go out.”
“Where to?”
“On a date, if you must know.”
“How thrilling. Anyone I know?”
“No.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I know everyone. So who is she?”
“I’m not telling you. By tomorrow morning it’ll be all over Delhi.”
“Wow, this secretiveness must mean that she’s a major embarrassment. But I really won’t judge you. Is it a proper date or are you just hanging out?”
“Is there a point to this call?”
“You’re always saying how I never travel within India and I’m so out of touch. So I wanted to tell you that I’m in Saharanpur and it’s pretty amazing.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Social work.”
“You?”
“Really, I am. Putting all my efforts into a great cause. But coming back to your date, could I ask, what are you going to wear?”
“A kimono.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“When have you known me to wear anything other than what I always wear?”
“So, who is it? Is it that psycho you were dating a while ago? The one who bit you?”
“No.”
“Is it Mimi Faujdar?”
“Definitely not.”
“Oh my God, could it possibly be Ariana?”
“What is wrong with you?”
“I can do this all night.”
“I can’t. Good night. I hope the good people of Saharanpur realize how fortunate they are to have you in their midst.”
* * *
—
THE WEEKEND HAD gone from being a theme park visit to a camping holiday. Dinner was set up in a clearing in the mango orchard, lights glimmering in the trees, a bonfire casting a fierce glow. One of the television crew members got out his guitar. Ania did her best to secure a quiet spot for Dimple and Fahim, but the evening was far too loose and chaotic. Altaf drifted around, chuckling into his phone, and Fahim would appear at her shoulder, urging her to have another drink and then disappear, just as she managed to get tipsy Dimple to one of the outdoor sofas, arranged there for the evening.
As a server brought her another drink, she saw Altaf emerge through the trees. She followed him, emboldened by the weekend’s enjoyment.
“I’d like to thank you again for all your hospitality,” she said.
“Please don’t mention it. My pleasure.”
“It’s been so lovely. We spent some time by the pool this afternoon. There was another lady there too.”
It was as though a veil came down over Altaf’s bonhomie. He stayed silent.
“We didn’t get a chance to speak. Is she a relative?” she asked.
After a pause, he said, “She is a friend who is having a difficult time.”
He gave her an almost imperceptible nod and slowly turned away.
Even his reproach had been perfectly executed. Ania felt diminished all of a sudden, aware that her sense of abandon had led her into a mortifying lapse of decorum. When she looked toward the bonfire, Altaf was nowhere in sight. In spite of the people walking past and the loud talk and the clatter at the buffet, she had the unwelcome sensation of being all alone. She walked around the clearing and finally spotted Dimple on a sofa, her head lolling about.
As soon as they got to their room in the main house, Dimple fell asleep facedown on the bed, one shoe still on her foot. Ania slipped it off and covered her with a blanket. She began her nightly cleansing and moisturizing rituals, a routine that had only been interrupted once, during her bout of appendicitis. Many of the older women she knew flew to Innsbruck for periodic rejuvenating blood transfusions, apparently the only foolproof skincare regime. But Ania had opted instead to supplement her tofu extract face-cleansing capsules with seaweed skin patches and an oxygenated mist in a sheathed canister couriered to her from a hilltop in New Zealand.
She slid open the balcony door and stepped outside. The temperature had dropped fast, and she wrapped a shawl around her, covering her head and ears. She scanned the grounds and could see groups of men huddled around braziers, dogs rooting under the trees. A quarter moon hung weakly in the distance. What she felt at this moment in her
life was a deep sense of satisfaction. Its warmth came to her from many directions, and she was enjoying it too much to look closely for its precise source.
All her plans were progressing in the right direction; it was only a question of patience. There was a sense of everything being on hold till the next day, insects clicking and whirring to mark the time until the petitioners and the officials would return to the waiting room and the sweet tea would begin to flow again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DIMPLE WOKE THE next morning to loud moans from Ania, followed by an earnest explanation that she was suffering the worst cramps of her life. There were anxious offers from Dimple to cancel the trip, each of which was met with a stoic and determined refusal. This was probably the only chance Dimple would have to see the surrounding countryside; it could not be foregone.
Dimple did not dress for a date, but she took far greater care than a morning visit to a fort merited. It was too early for makeup, but she gave her eyelashes a lick of mascara; there was a quick spritz of the more expensive perfume; her top was simple, white, suggestive of advertisements for healthy juice drinks. Ania approved because she thought it would be what Fahim would appreciate. Ordinarily, her rule was to dress for one’s shape and personality, never for boys; but once in a while a girl could toss a boy a bone.
Dimple followed Ania’s advice with care, but she was equally cautious about appearing to imitate her or wanting to be her. In any case, it would be a futile exercise. Ania was a good few inches taller, her features so much more delicate and precise, and her hair was a tumble of rich and complex browns, as though it was always catching the sunlight, so unlike Dimple’s own weekday ponytail, jet-black and severe. And Ania carried herself like a dancer, even when she was barely moving, even if her hands were simply gesturing to emphasize another one of her confident assertions. It was all so far removed from Dimple’s own stiffness, never knowing what was required, a handshake or a hug, one breezy kiss or two, or simply a respectful nod of the head from a safe distance.
Naturally, Dimple had been convinced that many of Ania’s secrets would be uncovered in her bathroom. But when Dimple finally saw it, she was only further confounded. Half a dozen steps descended to the contoured tub. On the other side of the bathroom, complex sets of nozzles and faucets gleamed behind an enormous glass wall. For some reason a divan lay under the window, in the shadow of clusters of white roses. Dimple’s disloyal prying had made her heart thud as she opened the cabinets to examine the great assemblage of bottles, tubes, and sprays. The most surprising fact of all was that Ania did not shut the door when she disappeared to use the bathroom. As Dimple sat in the bedroom, Ania’s conversation would continue, a gentle tinkle hitting the porcelain, followed by the sound of the flush. Dimple would have assumed that this kind of exhibitionism was a sign of complete vulgarity, but it showed how wrong she was in so many areas of life. She tried it in her own home when her roommate was out. She settled down with the bathroom door wide open, trying to relax, her gaze fixed on the wall’s peeling plaster. And then moments later she heard her roommate’s key in the front door. She scrambled and stumbled to slam the bathroom door, her underwear still around her shins, almost breaking her nose in the process.
