by Mahesh Rao
There were questions of future utility to be balanced with the danger of current solecism. Favors sometimes had to be returned, but in the correct measure and on the appropriate occasion. Acts of censure were necessary and inevitable. The creation of a guest list was not dissimilar to the use of valves and gauges to control the addition of a precious liquid into an experiment of great complexity. A crucial equilibrium had to be maintained at all times.
And when rising Slovenian opera star Agata Župan agreed to give a private performance at a residence in New Delhi, the stakes were even higher. Dileep had met Agata at a party at his town house in New York—she was his chiropractor’s date—and had been impressed by her quiet modesty and sublime cheekbones. She had just won a major international award, had signed a contract with the Lyric Opera of Chicago, and was being persuaded by her agent to write a memoir with plenty of photos. Agata told Dileep that she had always been fascinated by India. While she was, of course, delighted that the Iron Curtain no longer existed, she could not help but feel that the West was a corrupting influence. True happiness lay in the sanctity and temperance of the East.
Dileep agreed, and his kind invitation was accepted almost immediately. The more prosaic details involving her fee and travel arrangements would be dealt with by others; what really mattered was that they felt sure their encounter on that crisp spring evening would be the beginning of a dear friendship.
The dates for Agata’s trip were finally confirmed, and she wrote to say that she was now a vegan. Dileep, Renu, and Ania sat at their dining room table with their diaries, phones, and tablets. Strewn around them were Post-it notes and sugar-free bonbon wrappers. Dileep’s hair stood up in an uncharacteristic tuft as he absently ran his hand through it. Renu had refused the fennel tea and started on the red wine. Ania chewed the end of a hair-grip. Every so often, Sigmund dragged his aged body to each of them, and they gave him a distracted stroke or two. It was, in essence, a wartime cabinet meeting.
So far, Serena Bakshi, the head of marketing for a major French fashion house, was in.
Restaurateur couple Krish and Candy Mehra, having decided not to fund Dev’s lecture series, were out.
The colonel’s expedited visa was still fresh in everyone’s minds and, as a result, the British high commissioner and his wife were in.
Historian Mingel Andrade had not been forgiven for an injudicious tweet and was out.
There were renewed rumors that famed architect Flavia da Costa had received a fabulous commission to build a new presidential palace in Kazakhstan. She also happened to hail from one of Goa’s most prominent land-owning families. Naturally, she was in.
One question mark was the big builder from Noida.
“We have to invite him,” said Dileep. “He seems to be buying up entire sectors. And I’ve heard he’s going to be funding quite a bit of you-know-who’s election campaign.”
The builder from Noida was in.
“What are these names?” asked Dileep, adjusting the size of the font on his tablet, too vain to use reading glasses. “Fahim? Dimple? Ania, I’m not bringing Agata all the way over here so you can have a party for your random friends. We have very limited places.”
“Oh, Papa, please. They’re such close friends, and they’ll never get a chance like this again. They’ll be so thrilled,” said Ania.
“Oh, let them come, what difference will two seats make,” said Renu. “I need one place for the colonel’s nephew, Nikhil. But it’s a bit of a question mark. We’re not sure when exactly his sabbatical starts and when he’ll get to India.”
“Is he hot?” asked Ania.
“I haven’t met him yet, but I have been led to believe that he is indeed hot,” said Renu.
“Well then, he can come. Now, who else?”
“What about Kamya Singh-Kaul? I hear she’s back in town.”
“Over my dead body.”
“But why, darling? She seems lovely, and her father is now something even bigger at the UN. And she’s a writer, like you.”
“Look, no way. Let’s just drop it. What about the Kannaujia crowd?”
“Here, take my list,” said Dileep. “Why don’t you two just cross out the whole damn thing and invite whoever you like—your butcher, baker, candlestick maker.”
Renu took a long look at the list.
“You’ve got both Silky Chhabra and Anita Malwani on here. One of them will have to go or there will be blood on the floor.”
It was commonly known that Silky Chhabra had warned Anita Malwani against arranging a home birth for her first grandchild. The whole process, she had announced, was uncivilized, dangerous, and disgusting. Anita had ignored the advice, and her daughter had gone on to give birth to healthy twins in the upstairs reception room of their Malcha Marg home. Silky had never forgiven her for this affront and had spread it about that the twins were a little simple. Anita had retaliated by posting unflattering pictures of Silky on Facebook, taken in her home during happier times.
“I don’t know,” said Dileep with a heavy sigh. “Of the two, Silky’s probably nastier. You better cancel Anita then.”
Renu gave it a moment’s consideration and thought it would be more entertaining to have them both there after all.
* * *
—
THEY EYED EACH other: Dimple and the cardboard cutout. The figure’s eyes carried a joyful gleam that had stopped Dimple on her way into the shopping center. She ran her eyes over the flight attendant’s uniform—the tight red skirt, the natty scarf, the pillbox hat—and tried to imagine herself in it. Years ago at school she had been convinced that she would never get the marks required for a good university and that her only option to make an independent life for herself would be to take to the skies. The language in the recruitment advertisements mimicked the trajectory of the flights and spoke only of soaring dreams and looking up to the heavens and the sky being the limit. She had been on a flight only once at that stage and had spent the entire time scrutinizing the serene faces of the women as they handed out drinks and checked on passengers’ seat belts.
A strong wind shook the cutout, and the woman nodded at Dimple. She took one last look at the woman who seemed to be so vehemently happy with her life as a flight attendant, her hand grasping her waist with such confidence. Dimple was aware of what she had escaped, and felt that she had escaped it by the narrowest of margins. She had heard about the long hours, the aggressive male passengers, the late payments of salaries, the summary sackings, the MP who had beaten a member of the cabin crew with a shoe for not allowing him to sit in an empty business class seat. The girls were coming in from even smaller towns, their accents and deportment requiring so much more work, their perspectives far more naïve than hers had ever been. It wouldn’t have been an escape route but rather a trap.
Dimple walked into the pharmacy in the shopping center. Standing a few feet away was none other than Nina Varkey. Nina put her reading glasses on and began to look closely at the tube she was holding. Even when reading a label, she looked magnificent and imperial, in a gray dress that wound about her body and pearls at her ears. Dimple had first met her in the foyer of Ania’s house, and they had run into her again at the club. Dimple had, of course, read and enjoyed many of Nina’s old columns, and Ania had later rattled off some of the scandals in which Nina was said to have been the prime offender. When they met, Dimple had almost curtsied.
Nina put the tube back on the shelf and looked up. Dimple’s instinct was to duck down and appear to be in search of an item on the floor or perhaps even dash out of the shop. But this was not how polished persons conducted themselves. It was entirely possible that Nina would say a few kind words to her, make a polite inquiry, maybe say that she would like to meet her properly someday with her good friend Ania. After all, when they had been introduced, she was sure that Nina had given her an appraising but approving look, a sign of having passed
muster.
Nina turned to speak to the man behind the counter while Dimple loitered by the dental care products, following her progress. It was Dimple’s turn to pick up tubes and look at the small print.
“Exceptional relief for symptoms of lichen planus.”
She had thought that lichen grew only on trees and walls, but here was evidence that it could sprout on bodies too. Unless this had nothing to do with the other kind of lichen. She replaced the tube hurriedly and walked toward the door.
Nina picked up her packet and put her sunglasses back on. Dimple stood a few feet in front of the door, at first gazing into the distance in a casual manner and then deciding to look at Nina and give her a broad smile.
Nina settled her handbag on her shoulder. She walked out of the door as though the only thing around her was the chill air of the shop, with its vaguely floral odor.
* * *
—
“SHALL WE STRETCH our legs a little? I love it when the weather is just about to change,” said Dev.
Dileep was a little taken aback that he should suggest walking anywhere in Delhi, but since they were by Lodi Gardens he supposed it would be all right. He was often surprised by Dev’s proclivities and never sure whether they were just an attempt to garner attention. Perhaps it was only natural for him to make a virtue of his peculiarity.
The Khuranas had known the Gahlots for three generations, ever since a senior Khurana had managed to obtain an insurance premium at a favorable rate from a senior Gahlot. Both families’ business interests had prospered in tandem since those early days, and their lives had become entwined socially and professionally. Precious contacts had been shared, favors exchanged, and bad news obligingly suppressed.
Dev had three older brothers, all of whom had gone on to distinguish themselves in business and industry. Their endeavors were presented as exemplary case studies at management schools, and their square jaws and rimless glasses often adorned the covers of business magazines. Dev was the only one who had banished himself to academia, imparting and adding to a body of knowledge that appeared to be of value only to those who published books in the field, books bought exclusively by Dev and his colleagues. Dileep had never understood the attraction of this circularity. It seemed a dismal way to proceed through life.
Nonetheless, Dileep enjoyed being with Dev. He could let down his guard a little and not feel he was in competition for anything. Dileep’s fetishes sent him hurtling toward youth, and Dev’s disposition made him seem like a visitor from an older era. It was a curious fit. They played tennis, and Dileep always won. They would have dinner occasionally, one anxious about the fat content, the other happy as long as the food was plentiful and didn’t take too long to arrive. They could indulge in easy silences over a drink, breaking them only to remind themselves of a much-repeated joke, the punch line familiar and snug. There was no secret that had not been shared between the members of their families, no celebration unattended, no crisis where they had not all come together.
They set off through the park, away from the rush hour commotion on Max Mueller Marg, a thin moon nestled above the tree line. The evening cold had descended, the change from the mellow warmth of the day always as sudden as a dousing. They saw the bobbing of a flashlight through the tracery of hedges and shrubs. A spaniel came rooting around their feet, exploring Dileep’s loafers with great interest. They both squatted to make a fuss over their new friend, tickling him under his ears and chin.
“Swarovski,” called his owner.
“Swarovski?” said Dev.
Dileep chuckled.
“Here, Swarovski, now. We’re going home,” came the frosty reply.
They continued up the path, past the rose garden, through small copses where mynas and weaverbirds were returning to their nests. Glittering in the gravel a few feet ahead were a handful of beads; a necklace had snapped earlier in the evening as its owner hurried home, perhaps later fretting at the bad omen.
“How’s work?” asked Dileep.
“Can’t complain,” said Dev. “And you?”
“Me too. Same as usual.”
The steady crunch of gravel receded on an adjacent path, and somewhere behind a ruined wall a woman stifled a laugh. Shadows lay along their path: the dark spike of a palm, the thin lines of palings. As they crossed the bridge, the pond caught a splash of moonlight, and there was a flash of white feathers in the reeds.
“Where are you off to after this?” asked Dev.
“I thought I’d drop by Nina’s,” said Dileep.
“How is she?”
“Good. You know Nina.”
“Things any better with the son?”
“No, he still won’t talk to her. They haven’t spoken for over ten years. But she e-mails him once a week. Every single week.”
“And he never responds?”
“Never.”
The darkness was now complete. It felt as though the ice cream sellers had gone home to be replaced by ghosts that had trailed through this city for thousands of years. The two men wandered off the path and toward the yellow haze that surrounded the tombs. Beams of light flooded through the arches. The scars on a turret looked as though they were stained with purple; near their feet a cracked tile glimmered blue.
“How are plans going for the party?” asked Dev. “Ania has been calling to give me updates, but I don’t always understand them.”
Dileep smiled.
“I’ve never met two people as different as you. What exactly do you talk about when she calls you?” he said.
“I must confess, it’s mainly her doing the talking.”
“Don’t say another word against my darling girl. The consequences will be extreme.”
“The consequences are already extreme. I have to come to another one of your parties.”
Dileep chuckled again.
The starless sky had turned a deep indigo, and rows of lampposts poured their sulfurous light onto the benches, the flower beds, the pathways. At the top of a craggy set of steps they could see two pairs of legs stretched out and almost entwined. They exchanged a glance, smiled, and turned to leave the park.
“Ah, the folly of youth. But the mad desire to be that foolish again . . . ,” said Dileep. He thought he had displayed a particular courage to joke about it in this way. And while he expected a reassuring response from Dev—“but you seem younger than most men I know”—none came.
* * *
—
THE ARRANGEMENTS FOR Agata and her accompanist were complete. A request had to be lodged at the highest level of the Central Board of Indirect Taxes and Customs to ensure that the accompanist’s harp would reach the Khurana home without delay. If all went well, their contact knew he would find himself the recipient of a bounteous Diwali hamper later in the year.
The save-the-date card went out eight weeks in advance, providing hardly any information but accompanied by a box that contained a tiny pair of opera glasses. A low thrumming turned into a surge across the social circuitry of South Delhi. People who had not been in touch with the Khuranas for months made a sudden reappearance. Dileep was questioned at various holes around the golf course and, in one instance, followed into his chiropractor’s clinic. Renu enjoyed herself by telling a couple of close friends about their visitor’s international acclaim and then switching her phone off for the rest of the day.
There was a daily enumeration of invitations already received and those that might simply have been delayed. Rumors spread. Dileep Khurana was finally remarrying—and he had picked a European singer. The Khuranas were flying a few of their close friends to Vienna. Ania was involved in a new business, and it had something to do with the opera. An exact picture of the guest list eventually emerged, and Agata Župan was discussed over lunches and dinners as though she had been a South Delhi fixture for years.
A few days later on the far w
estern side of the city, past the cranes that thrust up at the grubby sky, beyond rutted lanes choked with garbage, on the other side of an illegal settlement, a bridge collapsed into a heap of rubble. But on Prithviraj Road no one really noticed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WITHIN AN HOUR of the first guests arriving, a few reputations had been destroyed and the prospect raised of a marriage bringing together two revered families in the petrochemical industries. The caterer had flown in from Rome with his team the previous day and was overseeing rows of marinated quails in the kitchen. Across the lawn, groups began to form, their composition influenced by the prevailing currents of business rivalry, sexual entanglements, and the poaching of domestic staff. Some of the men had worn burgundy or navy velvet jackets instead of tuxedos, unaware that Dileep would be certain to take a dim view. The women trailed their deconstructed saris or previously unworn couture through the rooms. Marina had managed to source parfum de Provence white roses and orchids whose large petals blushed a ballet slipper pink in the foyer and reception rooms. She had hiked up the total cost as much as she dared. In her invoice, she added a “special dispensation fee.”
Nina Varkey was one of the last to arrive, even later than Silky Chhabra. Nina and Silky had served on some of the same boards and committees and had enjoyed sparring over the years. They were well-matched: Nina had the pedigree, but Silky’s husband had earned an extraordinary fortune through improperly obtained mining concessions. Silky had come of age in an era when international flights were still unusual and glamorous, a time when wealthy businessmen routinely married air hostesses. She had met Raj Chhabra as she served him coffee high above the Arabian Sea, and as a consequence, Nina rarely passed up the opportunity to make a joke about in-flight security procedures in her presence. But today, she was not in the mood.
