by Mahesh Rao
“Good evening,” said Nina to Silky, before moving on. That would be all that Silky would get.
Serena Bakshi made her way toward Renu and Ania. She was known for her unerring taste, and since her compliments were rare it was presumed that they were sincere.
“You look stunning,” she said to Renu, who beamed and gave Ania’s arm a squeeze.
“Do you see Dileep anywhere? I have something important to discuss with him,” said Serena.
It was clear to Renu and Ania that she would reveal nothing more.
“He’s probably in the house,” said Ania, “come with me.”
Dileep had excused himself and gone upstairs to get one of the servants to see to his jacket sleeves with a clothes brush. As he left his room to return downstairs, he saw a shadow pass across the landing.
“There you are,” said Serena, “hope you don’t mind me coming upstairs.”
“Well, look, quickly, come in here.”
He led her into one of the bedrooms and shut the door.
“The house is full of people! You know what they’re like; if they see you heading toward my room . . .”
“God, why would you care? I’m sorry but I just can’t stand all that.”
“I really need to explain?”
“I thought . . . never mind. But I wanted you to know that I’ve heard back from him. He’s agreed to see you.”
“I’m sorry, after all you’ve done to help me, but I just have to be a bit careful. We’ll find a time to talk, I promise, just not tonight.”
He left the room and went downstairs as Serena waited a few moments, pacing, halting, never letting her gaze leave her reflection in the mirror. She was not a flirter. She had always found it difficult to maintain the correct balance of effervescence and intent and, in any case, had married early and believed that she would no longer need to trouble herself over other men. But as her marriage had begun to fail, she had turned her attention to Dileep Khurana. Like so many other women, she had seen a strong measure of safety in his impeccable manners and unimpeachable status. She had finally decided to try to flirt. But her approaches had elicited no reaction, and she had wondered whether he was gay. There had been no known dalliances with other women, no girlfriends or mistresses. But there had never been any rumors about other men either. Over the last decade, she had accepted that Dileep was simply uninterested in romance and would remain only a friend; even that was much more than most people could claim. But now they had discovered something to bring them much closer. The temptation to achieve a greater intimacy with Dileep had far outweighed any reservations she had about revealing the source of her great inner calm.
* * *
—
A GROUP OF six were seated on the terrace that overlooked the back lawns, Dev and Flavia among them. They had known each other for years, Flavia having restored Dev’s family’s holiday home in Goa before buying the plot next door to build her own internationally renowned tree house.
“Why am I even here? I know they like to keep the numbers low for this kind of event—they should have invited someone who appreciates the music. I have no ear for this sort of thing,” said Dev.
“Nonsense,” said Flavia, “just close your eyes. How can it not move something in your soul?”
She stood up and shimmied, passing her hands over her hips and then running them over her close-cropped hair.
Dev looked unmoved. Everyone was accustomed to Flavia’s bouts of exhibitionism.
“Honestly, I feel nothing but mild irritation. And boredom. Suddenly the seat seems hard or someone’s face looks really comical or I just want to have a loud coughing fit. And it’s not just this opera stuff, it’s all music. Jazz just sounds like furniture being moved around, Hindustani like cats being tortured, and please, let’s not even start on Carnatic.”
“Stop trying to be controversial,” said Flavia, sitting down again.
“I really mean it. I don’t like music, but I’m not allowed to say it. You all jump down my throat as though I plan to drown a sack of puppies. Music annoys me. I like silence. And yet I’m forced to come to these events. There’s so much noise in this country, wherever one goes. What’s wrong with a bit of silence?”
No one could think of a fitting response, and they all drifted off the terrace and descended into the garden, leaving Dev dandling a tumbler of whiskey at his knee, relieved. A man in a handlebar mustache clapped him on the shoulder, mistaking him for someone else. When he realized, his apology was spiked with annoyance, as if he had been hoodwinked. Waiters appeared bearing platters of delicate offerings that looked like they had been magicked out of a fairy story. Dev helped himself unthinkingly.
The colonel came up to him and shook his hand.
“So?” he said.
“So,” said Dev.
They stood and gazed at the lather of guests on the patio, the flash of white collars, the gleam of pearls, until Renu approached and grabbed the colonel’s arm.
“Darling, you can speak to Dev anytime. Come with me,” said Renu.
Renu was not blind to the sudden rise in her stock as a married woman and was keen to show off the colonel to as many people as she could. She led him onto the lawn, nodding at friends in a manner that was, for the first time in her life, almost queenly.
When Dev had finished his drink, he went upstairs. He had always had free run of the Khurana house, and as a child it had on occasion been a refuge from his rambunctious older brothers. He remembered the sweltering summer that the gazebo had gone up, days of hammering and clanking, white dust that flew onto the terrace in hot gusts. And then one afternoon work had suddenly stopped and the builders were sent home. An alien stillness had invaded the house. He’d wandered through the rooms and spotted Dileep in the study, drawing the curtains against the glare. When he turned around it was clear that he was weeping. Dev had backed away and then leaped down the stairs. It was the first time that he had seen an adult cry, a terrible vision. Later that afternoon on the way home in the car, Dev’s mother told him that Mrs. Khurana had died in the hospital from her injuries.
The study door on the upper floor was open, and Dev walked in. A table lamp threw a cone of light over Sigmund, asleep on the rug, his jowls in a miserable droop. Dev wondered what he had done with his glass; he was on his third whiskey, maybe fourth, and he was warm, fuddled, and content. He walked toward the Goya etching that had always fascinated him. Two muscular figures in a grapple, fingers pressing into an abundance of flesh, tendons strained with supreme effort. They were confined in that small square space, the awkwardness of their stance almost too much to bear. As a child Dev had imagined that they would crash out of the frame and brawl their way through the house. They would continue their macabre dance down the street, past horrified watchmen and drivers, whirling madly under the golden rain trees, the whole avenue a blur of high walls, wrought iron curlicues, and brass nameplates. And here, after all these years, the two figures had still not escaped the frame.
“You’re always skulking around miles from the action,” said Ania from the doorway.
Dev turned around. “Oh, hello. I came up to look at the Goya. I’ve missed it. What are you doing up here?”
She joined him in front of the etching.
“Our dear minister of land reform has asked to lie down for a few minutes. Apparently he shouldn’t have been drinking with his antidepressants.”
“Is anyone here not on antidepressants?”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, I would imagine that your natural jauntiness wards off all dark thoughts.”
“Funnily enough, I only have dark thoughts when I’m in your presence.”
He pretended to cuff her on the shoulder, but it was a mistimed and awkward gesture.
“You’re looking pretty amazing. What are all these silver bits? They look like the things you tie curtai
ns back with,” he said.
“It’s a fringed dress. You’re supposed to gasp at the way it catches the light.”
She twirled.
“Gasping as we speak,” he said.
“Thank you. You’d better come down. Agata’s about to start.”
He watched her go downstairs, deliberate in her heels, one hand pulling up her hem by a couple of inches. He continued to linger on the landing for a few minutes. On one side the sweep of the banister ended in a beautifully burnished volute; through the open door to his left he could see the corner of a gilt frame and a pile of books on a faded ottoman. He leaned over the balustrade. Murmurs floated up the staircase, a loud titter. A woman with an elegant topknot began to climb the stairs, a silver handbag dangling from her wrist; a few steps later she changed her mind and went back down. Staff in white jackets carried fresh glasses across the foyer.
He turned to give Sigmund a last look and then closed the study door. His glass was on a table by the stairs. He picked it up and went downstairs in search of a waiter.
* * *
—
THE CHANDELIERS IN the house’s largest reception room were reflected in the arched windows, and the air was thick with the fragrance of Marina’s white roses. At the back of the room stood the walnut Steinway, barely used in the ten years since Ania failed her grade 5 piano exams. The guests were seated on rows of chairs upholstered in bronze velvet, clutching the program notes, which had been bound with a black silk ribbon. Agata walked in, her face calm and expressionless, a black lace dress hanging off her body almost as it had trailed off its hanger. She was followed by the doleful-looking harpist, whose harp had successfully made it through Indian customs.
After the initial applause died down, there was a long pause before Agata began. A few heads turned; there was a hint of alarm, and in one or two cases, a hastening toward schadenfreude. But then Agata lifted her chin and sang the first lines of an aria from Rodelinda. In that instant, the light around her seemed to splinter. Her neck was bare but a thin silver bracelet glinted at her wrist. The harpist’s fingers moved with a barely perceptible precision, as though making music from the air.
Every seat was taken but a frigidity filled the room, a chill occasioned by an absence of interest. There existed an unspoken acknowledgment that the important proceedings were the ones that preceded and followed the performance, in the foyer, on the lawn, at the table. Oblivious, Agata sang on. Her body was still, stiff even, but her face blazed with expression—coquetry and joy and regret—all directed at an imaginary person stationed at the back of the room.
Ania had seated herself where she could keep an eye on Fahim and Dimple. She thought she saw Fahim stifling a few yawns, but Dimple was completely focused on the performance, leaning forward, for once not self-consciously fiddling with her hair. Instead of taking in the music, Ania observed the other guests and their reactions, part of a careful assessment of their suitability for further invitations. It was an appraisal that came as naturally to her as it had always done to Dileep.
In the second row, Renu’s eyes were almost closed. The world had become a gauzy film, shot through with spots of light, Agata’s stately form in the center. Her voice rippled and then flinched and then soared. Renu, unlike so many of the others, was listening. She recognized the strange helplessness in Agata’s voice as a great sadness. How had someone as young as Agata captured a feeling that Renu felt was reserved for the old or the dying?
Renu was overcome by an awareness of her exceptional good fortune, and she felt her heart clench. She had enjoyed so many towering advantages, and she had taken them all for granted. And now, late in life, she had stumbled upon a profound love that she had assumed she would never know. Her shoulders began to shake. She squeezed her eyes shut, but this forced the tears down her cheeks. She took a deep breath, trying to stave off sobs.
The colonel’s hand was in her lap, holding out a handkerchief. The pale blue square was perfectly ironed, and a darker blue stripe ran around its edge. It seemed to represent the colonel perfectly.
She buried her face in its vague smell of lavender.
The first part of Agata’s performance came to an end, and she lowered her head. The applause drowned out the last of Renu’s sniffles.
“Oh God, I’m sorry, I’m such a mess,” she said, dabbing at her eyes.
“No need to apologize at all,” said the colonel. “At least your snuffling sounds might have stopped some people from texting.”
Renu returned the handkerchief, and for a couple of seconds put her head on the colonel’s shoulder, the wool scratchy against her ear.
In the last row one other person had been transfixed by the performance. For the first time in Dev’s life, music had collapsed the space and sights around him. Perhaps he had really listened for the first time. What he found astonishing was that the final silence could hold within it even more significance than the music it followed. He kept his eyes closed until the sound in his head died away. When he opened them, they locked with Ania’s. She stood up and looked as though she was about to approach him. Embarrassed, he looked away.
* * *
—
GREAT CARE HAD been taken with the name cards placed on the fifteen tables, but the builder from Noida found himself next to Agata for a moment as they looked for their places.
“Welcome to India. I hope you have been enjoying yourself here,” he said.
“It is a beautiful country,” said Agata, lowering her head, the same gesture that had marked the end of her performance. “Such dignity, so many truths.”
“Yes. My cousin is a producer in Bollywood,” he said. “He hires many Slovakian dancers for his films. Indian men go crazy for Slovakian women.”
“I’m Slovenian,” she said.
“Oh yes, from there too. They are also highly appreciated.”
Waiters began to serve the main course. Anita Malwani had been seated next to the colonel and at a considerate distance from Silky Chhabra. The colonel was a stolid chewer. He had experienced long periods stationed in the mountains with little comfort—and would never forget. He was greatly appreciative of the benediction of good food and liked to eat without distraction. Anita Malwani, however, had come to the party to chat.
“What a shame it is that you two didn’t meet years ago. What wonderful children you would have had,” she said, taking advantage of Renu’s brief absence from the table.
“We’ve both been perfectly happy without children,” said the colonel. “In all honesty, I find them quite boring. All those dull games and the repetition. I much prefer them when they are adults.”
“Nonsense. Renu would have loved children. Look at the way she dotes on Ania.”
“Well, I also have a nephew whom I am terribly fond of. But I can assure you I have not been pining for any of my own.”
“It’s different for women. Nature has created an urge within us,” she said, pointing to her breasts with her fork. “There is no use fighting it.”
She looked at him for a response and then made an attempt to drive the point home by indicating her cleavage again, the repository of her maternal urges. The colonel returned to his lamb. A few tables away, Silky was being commended for having had the same husband for more than thirty years.
“All these years and nothing has changed in the bedroom department. We still rock,” said Silky.
The British high commissioner’s wife gave her a weak smile and reached for her glass of Chablis.
On the next table, Renu watched Nina holding court. Even at this age, she was magnificent, her face sculptural, the cheeks softly hollow, eyes still glimmering with possibility, a beautiful shadow at the base of her thin neck. She whispered theatrically and then let out a thin, cruel laugh. The man next to her stared down at his hands.
Renu knew Nina would not have missed her emotional scene. She was far too wo
rldly to mention it now, but it would have been cataloged for future use. Nina’s neighbor was looking up at her in some sort of wordless appeal; she was ignoring him, intent on a conversation on her other side, hand toying with the stem of her glass. She could be so much kinder, thought Renu. It was all such a waste, such a terrible waste. And in the next moment it occurred to her that people must think the very same of her own life too.
* * *
—
ANIA HAD BEEN warned not to Instagram the event—Dileep liked to maintain what he saw as a kind of Khurana mystique—but her fingers lingered over her phone. She looked up as she saw Silky Chhabra waving to her.
She called out, “Ania, I’ve been meaning to speak to you properly all night. I have the most wonderful idea for your novel.”
“How clever of you. Later, maybe,” said Ania.
Silky had a son who was so uncouth and dissolute that even Delhi’s most ardent gold diggers steered clear. This was in spite of the fact that the family was rumored to own, among other business interests, almost half the gas stations in Punjab. For the last year, she had been on a mission to try to burnish his reputation in Ania’s presence, explaining that he was callow and misunderstood, requiring nothing more than the love of an intelligent woman to bring out his finer qualities. Silky patted the empty seat next to her and beckoned to Ania, who blew her a kiss and turned to look at her phone.
Ania was delighted with the progress in her plans. She had caught Dimple watching Fahim as they came down the stairs: a look of complete absorption and something else, a sort of resolve. And she had never seen Fahim be so charming, feigning interest in the most tedious conversations around them, teasing old dowagers with some beautifully timed banter, flattering Dileep’s tiresome golfing friends.
After dessert there were two empty places at Ania’s table, the wineglasses drained, a napkin dropped on the parquet. She smiled to herself and pushed her chair back. She hadn’t seen Fahim and Dimple leave the table, but she could see that now would be the perfect time. There would be easy chatter and the warmth from the wine, a stroll to the quiet spot on the steps that led to the pool, above their heads the Moroccan lamps swaying slightly. She slipped off the strap of her sandal and rubbed her heel.
