by Mahesh Rao
Dina left the room, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.
There was a brief silence.
When Dev spoke, his tone was sharp. “Ania, did you have to insist in that way? She clearly didn’t want to say. And now we know why.”
“Well, I didn’t know it was going to be that. Anyway, it was all Nikhil’s idea. He got us on to the subject.”
“But how was I supposed to know about the jumping pink flowers?” asked Nikhil, raising his hands in protest.
He smiled and then began to giggle, clapping his hand over his mouth.
“Oh stop,” said Ania.
The next instant, she was in fits too.
“Stop it, you two,” said Renu. “Poor thing, she might come back any moment.”
“I’m sorry, but tell him!” said Ania, her voice still choked. “Oh God, why did she have to mention the pink flowers?”
“‘It looked like they were trying to kill each other,’” said Nikhil.
He and Ania exploded into fresh sputters.
“Thank you for lunch,” said Dev, standing up. “I must make a move.”
“Dev, so lovely to see you,” said Renu. “I’ll call you soon.”
“Goodbye, all,” said Dev, nodding at Dileep and raising his hand at no one in particular. He left the room through the other door, and they could hear him stride through the hall. A few seconds later, the front door slammed.
Renu pushed her chair from the table and signaled to the colonel. Dileep stood up too and went into the hall.
The sun had moved to this side of the house, and a few flecks of light trembled on the dark wood of the table.
“That went well,” said Ania when they had all left. “Any other sparkling topics of conversation you have up your sleeve?”
Nikhil leaned forward and said, “Let’s do something really bad this afternoon. Something bad and expensive.”
“You are such a terrible influence,” she said. “Come on.”
She smiled and stood up. Dev’s irritating, old-fashioned ways made her want to provoke him with some imprudently silly behavior. He ruined everything by pointing out the harm in what everyone knew were harmless follies. She fussed with her hair as she left the room, her thoughts drifting back to the slam of the front door.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE LINE OF vehicles looked endless, hot metal and dusty windows in every direction. There was a great burst of revving and hooting; they all moved a few inches and then halted again. Ania regretted having offered Renu and Anita Malwani a lift to the Imperial on her way to the vet’s. They were all crammed into the car, Renu in the passenger seat googling the causes of gum disease in dogs, Ania in the backseat, sandwiched between a glum Sigmund and a sleeping Anita. Her head was thrown back, her lower jaw had fallen open, affording a clear view of her darkly pitted molars.
“Can’t we have a blast of the AC for just a few seconds?” asked Renu.
“No, Siggy goes crazy if his window is up,” said Ania.
“All right then. I must say, it never fails to surprise me how amazing Google is. No matter what you are looking for. It’s quite frightening, actually.”
“Have you ever googled yourself?”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t dare; but I caught the colonel doing it the other day. He was horribly embarrassed.”
Ania shot Anita a dark look as she began to snore. Her thighs seemed to spread on the seat, the dark silk of her skirt straining across them. On Ania’s other side, Sigmund shifted heavily.
“Will you sit still, Sigmund; stop all this bloody wriggling,” she said.
“How terrible. It looks like gum disease in dogs may be a precursor to heart trouble or other organ damage,” said Renu.
“There’s no point in you trying to diagnose him online. We are literally on our way to the vet.”
“Also, a sign of diabetes. Oh dear. You know there is so much diabetes in the family. I wonder if dogs in South Asia are as high risk as the humans.”
“Can we please stop discussing this?”
“You’re in a funny mood. I’m just trying to help poor Siggy.”
They had hardly moved at all. Fumes from a bus drifted in through the open window on Sigmund’s side. Anita and Sigmund both let out a wheeze within seconds of each other. Ania could feel the tickle of sweat trickling down her back.
“Bua, do you remember Fahim? He was here that night when Agata sang. God, inviting him was such a mistake,” said Ania.
“Yes, I think I do.”
“It really doesn’t matter if you don’t. Anyway, I’ve just heard that he’s got married.”
“Oh how wonderful; what happy news.”
“It’s not happy news at all. It’s quite irritating news.”
“Why? Did you have a thing for him?”
“Ugh, no. It’s too complicated to explain. But I just don’t understand how a guy can be single one day and then suddenly married in no time to somebody that no one has ever heard of. Men really are so disgusting.”
“I’m a feminist, but I really don’t think it’s fair to go around saying things like that. I know plenty of very nice men. This friend of yours, is he the one who was on TV? The journalist?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe there’s something about the wedding online. Let me google it.”
“Do you really have nothing better to do? How are the French classes going?”
A commotion of hooting started up again, and the driver craned his neck to get a better look. It felt as though there was a steady tick underneath it all, the approach of a furious confrontation. All around them the air seemed to shimmer.
“This is just unbearable,” said Ania.
“Oh, look, it’s on some funny gossip website. They got married in England, it says here. In a castle. His wife is English. Did you know that? It appears that she’s very well known in Jaipur. She’s writing an intimate memoir of one of the royals somewhere in Rajasthan,” said Renu.
Ania reached for Sigmund and tickled him under the chin.
“You’re not very well known in Jaipur, are you, my darling little wretch.”
Sigmund turned to face her and drooled.
“Oh God, your breath,” said Ania.
He barked, and Anita woke up with a start.
“We haven’t moved at all,” she said.
“Nothing more about her,” said Renu. “Just that she’s from England, has been living in India for a while, and has a keen interest in our royal families.”
“Everyone’s a royal today, my dear. As long as you can point out a turret or two on your house and find a ragged photo of a turbaned ancestor on a horse, or better still, an elephant. Much more distinguished these days to say you hail from a line of butlers,” said Anita.
She leaned her head against the window and within seconds was snoring again.
“Now I do remember this Fahim chap,” said Renu. “But wasn’t he the one who was after your friend Dimple?”
“Well, apparently not, as we can see.”
“Shame, what a sweet girl she is. How is she, anyway?”
“I haven’t really seen much of her recently. We’ve both been busy.”
Ania turned to face the road, trying not to touch Anita Malwani’s warm flank. Not a leaf stirred; there were no pedestrians on the verge; in the far lane a truck had been abandoned. Drivers had turned engines off and one or two were standing in the middle of the traffic.
She had let it drift for long enough. There had been a series of lackluster messages, vague promises to meet. For weeks, Ania had repeatedly nursed and then suppressed the fear that Dimple would find out about her last encounter with Fahim. She was not to blame; most of the time, Ania was certain that she had done nothing to lead him on. But a doubt would crash through, and she would become convinced that Dimple would
accuse her of being a treacherous friend, greedy for all the attention. The thought filled her with a combination of defiance and shame. And now she had made it worse by avoiding Dimple, one more failing to add to the awful chain of events. She got out her phone and made a list of things she could take Dimple soon—peace offerings, but nothing excessive that would look like an admission of culpability.
* * *
—
DIMPLE BIT HARD on her lower lip as she attempted to stifle her giggles. She and Ania were in their bikinis, lying facedown on adjacent massage beds in the pool house. A curl of incense unfurled around their heads as the Khuranas’ regular masseur, Anasuyaben, performed her preliminary rituals. She muttered an incantation, shook a bamboo rattle, and then ran around the massage beds clockwise. Dimple buried her face into the firm surface of the bed.
Anasuyaben was a tiny woman with a tight gray bun whose anklets jingled as she moved. Her unique massage technique—she sometimes stood on their backs and barked—had at first been looked upon with some suspicion by the Khuranas. But the effects had proved to be so potent and enriching that she now visited twice a week. On this occasion, since Dimple would also be present, Anasuyaben was accompanied by her sister-in-law, a woman twice the size of Anasuyaben and apparently equally skilled. She had looked at the house and the pool with disapproval but had saved her most vinegary expression for Dimple.
Dimple was unaccustomed to strangers being paid to pummel her body. She was squeamish about being touched in at least half a dozen places. She managed to counter her natural inhibitions during sexual encounters with the assistance of alcohol and a fervent application of her will. Ankit was the only man who had made her feel like an equal participant.
She had only agreed to the massage session because Ania had been so insistent and sincere in her wish to make amends.
“But Fahim probably does this to lots of girls. Or maybe it was just me he didn’t like. It’s a hundred percent not your fault,” Dimple had said to Ania.
“Why the hell shouldn’t he like you? You’re the one who’s far too good for him. Ugh, hateful creep. Anyway, you have to experience the magic of Anasuyaben. It’ll make you feel so much better. She reorders the inner cosmic force of our beings, you know.”
Anasuyaben’s sister-in-law continued to look at Dimple as though she was an urchin who had shinned up the drainpipe to gain entry into the house. It was as though she had known in an instant that Dimple had no business lying around the Khurana pool in a bikini and intended to punish her for it. While she hadn’t stood on Dimple’s back, her technique seemed harsh and condemning, like the pecks of an angry bird. At one point Dimple was convinced she had felt a hard pinch. And now the woman had begun to press into the lower half of Dimple’s bottom. It was a tender spot that threatened to release all her suppressed laughter.
She concentrated hard on dark, frightening thoughts: the possibility of losing her job, the death of her mother, someone breaking her newly acquired ceramic dinner set. But the laughter kept welling up. The woman now seemed to be shaking the bamboo rattle over her head. It was a vision that sent another giggle hurtling into her chest.
“Isn’t this amazing? She learned it all in some obscure village in the Kutch desert,” said Ania, turning to her.
Dimple cackled but tried to make it sound as though it was a groan of pleasure.
“I knew you’d love it. If you want, I can arrange for the lady who’s doing you to come to your place every week.”
“No, no, that’s too much; you’ve already done more than enough.”
“It’s nothing. I just wanted to get your mind off you-know-what. And please let’s agree that we are never going to mention his name again. Anyway, I have another surprise for you. Your mind is going to be blown. Are you ready? I’ve arranged with an amazing artist to do your portrait. Sunflower Parathasarathy? Have you heard of him? Very cool, very up and coming.”
Dimple stayed silent for a few moments before saying, “Wow, thanks. Sunflower. Is that a boy or a girl?”
“Boy. His real name is Parashuram, but you can see that he needed something with impact. Fabulous artist. He’s doing this as a special favor. He’ll make you look amazing.”
“So, portrait, like a painting, in a frame?”
“What else would it be in? A bucket?”
“No, I mean, that’s really sweet of you but it’s just too much, too grand for me.”
“Oh please, you hardly move without taking a selfie. This is just a step up. I’m doing it for you.”
“It’s really, really sweet but I can’t. I have nowhere to hang it anyway. My landlord still hasn’t fixed the leak in the hall and the bedroom walls are so thin. If I tried to hammer a nail there, the painting would end up in Bubbly Auntie’s kitchen.”
“My God, Dee. This is a chance at making history. He’ll be huge one day, and you’ll have a portrait of yourself by him. All you have to do is arrange with his assistant about going to his studio. You might have to sit over seven or eight days.”
“Eight days? How can I do that? I have a job, in case you’ve forgotten.”
There was a moment when something seemed to swell in the air around them. Dimple felt heat creeping up her neck. She had been too blunt.
Ania let out a long sigh.
“You’re right. It’s the sitting time, isn’t it? I hadn’t really thought of that. Although you’re lucky. At least you only have one job. I feel like I’m being pulled in a hundred different directions, all the things people want me to do for them. It’s true, you know. If anyone asked me to sit for a portrait, I really wouldn’t have a clue when I’d do it.”
Anasuyaben let out a whoop.
The bamboo rattle was hurled into a corner of the room.
“Look, I’ll just arrange it with Sunflower, and if you do have some time, get in touch with him. Otherwise, I’ll ask him to give you something else he’s done. Apparently, he’s great at flora and fauna too. He’s famous for his frogs, I think.”
* * *
—
IT HAD ALL begun in Serena Bakshi’s sensational Maharani Bagh apartment. Dileep could not have thought of a more unlikely place for his discovery. Serena displayed, in every way, a tyrannical focus on aesthetics. She worked for a major French fashion house, but her obsession with what she considered essential to the eye went far beyond devotion to her work. Acquaintances found it difficult to relax in her presence, even though she was far too well mannered to criticize. They became conscious of the creases in their skirts, the ugly contents of their handbags. Serena’s dedication naturally extended to every square inch of her home: the wrought iron balusters cast a sublime shadow on the checkerboard floor, her Edward Weston photographs were all perfect whorls and sinews, the white curtains came from Milan.
One evening as Serena took a call in another room, Dileep had begun to toy with the boxes on an occasional table, delicate rosewood caddies whose lids had to be twisted and pried open. In one of the boxes he found some fingernail clippings; in another, some coins, a snip of hair, and a shriveled red chili; in a third box, a mound of ash-like powder. A revolting odor wafted from this substance, and he recoiled, dropping the box on the floor.
Serena rushed back into the room and stared at the streaks of gray on her white rug.
“Oh my God, what have you done?” she said, her voice almost a whisper.
“I’m so sorry. How clumsy of me. Don’t worry, we’ll get it cleaned up, I promise. But what is all this stuff? It smells disgusting. Have you become a witch doctor in your spare time?”
Serena was silent for a moment. And then she let out a terrible sob and sank into a chair. She buried her face in her hands and her shoulders shook. Dileep’s instinct was to turn and flee. He knew he had committed an appalling blunder but was at a complete loss.
He only knew Serena as a woman of inscrutable composure, guarded and driven.
She was a wonder, a miracle worker, a woman who had managed to persuade the iron-fisted old families of Delhi to accept the Bakshis back into their fold after years of disgrace; a disgrace that was so much graver than embezzlement or graft, since it involved a woman descending into the most sordid of worlds.
“That Nirmala Bakshi.”
Every so often in a Delhi drawing room an aged matriarch who survived mainly on the nourishment provided by old scandals would mumble the name of Serena’s grandmother. The Bakshis were known to have a preponderance of daughters, most of them doe-eyed nymphs who would go on to make advantageous marriages. Nirmala, however, had been struck with asthma and buckteeth and was considered of little consequence by the rest of the extended family. Bright and capable, she was an English literature gold medalist and was offered a lectureship at one of the city’s prestigious arts colleges for women. It was 1962, and even in conservative Delhi, the world seemed full of possibilities for an ambitious young academic. One evening, at a reception hosted by the college to celebrate the strengthening of ties among the countries of the Non-Aligned Movement, a South American diplomat put his hand on her knee.
“There is to be friendship between our countries, yes?” he asked.
“No,” said Nirmala, standing up swiftly.
But Nirmala was not, in fact, feeling that unfriendly: an idea had begun to form. The college was full of quick-witted, liberated girls who were long on ambition but short of cash. They wanted to travel, accumulate a nest egg; the more daring ones even wished to move away from home. Nirmala was confident that some of these girls would have no objection to a quick fumble between lectures or after classes. New five-star hotels were sprouting up near the college, full of itinerant politicians, diplomats, and bureaucrats from around the globe. Nirmala had the organizational skills to bring the girls and the men together for a small commission.
Over the next year her scheme was such a success that she rented a small office and went part-time at the college: she still needed an excuse to be on the premises, even though the salary barely paid for the imported gifts she gave her more popular girls. She married a meek man who would do as he was told, and gave birth to Serena’s mother soon after. In a few years she had become Delhi’s most influential madam, making contacts at the highest level, party to the most unorthodox predilections of senior statesmen.
