by Mahesh Rao
They trooped down the stairs without a backward glance.
“I thought they’d never go,” said Ankit, closing the door. “Why are you still standing?”
Dimple picked up the needle and spool of thread and put them back in the open drawer.
“Lajpat Nagar aunties are the scariest customers in the world. If you’re selling them clothes, you learn how to fix zips, buttons, and hems in under thirty seconds flat,” he said.
He climbed up on the sofa.
“Sorry, always so dark in here,” he said tugging at the curtains, even though it was clear that they had been pulled back as far as they would go. He switched on the overhead light and then blinked.
“Is it too bright?” he asked.
Before she could say anything, he had switched it off again.
“We could go and sit in the back room, but I think it’s a real mess. They’ve been getting ready in there. Blouses and petticoats everywhere. Sorry.”
Dimple felt a terrible wrench. A great sense of tenderness welled up in her. She followed him into the back room as he picked up clothes and tried to bring some order. She wished more than anything to protect him from the cruelty of the world that she knew, the meanness and the spite.
PART
THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THREE MINUTES INTO her morning meditation routine, Ania had a profound sense that her attention was required elsewhere. Her wrists itched, and a tingle made its way down her leg. She reached for her phone and saw that she was right. Leaping up from the floor, she scrolled through the dozens of messages she had already received from friends eager to be the first to alert her to alluring calamities.
The news had broken a couple hours earlier on social media, just as the morning rush was heaviest in South Delhi. Ania turned on the television in case there was anything on some of the trashier news channels. She could see that reporters and photographers had thronged into the small lane where Kamya lived, just a few yards away from the embassy of Luxembourg. Security guards blew their whistles, passersby swelled the crowd. There were a series of altercations involving traffic police, a dog walker who tried to control his agitated bullmastiffs, and a woman who emerged on her balcony with rollers in her hair.
The wife of a prominent film director had taken her grievances to social media that morning, accusing acclaimed young novelist Kamya Singh-Kaul of trying to wreck her marriage. A tide of posts had warned Singh-Kaul of dire consequences if she continued her sordid affair with the director. She was accused of stalking him, being a depraved she-devil, tormenting the couple with her obsessive behavior. The language and punctuation of the tweets and posts became increasingly bizarre as the hours went past. And then, there was a sudden halt of all activity on the wife’s social media accounts.
The reporters checked their phones every few seconds and then squinted up at the upper floors. The front windows of Kamya’s apartment merely reflected the glare of the afternoon sun. No one from the family came or went through the gates. The maids were nowhere to be found, the watchman was surly and uncooperative. Inquiries revealed that the two cars were still in the basement parking lot. It looked as though it would be a long wait.
Ania sat down again in the posture she used for meditation. But this time she faced the television, phone in hand, her face a beatific vision that no mindfulness had ever produced.
* * *
—
NINA HAD DECIDED that she needed to secure her future and there was no point in wasting any more time. She had heard the rumors about Dileep’s affair with Serena Bakshi from several sources, and the whole thing seemed absurd enough to be true. Marriage to Dileep was now Nina’s only realistic option, even if it meant that she would have to be more discreet about other aspects of her life.
She had just returned from Kolkata, where she and Nikhil had woven their way around the photography exhibition, not speaking, barely noticing the images or the people around them. As the rain had begun to fall in the cobbled courtyard of the gallery, he had led her into a dark passage, his arm around her waist. Water drummed down as they kissed. But the boy would not solve her problems. Now that she was back in Delhi, she knew she had to act before Dileep embroiled himself any further with Serena.
Nina arrived to see him on one of the few golden autumn days before Delhi’s smoggy winter set in. Her sunglasses gave the garden a warm lilac glow, making everything seem even more benign. Even Dileep gave the impression of being handsome and charming rather than a vain, anxious fool. Nina had had a full night’s sleep, and she knew she looked better than she had in months. Her mouth was gentle and full; her hair shone. She stretched and let the cream linen of her dress grow taut over her breasts. The leaves in the hanging baskets appeared to be made of soft velvet and the long flowers drooped, as though in longing.
“And how’s your son? Still in New York?” asked Dileep.
She nodded.
He lowered his voice. “Are things any better?”
“I’d rather not discuss it, if you don’t mind.” Then she added, “Which, of course, you’ll take to mean that no, things are not better.”
“I shouldn’t have pried. I’m very sorry,” he said.
“No, you’re not,” she said.
Parakeets wheeled around the garden, landing on the branches of the gulmohar trees. Their trills turned into a questioning sort of cluck. Gardeners were watering the borders, and she thought she could hear the earth crumble and crack as the moisture soaked through. Vines on the trellis cast a lace of shadows across Nina’s face.
“Do you ever think about old age? You know, dribbling soup, waiting for someone to come by with the meds, not knowing whether it’s day or night,” she said.
“I’m surprised to hear you mention it.”
“I try not to boast about it, but I am, in fact, a few years older than you.”
“No one would ever know that.”
“Thank you. You’re always right on cue.”
“Of course I think about old age. To be honest, it seems to be all I think about.”
“Is that why you’re thinking of getting married again? You need a glamorous little nursemaid?”
“What?”
“Serena Bakshi?”
“Oh for God’s sake, not you too. I don’t know who comes up with this nonsense.”
“It’s not true? Just a fling then?”
“Not even a fling. Nothing.”
Dileep shook his head in exasperation and drained his glass. The wedge of lime in his drink looked violently green.
“Fabulous. That leaves the way clear for me then,” Nina said, taking off her sunglasses so he could see her eyes.
“What? Us? You and me?”
Dileep laughed. He brought his hand to his face and covered his eyes. His perfect teeth gleamed, and he showed a little bit of gum. His shoulders shook. It was a belly laugh: lavish and demeaning.
He looked at her as the amusement faded.
“You weren’t serious, were you? For a second there, you looked as though you might be serious.”
“Of course I wasn’t serious. How ridiculous do you really think I am?”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
And then she laughed too, knowing in that moment she hated Dileep more than anyone she had ever known.
* * *
—
THE RESIDENTS OF homes across South Delhi had been following the story unfolding on social media with great delight. Ania had missed her barre workout class and instead was hunched over her phone, still in her pajamas, having ice cream for breakfast. It felt like a holiday.
When the doorbell rang, she flew down the stairs, powered by sugar and adrenaline.
It was Dev, and she could not have been more pleased.
“Isn’t it just too awful? Poor Kamya. How is she coping?” she asked, dra
gging him into the study. “And why aren’t you taking my calls?”
“Yes, it’s pretty awful. I thought I’d just come round instead.”
“I’m so glad you did. How is she? The media has gone completely berserk. Will you have some breakfast? Ice cream?”
Dev looked with confusion at the carton that she held out.
“I’ve just eaten. Any coffee?”
“Of course there’s coffee; I’ll ring for some. Anything you want, just say.”
“Look, Ania, I’ve been speaking to Kamya, and she is really terrified.”
“Oh, I can imagine.”
“She’s not a celebrity, she’s never had to cope with anything like this before.”
“So dreadful.”
“Now, I need your help but you have to promise me, you aren’t going to tell anyone. Absolutely no one.”
“Of course not.”
“I’m serious, she’s in hiding and this can’t get out.”
“I completely understand.”
“The press will lose interest in a few days and move on to something else. She’s gone to our house in Goa until all this blows over.”
“Has she now? That’s a bit odd. Why didn’t she just go back to New York? I mean, no one over there would care about her affair with some Bollywood zero. Or even know who she is.”
“Are you serious? People from here have already sent reporters to her Manhattan apartment and to speak to her neighbors there. Anyway, she says she can’t face the thought of a long-haul flight. Even the thought nearly brings on a panic attack.”
“Well, if she won’t fly, how did she get to Goa then? Roller skates?”
“Try to be a little sympathetic. Do you have any idea what’s it like to be hounded by every media channel in the country?”
“Of course I do. I’m papped almost every day, in case you didn’t know. This morning there are nearly a hundred comments on Undercover Coutourista about a belt I wore yesterday. A belt, Dev.”
“I’m worried about her. All this media harassment, you have no idea what it’s like until you see it up close.”
“Sleeping with married men though? Well, I suppose a famed writer like her has to get her ideas somewhere.”
Dev’s tone was sharp. “A bit sanctimonious, don’t you think? Anyway, it isn’t true. She’s told me that they were just friends and that the wife has got it all wrong. Apparently she’s quite unstable.”
“That’s what the cheating husband and the floozie always say about the poor wife.”
“She’s not a floozie.”
“No, I suppose she’s not.”
Ania wished she hadn’t already smoked her weekly cigarette. This would have been a good time to light up, busy herself with finding an ashtray, contemplate the smoke rising into the air.
“She’s all alone there, although Flavia’s next door and she’ll help her with anything she needs. And there’s the caretaker. I told her I’d fly down in a couple of days, but I can’t now till the weekend.”
Ania reached for Sigmund and tickled his jowls.
“Could you go?” Dev asked.
“Go where?”
“Go and keep Kamya company until I get there. Please? She probably shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“My God, Dev, doesn’t she have any friends?”
“I’ve told her not to tell anyone she’s there. That’s the whole point. You never know who can be trusted at times like this. People will do anything for a bit of cash or publicity.”
“But would she even want me there? Have you asked her?”
“I will. I’m sure it’ll be fine. You’ll calm her down, I know you will. I’ll tell her. And anyway, I’ll be there as soon as I can get away on Friday.”
A strip of stubble on Dev’s chin was now gray. She wondered how she had not registered this before—he was hardly the most punctilious man in matters of grooming. His fingernails looked gnawed and raggedy, as usual. There was a bit of fluff clinging to his collar.
“I don’t know,” said Ania. “Speak to her, and if you both still want me to go, I will.”
“Thank you,” he said, clasping her hand.
“Uff,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE TAXI SPED down the road that led away from the coast into the quiet interior of Goa, far from the tourists that thronged the flea markets, the Jet Skis that bobbed on the waves, the newlyweds posing for photographs by a picturesquely rustic boat. The local news rumbled softly from the car radio, the driver letting out an occasional exasperated sigh at each instance of municipal mismanagement.
Just as they came around the bend toward the village, the sun slipped from behind a cloud. It was as though one of the elegant watercolors sold in the souvenir shops had come to life. The palm trees leaned at a gentle angle and the white roofs of the churches formed a perfect slant against the sky. They went past the Sunshine Bakery, the Natraj General Store, and the rose-pink school building, from which a woman emerged, shaking a bell in her hand.
Ania felt a surge of excitement, which had been building ever since she had boarded her flight about three hours ago. It was, she told herself, simply the thought of getting away from the smog of Delhi, the pleasures of a few days in a Goan village. It had little to do with the anticipation of witnessing Kamya’s confined state and the opportunity to show her a splendid generosity of spirit, however undeserved. Ania’s light-headedness was undeniable: if there had been a banister nearby, she would have slid down it.
“Anna-Maria.”
Ania turned to see where the cry had come from. Two men on a motorbike cruised by, slowing as they peered into front gardens, and then turned into the dirt road that led to the old step well.
The man riding pillion cupped his hands around his mouth again and shouted again: “Anna-Maria.”
A boy wheeled past on his bicycle, pointing to a ramshackle building in the distance.
“Have you tried the field behind Oswald’s place? She goes there sometimes,” he said.
“What’s happened?” Ania asked the driver. “Is someone missing?”
“Yes, every few weeks this happens. She’s getting very old now. She disappears, and the whole village spends the day looking for her. Last time we found her asleep by the reservoir. Any closer, and she would have fallen in,” he said.
“Anna-Maria,” he added, “Mrs. Elsie Machado’s dog.”
“Oh, the poor thing.”
“Yes. If Mrs. Elsie Machado herself was missing, I can tell you no one would care.”
He laughed so violently that the seat shook, his head lolled about, and his hand pressed hard against the horn, outraging a stately woman who was crossing the road.
They arrived at the two-hundred-year-old villa, its lime plaster walls the color of buttercups, broad white pillars framing the verandah that ran across the front of the house. Ania wished the driver all the best in the hunt for Anna-Maria and walked up the path from the small wrought iron gate. Bees circled the oleanders in the front garden, a magpie swooped down onto the ancient sundial. She stood on the verandah for a minute, wondering what she would say to Kamya. This would be the first time they had been in the same room without a noisy gathering present. The late-afternoon light was glinting off the mother-of-pearl windows, and there was a waft of incense from inside the house. She ran the back of her hand along the azulejo tiles to feel their perennial coolness. The caretaker burst through the door with apologies; he had only just seen the taxi disappear down the road. He took her bag, and she followed him into the hallway.
Nothing in the house had changed since her last visit almost a year earlier: the palms swayed in the inner courtyard, the red floors threw off their familiar sheen, a cat was asleep on the swing on the verandah. Through one of the open bedroom doors, she caught a glimpse of the corner of a f
our-poster bed, azaleas in a brass pot, a swell of muslin in the breeze. The kitchen was silent, fresh figs in a bowl, a few empty bottles by the door. Through the open windows, she caught the smell of woodsmoke.
Ania had expected Kamya to be cloistered in her room, dark circles under her eyes, face wan. Perhaps the braid would have come loose. But Ania found her lying on a chaise longue near the pool in a typical bikini—bold zigzag print, beads—skin fresh, with her usual apathetic expression, her enormous headphones giving her the look of a regal insect, a queen waiting for the workers to arrive.
Kamya shaded her eyes from the sun and looked in Ania’s direction. She stayed like that longer than was strictly necessary and then swung her legs off the chaise longue. She reached for a bottle of water and took a long sip. Then she walked toward her.
There was about her physical presence, Ania had to admit, a distinction. She carried herself as though awestruck men had painted portraits of her, softening her strong features out of love, and submitted them nervously for her approval. Framed in dull gold, a woman with stern eyes and a long neck, expecting some entertainment.
“Hey, Dev mentioned you’d be coming,” said Kamya.
“Hey.”
There was no kiss or hug. The business of greeting was dispensed with after a mutual cocking of heads. Kamya tossed her headphones onto a garden chair and adjusted the waistband of her bikini bottoms. Her breasts were small but perfectly in proportion; her stomach was as flat as a tile. Ania wondered whether she would dislike her less if she were squat and flabby; she thought, on balance, not.
“Listen, I’m sorry about what’s happened. It sounds like it’s been awful. Hope you’re okay,” said Ania.
She shrugged. “It’s all copy.”
“But still, I suppose there are worse places to be in hiding.”
“There’s cold stuff in the fridge, the booze is over there in the bar, and if you want anything stronger, I guess Flavia can hook you up,” she said.
With great difficulty Ania managed to restrain herself from saying that she knew about the booze since she was often the one who put it there, that she had been a beloved guest at the house for well over a decade, and, in fact, hardly a guest, as she had her own set of keys.
