Bootie and the Beast

by Falguni Kothari

  He couldn’t blame her for walking away.

  “You were … probably still are, so good at drawing, painting. Storytelling. You were forever scribbling in those books … your secret diaries. I remember your stories. Did you never want to write? Take up art seriously, as a vocation?” he asked, wondering if his crimes against her could ever be forgiven.

  “Just doodles, Beast. No, I never had any goals or ambitions. Not until the modeling, that is. I’ve finally stumbled on to my thing … my raison d’être. My beauty finally has a purpose.”

  “You thought you didn’t have one before?” He was puzzled by her cynical tone. Another thing he couldn’t imagine—a cynical Beauty Mathur.

  She shrugged again. “You know me. Parties, clothes, shoes, bags, adulation … that’s all I want. That’s all I need to be happy. And I intend to enjoy every decadence life has to offer indefinitely or until my beauty fades. By then, I hope to be happily married to a really super-duper rich guy who will adore me enough to pay a plastic surgeon to keep me young forever.” She exchanged the knife for a ladle. She stirred the soup a few times, and then she shut off the gas. “I hope the dude Daddy’s picked for me is super rich,” she added with a wicked smile.

  It was all such bullshit. Krish was tired of hearing her claim she was nothing but a party girl. She seemed to forget that he knew her better than the idiots she roamed the world with—idiots who couldn’t see past the dazzling exterior to the loyal, generous, and compassionate woman inside.

  Beauty fades. She had that right. Skin-deep beauty did fade. But he doubted Diya’s beauty would ever fade. In his eyes, she grew more and more beautiful every day. Like a rose unfurling in slow motion, petal by petal and every stage a masterpiece.

  She’d make some man—maybe even this Neil she was meeting on Sunday—a very good wife. And that man had better be a prince, better treasure her, or he’d have to answer to Krish.

  “Beauty Mathur, no part of you is ever going to need plastic surgery. Trust me,” he said and gave in to his desire to kiss her cheek.

  She shivered as he did so despite that it was very warm in the kitchen.

  He frowned, worrying. “Are you coming down with something? You’ve been shivering off and on all afternoon.”

  “Just the change in weather. Here, taste this,” she said and thrust a spoonful of soup into his mouth.

  He swallowed in reflex. “Tom yum is named appropriately. It’s yum.”

  His cell phone buzzed just then, the caller ID alerting him that it was Lovey Onden trying to reach him. At last. His friendly neighborhood real estate agent, who’d just bid on a property for him, had better be calling with good news.

  “I have to take this. I won’t be long,” he said, walking out of the kitchen.

  * * *

  Diya released the breath she’d been holding the second Krish left the kitchen. Oxygen hand-springing through her bloodstream again, she took a shuddery sigh and focused on dicing the baby portabella mushrooms for the dim sums.

  What in heaven’s name was the matter with her? Why had the icy control she’d developed around Krish deserted her since yesterday? She’d honed the ice-princess persona so brilliantly over the years that, sometimes, she dry-iced even herself. It had to reignite now.

  And Krish thought she was coming down with the flu. Jeez. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the tragic comedy of her life.

  She did neither. She had no time or headspace for it. Putting aside the stuffing for the dim sums, she started on the som tam, the green papaya salad.

  She couldn’t believe she’d nearly blurted out her secret life goal when they spoke about aspirations. What would he have said, how would he have reacted had she not bitten her tongue in time?

  Oh, by the way, Krish, my life’s sole purpose since you danced with me on my sixteenth birthday is to be your wife, the maker of your home and the mother of your children. Oh! And please, please, please allow me to be the keeper of your heart, too.

  A hysterical giggle burst out of her.

  Was being the operative word, she reminded herself sternly. She was past such goals now.

  The embarrassing truth was that, with no romantic encouragement from Krish whatsoever, she’d dreamed up a whole castle full of a future with him. She’d been so sure he returned her feelings and her dreams that she’d poured her energies into learning how to be the perfect wife. When Krish had decided to make his permanent home in the US, she’d learned how to be the perfect nonresident Indian wife—the do-everything-yourself wife. She’d learned how to keep a house and maintain it. She knew how to repair a sink leak, change a faulty flush valve, how to apply wallpaper, change a tap, a lightbulb. She even knew about car upkeep and spark plugs and changing a tire without a car jack or a AAA rescue.

  She inhaled and exhaled and tried to balance her chi. It was all right. No knowledge was ever wasted. Hadn’t she managed to utilize some of the more unusual skills she’d acquired during her travels? They’d also come in handy during her jaunts into the Indian heartland as a representative or a spokesperson for various non-governmental organizations and charities. Young girls—especially village girls—needed to see grown women be self-sufficient and capable and not helpless.

  Believe it or not, she’d stopped feeling sorry for herself long ago. She was Beauty Mathur, for couture’s sake. She was Scheherazade. At the end of her two-year contract with JES, she’d have enough money in her bank account to buy a small kingdom and rule it for the rest of her life. She didn’t need a prince or his fortune or his adulation; she had her own. And would any of it have been possible had Krish not revealed his true feelings by refusing to kiss her?

  No, she no longer blamed the Beast for her botched life plans. Or held it against him. Not entirely. Whatever had happened had happened for the best. It was simply Karma. And she had found the silver lining.

  “Is it ready?” the Beast growled right into her left ear.

  Diya screamed and dropped the knife, and then she jumped back before the blade skewered her bare foot.

  Krish bent down to retrieve it and the onion that had bounced away, but instead of straightening up with both and apologizing for scaring the life out of her, he slid all the way to the floor and began howling with laughter.

  “That was such a girlie shriek.” He sprawled at her feet, laughing like a loon and imitating her screech.

  She poked his chest with her toe. “You’re a gaddha.” A donkey, as in stupid beast.

  He caught her foot when she tried to poke him again and playfully yanked it. She shouldn’t have lost her balance, but she did and fell hard on her butt next to him, yelping and cursing.

  “Girlie-girl,” he said obnoxiously.

  She pressed the heel of her palm to his forehead and thumped it hard against the cherry-wood kitchen cabinet at his back. “Once a gaddha, always a gaddha. And I’ll show you a girlie-girl.”

  She tried to subdue him, using Krav Maga self-defense tactics. But, for an out-of-shape guy, he wasn’t going down easy. How was that even possible? They wrestled to get the upper hand. At one point, she fisted her hands into his thick, wavy hair and pulled. He cursed, flinching back from her.

  This is better, Diya thought. Behaving like children was infinitely better than being stiff and awkward. Fun, flirty, and frivolous—that was the way to deal with her Beast.

  Crap. Not her Beast, the Beast.

  “Okay, enough. Get off, you gaddha,” she said and scrambled to sit up.

  “I wondered what had happened to your Hinglish, desi girl. You’ve been sounding much too hoity-toity of late.” He sat up, laughing, and threw an affectionate arm around her.

  Hinglish was English liberally garnished with words from Hindi and numerous other Indian languages and was popular among the predominantly English-speaking but multilingual urban Indian population. If the mash-up language or dialect wasn’t officially hanging from the Indo-Aryan language tree yet, it was only waiting for the World Language Board’s appr
oval; Diya was sure of it.

  “Boss, I’ve been abroad … sorry, in pardes for two solid months, surrounded by people who get confused when I speak desi. Much easier to use the global form of communication than be forced to repeat your words over and over again just to be understood.” She nudged his shoulder with hers. “Wasn’t that your excuse when you stopped speaking it?”

  Krish had lost his Hinglish and most of his Hindi and Marathi, too. He spoke Malayalam very well though. But that was because Vallima refused to speak in any other language with him and Leesha. Vallima considered it her everlasting duty to keep their Keralite culture alive in her fully grown charges’ lives. Savitri Aunty didn’t stress over languages as long as her headstrong children were communicating with her and each other openly and honestly. She was a wise woman.

  “Yesss-ssa!” Krish replied in an exaggerated South Indian accent in a poor attempt at homegrown humor. “My vonly reason to stop the bhankas.”

  Bhankas usually meant useless jabber. But its meaning altered, depending on the word’s placement or context in a sentence. As with most things in life, reading between the lines was paramount in Hinglish.

  Krish rose to his feet and offered his hand to pull Diya up. She only took it because she didn’t want her girlie-girl parts to feel neglected.

  “Now, get lost. No more bhankas. I need ten minutes … fifteen, max … and lunch will be served.” She nudged him to move aside, so she could get to work.

  But he didn’t budge. “I am your knave, aren’t I?”

  Diya didn’t know whether to shiver or sigh at the way Krish was looking at her. So, she did both, and then, she set him to work.

  “You’re sure you’re fine? No body ache, headache, allergies?” he asked while pressing tiny balls of the preprepared and well-risen dim sum dough into flat rounds with the help of a roti maker.

  “You’re giving me a headache with your questions. I’m fine. It’s jet lag and the change in weather,” she said not untruthfully.

  “If you’re sure … how do you feel about coming for a party tonight?” When she felt obliged to check his body temperature again, he growled, “Cut it out, Diya.”

  “Partying two straight nights in a row. Playing hooky from work. Living in a storybook house”—she ticked off while brushing each flat round of dough with sesame oil and then spooning mushroom filling into it before gathering the edges together like a moneybag and twisting off the top—“agreeing to be my twenty-four/seven knave. Agreeing to be my father’s voice of insanity. And you haven’t even scolded me for the pregnancy scandal or my tattered reputation yet. Why are you being so nice, Beast?” She paused, widening her eyes and putting a hand on her chest as a horrible thought struck her. “You have a brain tumor, don’t you? It’s the only explanation for your drastic personality change.”

  His answer was to pull her nose and give a sardonic shake of his head.

  DKM Journal #14

  May 30

  We celebrated KM’s 26th birthday at China Garden. He chose to go there even though there are a million other pan-Asian restaurants in Mumbai now. But CG is still his favorite … our favorite because it holds the most memories of family fun days. (And the gin chicken was yum, like always.)

  He says he came down from NY for work, but I think he didn’t want to be alone on his birthday. Leesha thinks my imagination has run away again. Maybe. Maybe not.

  Who knows what goes on in KM’s mind these days? He’s become so secretive about everything.

  The reason for this post-midnight entry is that Daddy has finally broached the subject of our marriage. O. M. Jeez. It seems like I’ve waited for this day forever. True, KM should be doing the proposing to me and not Daddy to him. But I’m not going to be picky. I’m going to be as practical as Pree and Leesha. KM hasn’t exactly given his answer, and I’m anxious about it. He wants to talk to me alone tomorrow.

  Maybe he’s planning to propose? What if he’s going to do the whole bended-knee-and-ring ritual?

  O. M. Jeez!!! What should I wear?

  Leesha thinks I should kiss him first before saying yes. Just to check if he’s a frog or a prince. I haven’t thought of him as a frog or a beast for some time now, and I don’t need a kiss to prove our love. I have no doubt about our compatibility—sexual or otherwise. He makes me shiver just by looking at me. Exactly like Mummy shivers when Daddy looks at her … when they think Pree and I are not looking.

  See? I can be practical. I know how these things work.

  * * *

  P.S. The pundit has predicted that I’ll be married before the year is out. Before my 21st birthday.

  Chapter 7

  No dancing in Dallas? Is this hell?

  Diya sent off the text message to Leesha since she’d been banned from posting on social media until her publicist gave her leave. She couldn’t even update her status, forget posting photos.

  “Exactly what kind of party does not have dancing? It is a party we’re attending and not a funeral, right?” she asked, angling her body in the passenger seat to look at Krish.

  “The kind plebeians call a dinner party,” the Beast replied in his usual beastly way.

  They were off to Fort Worth, which was a twenty-minute drive from the storybook house. Suburban Arlington flew by as they zoomed across the I-30 in Krish’s silver two-seater Boxster S coupe.

  The stupendous Porsche was yet another flag in the Beast’s personality malfunction. Diya had heard that a man detoured into the chest-beating zone around year forty and procured himself either a flashy car, a motorbike, a mistress, or something equally alter ego-ish. But Krish was a few years off; he wouldn’t turn thirty-five until May. Maybe fuddy-duddies went through a midlife crisis sooner than normal men?

  She looked him over as he drove, trying to figure out what was up with him. He was behaving quite strangely, and it had begun to bother her. After a few minutes of staring, she began to admire the way his shoulders filled out the leather jacket he wore over a crisp black shirt and dark jeans—clothes she’d nagged him to put on for the party. He’d been quite set on throwing on a jacket over the same ghastly T-shirt and jeans he’d worn all day.

  But she’d said, “No can do,” and proceeded to mousse up and muss up his hair until it was all deliciously roguish.

  He’d threatened to shower the effect off, but thankfully, a work-related phone call had distracted him.

  Diya let out a heartfelt sigh. The characteristic that most needed improvement—mainly his fashion laziness—hadn’t budged an iota in this midlife-crisis ordeal.

  Well, she hadn’t been lazy at all. It was Friday night, wasn’t it? The night to dress up, have a few drinks, and dance. Or dress up, drink, and not dance in this case. Seriously, was she in hell?

  She’d taken a second shower to get rid of the chef’s cologne from the cooking. She’d also blow-dried her hair, moisturized her skin, brushed on makeup, and repainted her nails—all in a matter of minutes.

  Oh, all right! It had taken close to an hour to get ready. Totally worth it, she decided, critiquing her hazy reflection in the windshield.

  Donning a full-sleeved, extra-short hot-pink sheath and a pair of high-heeled black pumps, she had catwalked out of her room and twirled her wares in front of the Beast’s gold-rimmed spectacles as a treat.

  His eyes had lingered on her legs for many shivery seconds before he pronounced, “You forgot to wear the bottom half of the dress.”

  The man had zero fashion sense. Zero.

  Anyway, to beat the cold—the temperature had dropped several degrees since the storm—she’d draped a brown-and-pink-plaid woolen poncho over her outfit. All in all, she looked uber chic and warm. He did, too. And they complemented each other, black to hot pink, leather to plaid.

  Not that she wanted them to match or anything. There was no matching Beauty and the Beast anymore. It was simply a fashionista’s observation. In fact, they were meeting some woman called Lovey tonight. Probably Krish’s latest GF. Ugh—no, no. Oh
, what joy! She was dying to meet this girl.

  Her mental soliloquy came to an abrupt stop as fat splotches of crushed ice began to plop down on the windshield. The Beast switched on the wipers.

  “Is that ice or rain?”

  Perfect. Just the sort of weather to help her maintain a chilly veneer.

  “It’s sleet,” Krish replied slowly as if addressing a toddler.

  “Really? It’s the first time I’m experiencing sleet. Another bucket list item checked off.” Diya clapped her hands like a two-year-old. “So exciting!”

  Krish flicked on a blinker and took the exit off the highway. “Congratulations. Now, you can die happy.”

  Diya refused to let the Grinch Who Killed Christmas put a damper on her good mood. She looked too amazing to pout or frown or feel vexed.

  After turning left and right on several uninteresting streets, they started driving down University Drive North, which overflowed with restaurants, glowing shops, and movie theaters. It was a veritable promenade of entertainment. Diya’s heart bloomed with hope as she looked at the shiny, lively area with its bright lights and swarms of smiling pedestrians. How fuddy-duddy-ish could the dinner be in this kind of setting?

  At the end of the street, Krish drove through the gates of an L-shaped building complex and pulled into a parking spot reserved for visitors. He got out of the car and went around to stand on a cobblestone pathway, close to her door. She finished reapplying her lip gloss, raised the hood of her poncho to protect her hair, and then waited expectantly for a beat or two. When the Beast didn’t even glance her way, much less open the door for her, Diya sighed and got out of the car under her own steam.

  She sternly reminded herself that it wasn’t a date. He didn’t need to be solicitous. And how would he know that getting out of a low car, from a bucket seat, in stilettoes was difficult?

  Still, she’d gotten used to Hasaan’s brand of princely chivalry over the past few months. Hasaan never failed to pull open doors, hold out chairs, or slow his stride, so he was walking alongside the woman on his arm and not ahead of her. He knew how to make a woman feel special.