Club You to Death

by Anuja Chauhan

  She hadn’t been amused.

  ‘Oh, stop being such a self-righteous little choot, Kashi,’ she’d growled. ‘You can’t avoid the club forever! It’s too conveniently located! Dadi loves it and she’s really old now – and it’s the only place Mom and Dad can afford to buy booze at, so cut the commie JNU shit and just meet us there! You can’t spend your whole life hiding from Bambi Todi!’

  He had stoutly denied hiding from anyone, of course, but as he now enters the sprawling, sunlit, dahlia-edged lawns at the back of the main bungalow, and inhales the well-remembered Sunday morning bouquet of candyfloss, tandoor smoke and strong beer, he has to admit that maybe his big sister had, as usual, stabbed mercilessly right into the throbbing crux of the matter.

  He looks around warily. All of Delhi seems to be at the DTC today. The lawns are awash in silk cravats, pashmina shawls and designer sunglasses. People are sitting on white wicker armchairs around low glass tables, eating and drinking like the world is going to end tomorrow. Hotdogs, shaami kebabs, momos, French fries, kathi rolls, chhole bhature, paneer tikkas, beer, whisky, vodka, gin, you name it – fathers, mothers, toddlers, grandpas and grandmas, hot girls and hopeful boys are all going for it with full gusto. The only new addition to the scene are random bunches of multicoloured helium balloons on all the food stalls, bobbing on white satin ribbons secured with smooth, white pebbles.

  That’s a bit extra, Kashi thinks, amused. Actually, this whole place is frickin’ extra. And where is the Dogra contingent, anyway?

  A knot of posh young women, dressed in body-con polo necks, miniskirts and Ugg boots, spot him and stop sipping their bloody Marys.

  ‘Look!’

  ‘Kashi Dogra! Wow, he never comes to the club!’

  ‘Cute! Who’s he?’

  ‘Bambi T’s ex. He left TVVS and went off to The Doon School in class seven.’

  ‘Bloody Doon. All the cutest boys go off there as soon as their growth spurt hits. So Bambi dated him? Before Anshul?’

  ‘Ya.’

  ‘And after Anshul died, he never tried to slide back in?’

  ‘No, ya. Anshul’s death devastated Bambi. Besides, he’s got a GF now. Some NGO type.’

  ‘Damn. All the cute ones are taken.’

  Meanwhile, Kashi, unaware of all this scrutiny, notices with interest that the old plant nursery next to the pool has been converted into what appears to be a gym. The view of gleaming new machines through the grilled glass windows is enticing enough to make him saunter over.

  Entering the large sunny space, he emits a low, impressed whistle. This new gym is fancy. There’s a spaceship-ish looking Precor multi-station with twelve different exercise settings, a rowing machine, the mandatory treadmills and cross-trainers, but as Kashi is a free weights guy, his eyes are drawn to the extremely well-stocked dumbbell and bumper plate rack, and a bench press so alluring it makes his mouth water. Its body is solid yet sleek, the leather of the bench is a deep supple red, and the Olympic-sized black, urethane-coated plates are as smooth and lickable as butter. The bar itself, resting in its grooved slot above the bench, is a textured, matte silver that makes his palms itch and his fingers curl instinctively.

  There are benefits to the DTC membership after all.

  ‘What’s upstairs?’ he asks the rather superior looking trainer who has materialized silently at his side.

  ‘An exercise hall, sir. We hold yoga, Zumba and mixed martial arts classes there.’

  ‘Naice, bro! But where have all the gym rats gone?’

  ‘To the Housie, sir!’ The trainer gestures resignedly to the balloons tied in gay bunches to the window grills in all four corners of the gym, and Kashi notices that they are all stamped with the words BUMPER TAMBOLA. ‘Cash prizes worth fifty lakh.’

  Shit, Kashi remembers suddenly, that’s where the fam must be!

  He bids goodbye to the snooty trainer, ducks out of the gym and heads purposefully for the East Lawn. Hopefully, he won’t get yelled at too badly – it’s only half past noon after all, and surely they’ll award him an A for effort for his clean clothes and the smooth shave Firdaus has given him …

  ‘Kashi?’

  Akash freezes.

  ‘HEY, Kaaaaaasheeeeee!!!’

  His feet drag to a halt.

  Much to his disgust, his heart starts to slam against his ribs, loud and hard.

  Pathetic.

  Well, he knew this was bound to happen. The Delhi Turf Club is her turf. This is where she rules.

  La Bambi.

  Bambi Todi.

  BT, bro BT, the Doscos would say with a shudder. Bad bad trip! Dogra ka BT ho gaya. Poor fucker. She sucked him and chucked him like a marrow bone. So much for her being a pure vegetarian.

  Should he just … ignore her? Act like he hasn’t heard? Like he’s too busy and important, with grown-up shit to do, and cases to close, and a hot girlfriend waiting for him? Like he hasn’t been stuck in some sort of sick, numbed purgatory ever since she dumped his ass three years ago?

  Good idea. He unfreezes, and seeks to set one foot in front of another in the direction of the East Lawn.

  But his body has a different plan.

  Fuck off, boi, it says mildly as it turns around of its own volition and starts to walk towards Bambi’s voice, which is still calling out his name like a siren on a rock.

  And so Akash has no option but to resign himself to the inevitable, smile, and call out, as suavely as he can.

  ‘Heyyy, Bambi Todi! How’ve you been?’

  She throws out her arms then and does that mandatory little screaming dance of joy that girls always seem to do when they see you after a long time. It gives him ample time to walk over to her all slow and casual, like there is no angry, unsteady beat to his heart, no queer sort of gladness in his veins, no quickening of his pulse as he makes skimming, tentative eye contact with her, testing to see if the scar tissue he’s managed to grow since they last met is going to hold up to the occasion.

  How can such a small person create so much upheaval in one’s internal workings, he wonders for the hundredth time. Bambi Todi is a five-foot package, the colour of powdered cinnamon, delicately and delectably curvy, with a bright smile and huge eyes, a small snub nose and masses of softly curling brown hair. She has tied a red-checked apron over her cut-off denim overalls, and is standing beside a table holding a confused but cheerful display of vegetables and fruit, a large mixer-grinder, and two shiny, bright red gumboots from which are protruding untidy bunches of bright yellow sunflowers.

  Love, love me do!

  You know I love you!

  I’ll always Beetroot!

  So pleeeeeese, love me do! declares the bright hand-painted banner above her head.

  Ghanta, you’ll always be true, Kashi wants to say, but what emerges from his mouth instead is, ‘You look like a picnic.’

  He tries to say this casually, but it comes out sort of wobbly-intense.

  She looks momentarily discomfited, then recovers, tucking a soft, unruly ringlet of hair behind her ear.

  ‘Come buy some organic beetroot grown right here at the DTC,’ she orders him in the clear sweet voice he remembers so well. ‘C’mon, step up, show me the big bucks you’ve been earning since you left law school! It’s all going to charity!’

  ‘There’s mud on your nose,’ he tells her in a more natural voice as he digs into his pockets for his wallet.

  She grins cheerfully. ‘Perks of the job. I’ve spent the whole morning digging up the finest produce from the DTC kitchen garden with my main men here!’

  She indicates her two assistants, also wearing red-checked aprons. Kashi nods at them in a friendly way.

  ‘But where’s Guppie Ram ji?’ he asks. ‘He’s the resident garden fairy at the DTC, isn’t it?’

  The garrulous old gardener had befriended Bambi and Kashi when they were kids, picking out leaves and flowers and bi
rd feathers for their science homework, helping them build a treehouse, and even organizing a most solemn burial for a dead baby squirrel once.

  Bambi’s face falls slightly. ‘He died,’ she says. ‘Didn’t you know?’

  Kashi shakes his head. ‘No. Shit.’

  ‘You haven’t been here for ages, have you?’

  He nods.

  There’s a small pause.

  In a resolutely gay voice, Bambi addresses her assistants. ‘Guys, say hello to Kashi Dogra, mere bachpan ka dost!’

  They smile at him.

  ‘Sir, take juice?’

  A disproportionately black wave of resentment sweeps over Kashi at this glib introduction. Mere bachpan ka dost? My childhood friend? Is that what you call somebody who was your ‘best guy friend’ right through high school, somebody you spoke to every night, sometimes from midnight to six in the morning, whom you claimed to love and promoted to boyfriend in college, whom you went to three-and-a-half bases with? He tells himself he’s overreacting and manages to somehow bite down on the bile, but his eyes, when he looks up again after extracting some notes from his wallet, are decidedly cool.

  ‘Sure,’ he replies indifferently to the assistant.

  ‘Heyyy, guys!! What’s upppp?’

  Kashi almost drops his wallet. A horde of ex-TVVS girls has descended on them, and he is suddenly drowning in a flurry of effusive, scented hugs, straightened hair and curious eyes.

  He studied with these girls from nursery to class seven, but even then he has never been able to get their names straight. They’re all called Pia/Kia/Tia/Sia/Dia/Lia – and so naturally, they’d ended up being nicknamed the Ghia-Lauki gang. They’re in full attendance today – except for one, who had an arranged marriage with a major movie star a couple of years ago and vanished from the Delhi scene forever.

  He hugs them all dutifully and listens as they tell him that they’ve been well, that they all did their graduation from the States and have come back to work in their family businesses. Two of them have got married. And Sia’s having a birthday party soon with lots of the old TVVS gang from school. Bambi’s already promised to come – would he like to come too?

  Would I like to kill myself, Kashi thinks wryly. If the DTC is a bubble of privilege, then the old TVVS gang is a bubble within a bubble – a hardened Perspex shell, suffocating, unbreakable.

  ‘Bring your girlfriend,’ one of them adds slyly, which, Kashi notes with a little rush of exultation, makes Bambi narrow her eyes and flare her nostrils in a gesture he knows all too well.

  ‘She’s in Kalahandi,’ he replies. ‘We’re doing the long-distance thing.’

  ‘Awww, that sucks!’ commiserates a Sia/Pia/Ria/Tia. ‘Is the time difference really intense?’

  ‘Ohmygod, Kalahandi’s in India, Tia!’ Bambi snaps. ‘In Odisha. Why do you not know that?’

  Tia widens her eyes. ‘The point is why do you know that, babe? Been stalking him much?’

  They all scream with laughter and walk away. Bambi glares after them disgustedly.

  ‘Why are they always so mean to me?’

  ‘Uh, you weren’t particularly nice to them,’ he points out.

  She grimaces, looking slightly guilty. The insinuation that she’s been stalking him hangs unaddressed between them.

  ‘Oh, just buy some juice!’ she says finally, sounding rather fed-up.

  Kashi nods, moving in closer. ‘Which one would you recommend?’

  ‘Are you very happy with Miss Kalahandi?’

  The question comes without any context, in typical artless Bambi Todi style.

  ‘Kuhu.’ Kashi corrects her automatically. ‘Yes – yes, I am.’

  ‘Then have the chukkandar juice.’ She grabs a bunch of beets and drops them into the mixer. ‘Beetroot is a fibre-dense superfood, packed with inorganic nitrates, and great for lowering blood pressure!’ She adds some mint leaves, ginger, and sliced apple, shuts the lid, leans on it, and flips a button. As the mixer starts to roar, she shouts above it. ‘Also, it turns all your um … body secretions pink! A nice little surprise for your next video call with the GF!’

  Several people look around. Bambi giggles, and defiantly stares them down.

  Same old no-fucks-given Bambi, Akash thinks resignedly as she turns the mixer off, pours the frothy concoction into a clear glass and offers it to him with a flourish. It glows a deep red in the winter sun.

  Feeling like he’s sliding backwards in time, he takes the glass from her.

  ‘I recommend that you go buy a large vodka and spike it,’ she leans forward and says softly. ‘Oh, and get me one too. I’m bloody expiring over here!’

  ‘Come get it with me,’ he hears himself say impulsively. ‘Can’t your assistants handle the show for a bit?’

  She hesitates, her eyes skimming about her stall, then coming back to rest on him doubtfully.

  Why the hell is he persisting with this? He’s done with her, she’s dead to him. He had been perfectly happy and at peace only half an hour ago!

  He leans in, his voice persuasive. ‘Come on, Bambino.’

  She hesitates, then shakes her head. ‘This is the busiest part of the day …’

  ‘You need a break!’ Kashi hears himself say firmly. His hands rise, as if to untie the apron from around the back of her neck, his fingertips tingling in anticipation of touching the soft, well-remembered brown hair.

  Then he steps back and shoves his hands into his pockets. ‘Just ten minutes? Maybe we’ll win fifty lakhs!’

  She closes her eyes and rocks on her heels for a moment, dithering, then gives a quick, decided nod, whips off her apron and grabs his arm. As she smiles up at him, sunshine on her face, he remembers the smallness of her and how incredibly manly that had always made him feel.

  ‘Come!’ she says.

  2

  Rasputin

  A rapt silence rules over the East Lawn. More than a thousand people are bent over their tambola tickets, completely attentive. When Akash approaches the Dogra family table with Bambi in tow, Natasha’s eyes widen speculatively, but she’s too swamped to comment. Her hair has escaped from its neatly coiled bun and she looks a little crazy.

  ‘Help me!’ she whispers urgently, thrusting tickets in their faces. ‘We’ve got ten tickets to mark! I’m barely able to keep up!’

  Her son stops sucking on the straw of his Fanta long enough to look up at Bambi and state, with polite firmness, ‘Nana’s going to vote for Behra Mehra, not the stinky cheese lady. Move along please!’

  ‘Dhan!’ Brig. Dogra is appalled. ‘Don’t say Behra Mehra!’

  ‘Don’t say stinky cheese lady either!’ adds his wife.

  ‘Yes, of course, of course. The lady isn’t stinky,’ the brigadier explains earnestly to Bambi. ‘The cheese is.’

  Bambi smiles at him sympathetically.

  ‘Have a lot of ladies been nagging you to vote for Urvashi auntie, uncle?’

  He looks here and there in a harassed manner. ‘No … no … nothing like that …’

  ‘Hullo Bambi beta!’ Mrs Mala Dogra’s voice is so disproportionately affectionate that the Dogra siblings look at each other and cringe.

  But then—

  ‘Hullo Mala auntie!’ Bambi beams right back at Mrs Mala Dogra with equal effusiveness.

  ‘Your parents aren’t here?’ Mrs Mala Dogra wants to know and Bambi’s high-beam smile dims a little. She replies that her mother’s in the US, visiting her brother, but her Dad will definitely show up for the voting tomorrow.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Dadi!’ Kashi says as he drops down cross-legged on the grass in front of his grandmother’s wheelchair. He studies her tickets. ‘Wah, you’re doing well!’

  ‘Jaldi five and four corners and top line–bottom line are already over,’ Natasha fills them in. ‘But middle line and full house are still on!’

  ‘Shusssh!’ the brigadier
hisses. ‘Focus on the calling!’

  Dirty stares are being directed at the noisy new arrivals from several of the other tables. Bambi and Kashi exchange comical looks and subside.

  ‘Still in my twenties, twenty-nine!’ intones the familiar voice of Club Secretary Srivastava. The bulldog-y old man has been calling out the tambola numbers for as long as Kashi can remember. ‘Two and nine, twenty-nine!’

  This is followed by the rhythmic, well-remembered sound of the wooden number balls tumbling inside their wire-frame cage. It’s a sound Kashi would’ve recognized anywhere in the world.

  He doesn’t have twenty-nine. Or thirty-seven or fifty-three, which are the numbers that are called subsequently.

  But as he sits there in the grass next to Bambi Todi and stares down at the bright pink tambola tickets in his hands, he acknowledges that he is tingling all the way to the tips of his fingers with a sort of helpless, giddy exhilaration. Happy gas, Nattu would say, with a warning waggle of the index finger and a knowing shake of the head. Hugely addictive and very deceptive – as close to the real thing as broken glass is to diamonds. Never trust that shit, little bro.

  Unfortunately, she had yet to give him all this gyaan when he was five years old and heart-whole, standing by the Lady Darlington Swimming Bath in his electric-blue swim trunks, all excited about his first swimming class. The inflatable arm band of the small, brown girl standing next to him – a pink-and-white polka-dotted affair, he still recalls – had gone phuss and she asked him to blow it up for her. When he handed it back, turgidly inflated, she had smiled at him, revealing the winsome gaps between her teeth. The hit of the happy gas had been so intense that as she watched open-mouthed, he had cannonballed into the water out of sheer animal excitement, causing a mighty splash that drenched her completely.