Socialite Evenings

by Shobhaa De

  “Why?” I asked without a trace of enthusiasm.

  “Oh, all our friends play and that way we could spend more time at the club—make new friends, maybe.”

  “But I’m not interested in bridge or golf,” I protested.

  “Then what are you interested in?” he asked with irritation. Good question. One that I hadn’t dared ask myself. I didn’t have an answer, really.

  “Why don’t you join Bonsai or Ikebana classes, like Varuna?” he suggested.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “So that you find something to do with yourself. It’s not enough just being a wife.”

  While the husband’s little lecture should have amused or irritated me (it was he, after all, who had reduced me to this zombielike state) it had the disastrous effect of making me feel guilty. I suppose I had become resigned to the prospect of being a nondescript wife but now I began to feel guilty each time my husband walked in and caught me reading. I had to do something with myself, I’d think. But what? One of the symptoms of this guilt complex was that I began trying to get my precious books out of my sight—and out of his. I needn’t have bothered.The lecture had been a sort of irritated eruption on his part and our lives soon settled into their normal pattern. My books even began, as before, to play a major part in our sex life. We’d both be in bed reading, after watching the news on television. He’d be flipping through London financial papers or a folder, and I’d be hooked on the current book. For many months it was The World According to Garp. The book drove me out of my mind. It was so brilliant, I didn’t want to finish it. I would be stingy and read five pages a day (my self-imposed quota). Then I’d reread them, till they were practically memorized. Each new day would mean just one thing—five fresh pages. The husband was intrigued. I’d watch his eyes half closing over his papers. He’d turn to look at me. “Sleepy?” I’d shake my head and go back to the book. With one hand on his table lamp switch, he’d ask, “Want to read . . . Or . . . ?” “Read,” I’d reply hastily. A look of relief would come over his face. “Good night, then, sleep well.” He’d pull the quilt over his shoulder, turn his back to me . . . and leave me to my Garp. I felt something very close to love at those moments. I’d watch his sleeping form for a minute or two, and feel grateful. Truly grateful. I’d been spared one more passionless, mechanical encounter. Our “frequency” had been reduced to maybe once every three months. And even during those sessions, I’d be lying there thinking of the book of the moment and wondering what was going to happen next. The minute he was through, I’d rush to the bathroom to wash myself off, come back to my side of the bed, switch on the light and dive into my book.The other man in my life was a hardcover.

  One day, like an idiot, I revived the topic of my doing something. “I feel like going back to college,” I said.

  “College? What on earth for?You weren’t such a brilliant student or anything.You’ve got your second-class BA degree. What will you go to college and study?”

  “Anthropology,” I replied without thinking.

  He snorted in disbelief. “Now I’ve heard everything. Do you even know what it means? What it’s all about?”

  “Of course, I do. It was part of my sociology course. I did one paper in it.”

  “That’s not enough. I bet you just scraped through. When did you have the time to study during college? You were so busy running around with your boyfriend—what happened to that creep? You were quite a girl then. I heard all about it when I came back. So what’s wrong now? Why this sudden college trip?”

  “It was just a thought. Forget it. But I did enjoy those years tremendously. And it might surprise you to know that even though I was not a first-class student I liked studying. I found it stimulating to discover how other societies lived.”

  “Let me tell you, wifey, you aren’t Margaret Mead material.This college business sounds like another one of your crazy ideas.”

  “OK. OK. Let’s just drop the topic.”

  “Have you fixed up anything for tonight?”

  “I’ll do it right away.”

  I took to crosswords like a maniac. And newspaper chess. I’d forget to have a bath sometimes. My mother-in-law would arrive for her midmorning rounds and discover me with uncombed hair, still in my night clothes. “Didn’t find the time for a shower?” she’d ask sweetly, and I’d look up guiltily from the crossword. Even the servants were beginning to regard me as cuckoo. I’d overhear them sometimes. “Hamara memsaab pura din akhbar mein ABCD likhta hai.” The driver would knock discreetly on the door. “Any duty, memsaab?” And I’d realize it was five p.m. I’d forget small things around the place and neglect to check whether there was enough soda in the bar. Often the ice in the ice trays would run out or we’d be stranded without tonic water. The husband wasn’t amused. “What on earth do you do all day that you can’t remember things? What are you so busy with? Look at my mother. If you spent more time with her, you’d learn how to run an efficient home. She is so organized—and she also goes to work, mind you.Yet, her house is tip-top. Everything in place. And she herself—always tip-top. Have you ever seen her in a crumpled sari? Doesn’t she always carry matching handbags?” My only defense was silence.

  Initially, his mother had tried to train me but I hadn’t been a very good apprentice. The only time we actually went to the market together was never repeated after she saw that I’d never make a good, tough, penny-pinching daughter-in-law. “It’s no good buying fruits and vegetables from the neighborhood vendors,” she said as we set out. “Not only do they cheat you, but their stuff is substandard.You save a lot by going to Byculla or Crawford Market.” I tried to reason that the petrol spent on these excursions probably added up to much more than the few rupees saved. But she worked by her own logic. “In the mango season, we issue a contract to one wholesaler. I will introduce you to him. He gives us ten dozen raw mangoes which we bury in rice. They ripen gradually and one servant is kept in charge of sorting them out daily. We save more than five hundred rupees this way.” I nodded my head and tried to look interested. (After this little pep talk had finally wound to a close, and I had some time to myself, I wept at the irony. Once I’d tried to inveigle my husband into accompanying me to the vegetable market to inject some color into our lives, and now I was resisting my mother-in-law’s attempts to get me to the market!)

  The lectures rolled endlessly on, mostly in the morning when the husband was away at work. “Oranges and juice mosambis are always bought in Byculla. We do not buy them by the dozen. As for detergents—never buy the known brands. We make our own for the entire year.” That went for the grains and the masalas that were laboriously pounded in giant pestles positioned in the garage. Women from Andhra Pradesh with glittering nose-rings in both nostrils would arrive with naked babies at ten a.m. I’d hear their lilting melodies as they pounded sacks of red chilies rhythmically while the babies bawled in unison, their eyes stung by the chili powder that filled the air. My mother-in-law would watch from the balcony with immense satisfaction and pay them five rupees or some such pittance for their labor. Once I made the mistake of sending down some lunch for them. She came up to my room, her eyes blazing. “What have you done?”

  “Nothing—why?”

  “Did you send food down to the laborers?”

  “Yes—why?”

  “It is not a part of our arrangement. Now they’ll expect it every day, every year. Food costs money. I’m already paying them such a lot.”

  “But I only sent them some leftovers.”

  “Leftovers aren’t free. You must be more careful with money. This way the monthly budget will go out of control. We give them one cup of tea twice a day, that’s all. Please remember that. These people get spoiled very easily.Tomorrow they’ll come and sit on my head and demand a full thali.”

  “I’m terribly sorry—I didn’t know.”

  She’d hassle the raddiwalla too. I’d hear her haggling over twenty-five paise and accusing the man of cheating. “I know your weights a
re wrong. I don’t trust your scale. I saw you putting your finger in between. You are trying to take advantage of my goodness. But I don’t get cheated so easily. I have purchased my own scales. You will use them henceforth. I don’t want this nonsense, you’ve been robbing me for years, you scoundrel.”

  Once during the monsoon I noticed that the poor man’s torn shirt was sopping wet and sent him one of the husband’s discarded shirts. My mother-in-law nearly burst a blood vessel. “What are you trying to do? That’s a shirt baba bought when he was in England— Turnbull and Asser.You are giving this rascal an expensive, imported shirt!”

  “Yes, but it is over ten years old, and it doesn’t fit baba anymore.”

  “That’s not the point.You feel sorry for all these people. But let me tell you they are crooks. Absolute crooks—thieves, all of them. Next, you’ll give him an old suit because it doesn’t fit baba.Whatever doesn’t fit can always be sold at a good price. You leave it to me. I know a lady who buys used clothes, especially imported ones. I’ll contact her tomorrow.”

  I would wonder at the husband’s unquestioning acceptance of his mother’s view of things. Mama’s boy was too pat a solution, for surely there were some things that their views could differ on! After all they belonged to different generations and he and I belonged to the same generation. We’d been to the same college. We had friends in common. Then why were we constantly at loggerheads? Why did I hate to supervise the detergent-making operation when various chemicals ate right through the rubber gloves given to the servants to “protect” their hands? Why did I prefer crosswords to conversation? And Scrabble to cocktail parties? And most of all I wondered why I didn’t get the hell out of the marriage. If I’d had the gumption to show my displeasure, as I had at the time of the party when I had met Ritu, why couldn’t I go the whole way and walk out? I don’t know, perhaps it was because, for all my little rebellions, I was a well-trained Indian wife!

  CHAPTER 8

  THE MORE MY MARRIAGE DEADENED, THE HARDER I TRIED TO CONVINCE myself that I was happy enough as I was. I began to see myself as a drifter, letting life happen to me. If the husband was unhappy I’d try not to argue, only do things the way he wanted. It was easier that way. I felt passive and powerless and tried not to think about my problems. For if I thought about them I’d have to make some decisions, the last thing I wanted to do.

  Then, Anjali phoned. She had returned from her vacation in France a fortnight or so ago and apologized for not calling earlier. I welcomed her phone call with a gratitude I’d not felt for her presence in a long time. We arranged to meet and I unfolded my unhappiness over a long lunch at the Apollo bar at the Taj. Her comebacks were vintage Anjali.

  “You are bored with your husband.You need an affair,” she said.

  “Like I need a hole in the head,” I said wryly.

  “No.You need an affair,” she repeated firmly.

  “Affairs are not the ultimate solution Anjali,” I argued.

  “No?You’d be surprised, darling.”

  “I sure as hell would. Frankly, Anjali I’d rather scratch my head for a four-letter word beginning with an ‘f ’ which means to adore, rather than the other one. Get what I mean?”

  “You’re nuts.”

  Anjali’s attentiveness to my problems lasted only about half an hour. For, surprise, surprise, she was in love again, but this time she managed to stun me.

  “My new guy,” she said, “isn’t a man . . . He’s a boy.” One thing I had to hand it to her, she certainly wasn’t predictable in her choice of specimen.

  “Now, where did you meet your latest find—this ‘boy’—how old is he by the way?”

  “I’ll only tell you if you promise not to be cynical.”

  “I solemnly promise not to be cynical.”

  “All right. I met him at the health club.The one right here in this hotel.”

  “Oh, I get it. He’s one of those pumping iron studs is he? The hunks who rub you down after a sauna, while you rub them up?”

  “Another Bloody Mary, please,” she shouted, without bothering to answer. After a long pause and three drags of her Kent lite, she continued. “I used to see him working out every day. Later, we’d meet in the yoga class and smile.”

  “Really, how sweet!”

  “Go on, bitch away, you frigid bitch. I don’t care.Yes, that’s how it started.We used to smile at each other, and I would feel self-conscious, because I’d catch him staring at my hips. Now, you know how I feel about my hips. I hate them! I want to slice them off. Remember, I have those little things jutting out—what are they called—saddle bags or something?”

  “Forget your hips and get on with the story. OK, so he stared rudely at your saddle bags and you felt self-conscious. Next?”

  “One day he didn’t turn up for the class.”

  “How sad, ma cherie,” I said deliberately, just to remind her of her Frenchie.

  “Yes—it was very sad. He didn’t turn up for three more classes—that’s when I panicked. I thought he’d given up. Or that he was sick or something. Then I realized I didn’t even know his name. I was literally moping, like a lovesick schoolgirl. Finally, he showed up a week later. ‘Hey, where were you all these days?’ I asked.

  “‘ Why? Did you miss me?’ he asked boldly and winked. I must have blushed or something, because he added, ‘You know what? I missed you too, kid!’—KID!! Can you beat it. How cheeky!”

  So, they’d got off to this great start, and it was presumably all going wonderfully.

  “I wish it was. But I haven’t told you the most embarrassing part as yet—his mother turned out to be one of the women in my Bonsai class!” she said.

  “Oh no!”

  “Not just that. I quite like her.”

  “Does she know you are having it off with her son?”

  “You know, sometimes I wonder why I bother to be civil to you. I hate your sarcastic tone.What do you mean ‘having it off ’? This is the most beautiful thing to have happened to me.You know how bruised I was after the last episode. What Karan and I share is a very tender and beautiful relationship.”

  “You mean—no sex?”

  “Sex. Sex. Sex. What’s wrong with you, woman? Obviously you don’t get enough of it. You seem to have sex on your mind all the time.”

  “That doesn’t answer me—just say a simple yes or no.”

  “OK, I’ll give it to you straight—we’ve been to bed just once. Rather, I forced him into it. Poor darling was so overcome, he is still in a state of shock.”

  “You mean you raped a minor?”

  “He’s not a minor and I didn’t rape him, well, not exactly. But it was a major mistake. He refuses to touch me now.”

  “That translated means that you want it and he doesn’t—am I right?”

  “It’s not so simple. He is a very sensitive and artistic boy,” she said in a voice filled with rapture.

  “You mean, he’s a bum.”

  “No, I mean he’s an Aquarian.You know how Aquarian men vibe with my sign?”

  “No, I don’t and I’m not interested either. But do go on.”

  “He was sloshed at the time but I knew he wanted it desperately. He was just scared.”

  “How old is the guy, Anjali? Twelve?? What do you mean ‘scared’?”

  “He comes from a very conservative Punjabi family. He has had girlfriends in the past—but those relationships didn’t go beyond petting and necking. He is still very young, you know.”

  “How young? Come on, out with it. How young is very young?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  I exploded when she confessed. “Anjali, you are disgraceful. He’s the same age as Mimi. What’s wrong with you? Why don’t you find someone more of your age? What’s your new number now? Are you doing a Mrs. Robinson on him?”

  “It sounds terrible. But it isn’t. I realize I shouldn’t have forced him. He wasn’t ready for it. I should have waited a little.”

  “Hell—poor fellow must’ve t
hought he was screwing his mother. This is getting very Freudian and complex.”

  “But he loves me—he told me so.”

  “Yes, but like a mother, honey, like a mother.”

  “No, no, no. He wants to spend the rest of his life with me. I’ve tried to break up many times, but he begs me to see him again and not leave him. He’s told me all about his life. I know about his girlfriends. But he has never met someone like me. Someone mature and sensitive.”

  Oh Jesus! Anjali and mature? Sensitive—maybe. “But listen, you dope. This isn’t going to take you anywhere. There is no future with the stud.What’s in it for you? It’s not even as if you’re having a great time in bed.”

  “You wouldn’t understand. We spend hours just talking. I’m planning to take him to Delhi with me. Maybe in a new environment he’ll feel differently. Maybe he’ll be more relaxed.”

  “Does his mommy know?”

  “Yes, I told her I want to take him in hand and groom him. I’ve offered him a job.”

  “What? As what?? A live-in gigolo??? What is his designation—chief nonscrewer?”

  “Why am I paying for your drinks and lunch? You know, I don’t need this crap, I really don’t. I could be with Karan right now. He’s waiting in the bookshop downstairs.”

  “Go ahead,” I said, getting mad. “I’m beginning to feel pukey. I don’t know what you expected from me. Did you think I would jump with joy and pat you on the back for this? I think you’re disgusting and this is disgraceful. Why don’t you leave the kid alone. What about Mimi? Does she know? Or are you both fighting over his crotch?” Anjali was fuming.