Socialite Evenings

by Shobhaa De

  “Poor Murty—he looked heartbroken.”

  “But Kumar’s been so generous with the boy. I hear he’s sending him for a long holiday. Disneyworld, I think.”

  “Yes, but what happens later?”

  “Well, that depends on the wife—what’s her name—Anjali—doesn’t it?”

  Suddenly, there was a minor commotion. I looked in the direction of the noise. A few people had started running. A man rushed past me. “Call an ambulance. I think Feroz has killed Zafar.” “What do you mean—is Zafar dead?” a woman shrieked. “Maybe,” panted the man while trying to locate a phone. I walked past the pool where “Join the Party” was blaring.That stopped and Gloria Gaynor started to belt out “I Will Survive.” How ironic. And perfectly appropriate. Almost as if the party coordinater had ordered it.

  Zafar, the Paki vice-captain, lay bleeding on the floor. Feroz, Bombay filmland’s machoest star, was sitting near him with his own nose bleeding profusely. A few of the traffic cops who had filtered in stood around indifferently. I heard my husband saying urgently, “Let’s get out of this madhouse before the police arrive. I don’t want to be hauled in as a witness.”

  It made the front pages the next morning. Anjali had achieved the fame she always longed for at last, even if it was in such a bizarre fashion. The two men had fought over a trampy starlet and the local hero had pulled a gun. Fortunately for everybody Zafar didn’t die that night, but recovered fast enough to marry the starlet and take her across her border. It was all very exciting, and my husband couldn’t get enough of “I was there” mileage out of it. He drank out on the story for weeks.

  Anjali finally phoned nearly a month after her wedding.

  “Hi!” she said, but there was no cheer in her voice.

  “Have you been deflowered yet?”

  “Sort of . . .”

  “What do you mean ‘sort of ’?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing special.”

  “Feel like some mushrooms?”

  “Have I ever said no to mushrooms?”

  “I’ll collect you in half an hour. Be downstairs.”

  “Which Mercedes has been allotted to you? Have you made the 280 SE grade yet?”

  “Shut up and come down.”

  She drove up in an electric green Porsche. Before I could say anything she said, “Wedding present.”

  “Not bad,” I said. “Not bad at all.”

  “Everything costs,” she answered.

  “That a loaded remark or what?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Now what?”

  “I guess I’m stuck again.”

  I slid into the seat next to her and put my hand over hers. The three-carat monster had acquired a companion. An equal-sized emerald (‘because green suits you so well’). Anjali was wearing a beautiful mangalsutra. I knew how much that meant to her. She hadn’t been able to wear it in her previous marriage. She also had sindoor in her hair and a prominent red bindi. “You look beautiful,” I said sincerely. And then I noticed she’d changed the shape of her nails—they weren’t perfect ovals any longer. She’d filed them straight across the fingertips into blunt squares. “What’s this?” “Oh, Kumar didn’t like my nails. He said they reminded him of knives.” The car attracted a lot of attention all along the road, particularly at traffic lights. She pulled out a pair of Balenciaga glasses (“got these in Madrid”) and stuck them on top of her head. Red glints bounced off her shiny hair (“too much henna, this time”).We pulled into the Taj portico and the hefty sardars came salaaming up. “Sat Sri Akaal, memsaab,” they saluted smartly. She handed them the keys and we walked in. On the way to the rooftop, she fidgeted nervously with her brand-new Gucci bag. Her slim arms were weighed down with bracelets (“Milan”). A curious German riding up with us couldn’t take his eyes off her. She still had that effect on people.

  She didn’t ask for a Bloody Mary in the restaurant. In fact, she turned it down when the waiter came up familiarly and said, “Bloody Mary, ma’am?”

  “Get me a Spritzer . . . and don’t forget the twist of lime.” She turned to me. “Why don’t you have the same? Go on—it isn’t evil. It’s only mildly alcoholic. You’ll think you were drinking a Limca with a slight kick.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll stick to an orange juice.” There was a long silence as we both gazed at the harbor.The light was beautiful outside. Maybe we were thinking the same thing—our last meeting there and the Karan episode.

  She broke into my reverie. “You knew it wouldn’t work, why didn’t you tell me?”

  I was taken aback. “To start with, Anjali, you hadn’t asked me. I was not on your advisory panel at the time.”

  “Yes but when you knew, you could have told me then.”

  “It was too late,” I said without the faintest idea of what she was talking about.

  “What rubbish!You’re supposed to be my friend. Even Mimi has faith in you. I should have listened to her.”

  “Why don’t you start where you’re supposed to, what’s wrong?”

  “Just about everything. Kumar’s gay, you know, he’s a homo.”

  “Then why did he marry you and those two other women?”

  “Because he needed a front—he couldn’t possibly marry Murty or any of the other boys.”

  “How come you were dense enough not to sense it?”

  “How could I? I thought he was being very romantic when he insisted on that no-going-to-bed-before-the-wedding clause. I was so touched. This was the first time a man was treating me like a decent woman. I thought it was his way of showing respect.”

  “What a fool, Anjali. Remember our teasing you about it? But surely you must’ve noticed Murty lurking around the place—what did you think he was doing there?”

  “I believed Kumar when he told me that Murty was an orphan he had picked up somewhere. He said he’d felt sorry for the boy and decided to ‘adopt’ him—not legally. But he paid for his education, gave him a roof over his head, employed him in his company—and generally looked after him—that’s all.”

  “Then, when did you discover that Murty was his bedmate?”

  “Kumar broke down on our wedding night. Maybe he was drunk or maybe Murty had created a scene. He told me I would have to accept him in our life—like his previous wives had.”

  “What’s the deal then?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? The Porsche, emeralds, holidays in Biarritz, shopping along the Champs-Elysées, a villa in Ooty, parties every night, unlimited champagne—and the choice to pick my own bedmate but discreetly.”

  “Sounds perfect. What are you cribbing about?”

  “I suppose I’ll get used to it—eventually.”

  “It’s better than being stuck in some poky little place with an accountant or someone. If you have to suffer at least do it draped in French chiffon.”

  “I guess you’re right, but I don’t know. I was really looking forward to a proper married life with a proper husband and a proper home. Maybe it’s not in my horoscope.”

  “Maybe he’ll be proper every which way but bed. And, like you said, he hasn’t closed your options. I’m sure you’ll be able to work something out.”

  “Yeah, like what? Suicide?”

  “Don’t be silly, you’ve been reading those cheap paperbacks again. Why don’t you relax and make a buddy out of Kumar. Gays do make excellent friends. Go on, try and do that. Imagine, you could have so much fun together. Maybe you could swap lipsticks and eyeshadows.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t be sympathetic.You have to be vicious and rub it in. Kumar isn’t into drag. He doesn’t wear lacy panties or stick-on falsies. He’s just a straight guy who prefers boys—that’s all.”

  “That’s all?! Then why all this tragic stuff? Maybe it’s just as well—he’ll leave you alone to work your sexual trip out with whoever, and you leave him to cuddle Murty. The trade-off seems simple enough. He keeps you knee-deep in dia
monds, you keep up his image. I think it’s very fair. Besides gays have a great sense of humor and terrific taste. You’ll pick up lots of jokes and a fantastic wardrobe. Look at it that way.”

  “He can keep his jokes. Give me sex any day.”

  CHAPTER 11

  MY HUSBAND AND I HAD JUST HAD ONE OF OUR LONG AND MEANINGLESS fights and it made me very despondent. I knew Ritu had just got back from one of her periodic holidays so I called her. She sounded chirpy as always. And game for anything. Atta girl.

  “You’re like instant coffee,” I told her, “an immediate pick-me-up.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “No, you dummy, I’m insulting you. I’m marginalizing you. I’m reducing you to a beverage. Satisfied?”

  “Having a fight with the husband are you?”

  “No, listening to Joan Baez.”

  “Same thing.”

  “You’re horrible.”

  “And in the same boat.”

  “You mean you are fighting with your husband?”

  “We never fight. We just cancel each other out. I can go for days pretending he doesn’t exist.”

  “But I thought you couldn’t get any sleep without cuddling him in the night.”

  “You don’t have to talk to cuddle.”

  “But how can you bear to touch someone you aren’t speaking to?”

  “It’s easy—try it.”

  “Doesn’t he throw your arm away? Push you off?”

  “No. He can’t sleep without cuddling either.”

  “What happens when he goes out of town?”

  “I pop pills.”

  “And he?”

  “Never asked. Maybe gets bombed. Or finds someone else to cuddle.”

  “Go on—you don’t believe that? Has he ever cheated on you?”

  “He tried—just once. But I threatened to castrate him. And he knew I meant business.”

  “When was that?”

  “Oh, a couple of years ago.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Some little tart—a secretary somewhere.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Someone told me.”

  “You mean a friend phoned and said,‘Guess what Ritu, your husband is having it off with this tart.’”

  “Yes—just like that.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “Waited for him to get home.”

  “Did he confess?”

  “No way. He looked terribly shitty and said things like, ‘You have a nasty mind. Don’t jump to conclusions. She was helping me out with some confidential filing.’”

  “And you believed him, of course.”

  “No, I didn’t. I just pointed my knitting needles at him and said, ‘Whatever it is that she’s helping you out with—just forget it. Unless you want these stuck in your eyes.’”

  “Did he listen?”

  “No. It went on for a while. I knew it was on since we’d receive all these blank calls with someone breathing heavily at the other end. Often, he’d be late coming from work and give me some bullshit excuse.Then they were spotted in Bangalore together.That’s when I decided to do something about it.”

  “Yeah—like what? Replace the knitting needles in the eyes with a dagger in the gut?”

  “No. I just went across to her office and told her to leave my husband alone—or else.”

  “And what did the tartlet say or do?”

  “She was very cool. She had the nerve to tell me, ‘Why don’t you ask him to leave me alone? I’m not the one chasing him. In fact, it’s very embarrassing for me when he calls or sends flowers.’ I was stumped for a bit, but then I remembered to act tough. ‘Don’t give me all that shit, you whore. Just lay off—is that clear? Or your husband is going to hear about it!’”

  “Did that matter?”

  “Not at all. She said in a bored voice, ‘If I were you, really, I wouldn’t bother. My husband already knows. Besides, you’re a fine one to be lecturing me. From what your husband says, you’re a hot number yourself.’”

  “Sounds sleazy. Did your husband find out about this encounter?”

  “You bet he did.The minute he walked in, I pounced on him. ‘So what are these flowers you’re sending these days? They sure as hell aren’t coming for me.’ He looked thrown for a minute and recovered fast enough to say, ‘You mean those? I’d sent them for Gloria and Peter’s wedding anniversary. I’d also put your name on the card.’ I couldn’t believe it. I saw red and went mad. The next thing I knew I’d grabbed this huge vase and flung it at him.”

  “Did you aim for his crotch or his head?”

  “I would have missed either—but what happened later was awful. He came at me like a maniac. First he pulled out his leather belt from the trouser and then he stood over me with his eyes blazing. Phatak!—I felt the leather on my arm, and I was so stunned I couldn’t even scream. Before I could open my mouth, it landed on my arm again. I lost my balance—I was sitting on the edge of the carpet. He was still standing at the same spot with his arm raised. Suddenly I felt a sharp kick in my side. And another one.Then I heard him say, ‘Shit! There goes my Bally shoe.’ Can you believe it! Then he threw his belt away and started to slap me around. One hard hit cracked against my nose. Before I knew it, my favorite Anokhi dupatta was drenched in blood—my nose was like a geyser with blood gushing from it. Maybe it was the sight of all that blood that made him panic. He stopped and yanked my face up by the hair. ‘Shit! I’d better get a doctor. Is there any ice in the fridge?’ I was still on the floor with the dupatta stuck to my nose. Some of the blood fell on the carpet—the stains are still there. I walked to the kitchen slowly to get some ice. It was so unreal, the whole thing.When I went to the bathroom to wash my face, I was shocked out of my wits.The whole thing was swollen—twice its size. My eyes were beginning to puff, and one side of the face was turning purple where it had got badly bruised. There were thick welts across my arms. But do you know something—I quite enjoyed the whole thing. You must think I’m crazy. But really, it was thrilling in its own way. Not the pain—but the experience. He didn’t look like a pipsqueak anymore. I thought of Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire, have you seen the film?You must.”

  “Was that the only time it happened or are you both now heavily into the S & M scene?” I asked incredulously.

  “It’s not as sick as it sounds. In fact, I think I deserve a beating now and then, especially since I boss him around so much. I feel so much better after it. Now, we’ve worked out the rules—he doesn’t touch my face.”

  “Isn’t that darling of him?”

  “Don’t be so shocked. In a way, I think the beatings have brought us closer. I respect him more. He looks so macho in those moments.”

  “Do you know that you have joined the ranks of battered wives? It’s horribly humiliating, Ritu—this is awful. It’s demeaning. Don’t you have any dignity? Self-respect?”

  “Come on, you’ve got to be joking. He’d do the smallest thing I asked him to. And how can it be humiliating when it’s me who’s doing the asking? And between you and me these slug-outs lead to terrific sex. It’s the only time I feel I’m not in bed with his mother.”

  “Seems one hell of a price to pay for a lousy orgasm,” I said. “I can think of other less destructive ways.”

  “Since when have you, iceberg, become the expert?” she teased.

  “I may not be a Hamburg hooker; but I read books. I know all about these things.”

  “But that’s paper knowledge, academic knowledge, whatever you call it. I can’t imagine you letting yourself go ever. In fact, I’m sure you have such an antiseptic sex life, you probably keep rubber gloves and a bottle of Dettol by your bedside.”

  “How did you guess?”

  The phone rang again, almost as soon as Ritu had rung off. It was Anjali. Apparently Si (who was Si? it took a moment and then I remembered, ah yes, Anjali’s trampy friend from long ago) was back in town having tired of a long holistic
experience with a Swedish hippie in Kodai, and wouldn’t I come over.The idea was that the three of us would spend the day together. I said I’d have to check with the husband. Anjali sneered, “Surely your husband can manage on his own for a few hours. Or does he need you to brush his teeth?” “I’ll have to check with him,” I insisted. “I don’t know if the car is free.”

  “You mean after so many years of slavery you haven’t earned a car as yet? Not even a teensie-weensie Maruti of your very own? That’s bad.You’d better renegotiate your marriage contract.”

  “Ha! Ha!You are so-o-o funny, Anjali, I’m dying to laugh. I guess you wouldn’t know the difference between a moll and a wife now, would you.”

  “Female dog—how I detest you. Sometimes I wonder why I put up with your two-bit remarks. So, can you come or not?”

  “Have you invited any hangers-on? That is, besides Si? Or do you have a live-in harem these days.”

  “I’m offering you a gourmet meal—as good as if not better than the last La Tour D’Argent one. Take it or fuck it.”

  I took it. I collected Si from her seedy digs. She was even more tramped up for the occasion. Her hair looked unwashed and she smelled so high it was difficult to have her beside me in the car. All along the way I kept thinking, “I mustn’t use the same toilet seat . . . I’ll probably pick up a bug and die.” She was wearing Elton-John-style sunglasses with golden spangles all over them. Her legs had a three-day stubble and she hadn’t done her underarms. Ignoring my coldness, she kept up a steady chatter. “I was with Abe last evening,” she giggled. “It was just like the good old days, except that Abe has started serving Indian whisky—ugh! Gigi was around in a red dressing gown and rollers in her hair—imagine! I think she was drinking bewda. Poor Abe. That woman is going to see him to his grave. He really misses Anj—he told me so.”

  “You must have made him feel vastly better, I’m sure.”