Socialite Evenings

by Shobhaa De

  “Business? What kind of business?”

  “Interiors, darling, interiors. I’m just too excited. Have you heard of Mrs. Kripalani—‘Kuku’? Remember, she was once a movie star—never really made it. Then she married that hairy producer and produced half a dozen kids? Attractive, in a brassy kind of way. Anyway, she and I are in this together. She has all the contacts—film stars, hotel people, richie rich Sindhis—and I, my dear, have the talent.”

  “Good for you, Anjali. How does Kumar feel about all this?”

  “Oh—he’s delighted. He’ll be able to boast to his buddies that his wife does something besides sing bhajans. And if this thing takes off and makes money—then he will back it all the way. There’s one small catch—he wants Murty to be involved before he gives me the initial capital.”

  “What does he want Murty to do?”

  “Handle the finances, I suppose. Make sure his own interests are looked after. But he’s not saying that. He told me, ‘The boy is talented. He is artistic. I want him to have this break—why can’t you let him handle details—run around getting fabric samples and that sort of thing?’ What could I say? It was clear—no Murty, no money. Simple.”

  “I still don’t see why Murty should get a piece of the action. Besides, why do you need Kumar’s money?You have enough of your own. Why don’t you invest the lolly Abe gave you?”

  “I can’t. It’s all locked up in a trust. It’s too complicated to explain—just believe me when I say I’m a rich woman on paper, but I don’t have any cash liquidity.”

  “The idea sounds fine—but partnerships can be extremely tricky. I don’t know anything about business—but I do overhear phone conversations—a partnership—that too with a Sindhi—forget it. She’ll take you to the cleaners.”

  “Don’t forget I have some Kutchi blood in me from my grand-mother’s side. Kutchis can eat even Sindhis when it comes to money matters. I’ll chew her like a rotla and spit out the leftovers. Besides, we are hiring the best solicitors to draw up the agreements.”

  “What are you going to call this firm?”

  “Something very French or at least foreign-sounding.You know what a hang-up we have about anything that has a foreign tag on it. I was thinking of Chez Nous or La Maison—except that nobody will be able to pronounce either. It will end up being ‘Chaze Noose’ or ‘La Mason’—horrible. But Kuku has come up with a few suggestions. I’m sure they aren’t original, but she gets all these fancy magazines from abroad—Architectural Digest and all that.”

  “When do you start?”

  “I thought I’d combine it with my Janmashtami celebrations. It will be a good mahurat to launch a new venture. And I couldn’t think of a better day than on my Krishna’s birthday. Since I’m superstitious I won’t have a booze party—that we’ll do later, in style. Maybe have a press conference. I can call up all my old contacts. We’ll organize publicity in the women’s magazines—what do you think?”

  “Sounds terrific. Have you got any jobs on hand at all?”

  “Yes, we’ve got one bungalow of a producer-friend of Kuku’s husband. And through him, we’ve landed that female, you know Bina?—the heroine who posed in a wet sari with her nipples showing?—Well, she’s only given us her bedroom to start with, and if that comes out right we’ll get the rest of the house. Then we are trying hard for that booze baron’s beach house. He has just got married to some starlet and he wants to splurge. That project involves big money, but he hasn’t been convinced so far. We are working on him. He wants to get some Spanish designer whose work he’d seen in Dubai. We told him, we’d do the same job for half the price. The man’s an ass. Have you met him? You must have—he’s unbelievably dumb. I remember Abe making a killing out of him years ago. It was so easy. Not that we want to take him for a ride. In fact K has warned me. They play golf together, and he doesn’t want to be embarrassed. I say, in case you are going partying over the next couple of weeks—just spread the word around. But do it discreetly. Don’t make it too obvious that you are pushing me.”

  “No fears, Anjali, people might get the wrong idea.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re giving me a commission or something.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Anyway, you must see my new visiting cards.They are so stylish. Embossed and all that—with a little touch of gold, very classy. I copied them from a New York woman’s. She was also in a similar business. The letterheads will be ready next week.”

  “Where are you going to operate from?”

  “Initially from home. But K has promised us premises if we behave ourselves and make money like good girls.”

  “Right. I guess I’ll see you at the birthday bash.”

  “Remember to have your hair fixed. Oh yes—there’s a sale at the Taj—you know the shoe shop—Joy—remember I used to take you there? I’ve placed an order for six chappalls—be a darling and pick them up for me.Will you? Otherwise I’ll have to send the car all the way just for that.”

  “Why don’t you send Murty? Might as well start the training program—and what better way than to collect the memsaab’s chappalls?”

  “You’re horrid! But useful. Bye for now.” She’d had the last word as usual.

  The husband was less than enthusiastic about the Janmashtami party. “The last time we went there someone was nearly murdered.What’s it going to be this time—gang rape?”

  “How can you say that? It’s not one of their rowdy evenings. This will be sedate and religious.”

  “Sounds awfully boring. Why don’t you go and make some excuse for me. Say I’m out of town or something.”

  “She’ll misunderstand. Besides, I accompany you to a lot of dreary evenings. And I don’t complain. How can this be more boring than one of those business parties?” That did it. We raged at each other for more than an hour and he finally refused to come. As I changed I saw he had the Sherlock Holmes tape on the VCR. I’d seen it a million times. I used to wonder what fascination the film had for the husband for he never tired of it. His eyes would light up and his lips would mouth the dialogue silently. On one occasion I’d suggested a change. “Let’s see my favorite film,” I’d said, and produced GoneWith the Wind. He hadn’t read the book; naturally, I hadn’t expected him to.The film had bored him, which didn’t surprise me. What did was the anger it produced. “How can you like such trash? I suppose you admire what that woman did.What was her name—Scarlet, Magenta or some such thing. I know she’s supposed to be a great actress, this Viviene Leigh (which he mispronounced as ‘Lee’)—but what is so fantastic about her performance? I didn’t like that woman’s role at all. She was a real bitch. Unfaithful, selfish, treacherous. Like all women.” I tried to tell him to relax. It was only a film. But he was really worked up. I’d rarely seen him so mad. I could guess why the film disturbed him—but he didn’t want to discuss it rationally. He had turned on me instead. “All you women—you’re just the same.You have no gratitude, no loyalty, nothing.Think of yourselves all the time, that’s all.”

  “Are you accusing me of something?” I had asked finally.

  “No.Why are you taking this so personally? Guilty conscience or something?”

  “Then why are you being so aggressive? I don’t compare you to Charles Bronson and start a fight over it.What’s the matter? Is something upsetting you? Stop playing the silent, suffering spouse and tell me. I don’t understand what’s wrong these days. You seem so switched off. Is it something at work? Your mother? Money problems? You’re drinking too much. And smoking too much.You’ve put on a lot of weight—what’s wrong?”

  “What weight? I’m OK. Maybe a couple of kilos here and there. You expect all men to be Clark Gable. That’s your problem.You live in some fantasy. Life is not a movie. Or a book.You don’t like reality. I have seen how you react when there is some real situation. When Mother comes here. Or even when your own parents visit. You prefer your dreams. I think you are too pampered. Maybe you are bored. How many times have I to
ld you to join some classes and learn something? All day long you are on the phone talking to all those worthless friends of yours. Other women work, get into a business. Or at least they have children to look after. Look at you. Whenever I come home you are reading a book. With all the servants and everything, you don’t have to bother about running the house. Mother is not like other mothers-in-law. She leaves us alone, she doesn’t interfere, but even she was saying the other day, ‘Your wife should do something.’” I heard him out without reacting for it was obvious that there would be no way he could bring himself to see things from my point of view. And why should he be interested in my life?Then a small anger rose in me as I remembered the besotted man in NewYork, who was interested in everything about me—even the small mole on my upper arm that only I knew existed. My mind flicked over my time with him and his mad jokes. His insistence on buying me a hideous green plastic Empire State Building souvenir (“You can’t be different from other tourists”), and how we laughed over kiddish things—the expression on my face at the sight of a large pizza (it was two feet in diameter).

  Through mutual acquaintances I knew my New York flame remarried one of his wives. I forget which one. That had ended in a divorce soon after. He’d all but given up his first love, films, and switched to photography. He was immensely successful here too, and had quite a collection of awards. I’d read about him in various magazines. Everybody felt obliged to ask him his opinion on women, beauty, sex appeal, marriage. He’d dish out quotes that made great copy. None of those articles had evoked a reaction but today I remembered him fondly. There rose in my mind’s eye the image of us walking down Fifth Avenue, hand in hand, humming “Touch Me in the Morning . . .” The husband didn’t notice the expression I wore. He was staring goggle-eyed at a frog-faced Dr.Watson on the screen. The resemblance was remarkable.

  CHAPTER 12

  I’D ARRANGED FOR RITU TO PICK ME UP FOR THE JANMASHTAMI party. When she drove up with her husband I felt slightly ashamed of my pink crêpe de Chine sari for she was looking gorgeous. She had her hair in a careless bun and wore a colorful ghagra choli with a bandhani dupatta, and loads of rustic silver jewelry.

  “You aren’t playing Radha, are you?”

  “No. But I felt like looking the part. Just for fun.”

  By the time we reached Anjali’s, the celebrations were well under way. “Come on in, girls. Welcome to Vrindavan,” she said by way of greeting. She looked slightly comical in a heavily embroidered le henga. Ritu took one look at her, turned to me and said, “Bet her husband designed it—it’s not her at all.” Kumar came up clad in an unusual Bengali dhoti with a starched kurta. “Welcome, welcome.” We were escorted to where a group of women were singing lilting songs about Bal Gopal. Right next to the temple in the garden (this was the latest addition—a marble shrine next to the pool) I noticed an extraordinarily good-looking man, clad in a sadhu’s saffron robes. He must have been in his late forties or early fifties. His eyes were piercing and he used them well. His posture was ramrod straight, and his body gleamed in the sun. I stared at his bare torso, with just a zari-bordered angavastram thrown over it. Ritu saw me staring. “Dishy, huh? One of those sexy sanyasis.Wonder who he belongs to—Kumar or Anjali? Let’s find out.” The man saw us looking at him. He was obviously vain. Immediately he straightened his already straight back and adjusted his dhoti. He looked arrogantly at one of the devotees and snapped his fingers. Someone rushed up to him with a thali full of fruit and a tall glass of pomegranate juice. He waved it away and asked for Anjali. She all but ran when summoned, not forgetting to cover her head with the dupatta. When she reached him she fell at his feet, eyes closed, head bent. He patted her head and whispered something to her. The sunlight caught the stones on his fingers and showered fire. As he leaned forward, four or five long gold chains left his torso and dangled over Anjali’s hair. It was quite a sight. As soon as he sat back again, instructions issued, Murty came up from behind and began to massage his neck and back. Ritu promptly concluded, “He’s Kumar’s.” Anjali went off to do his bidding and we saw her talking to her husband, who went inside their home and emerged with a manila envelope which he handed to Anjali.

  We moved off to look at the birthday boy. Little Krishna looked very cute indeed. He had on emerald green garments with jewelry to match. Anjali joined us and gazed at him adoringly.

  “Doesn’t he look sensational?”

  “Him or the bare-bodied hunk out there?” I asked.

  She turned to me feigning deep shock. “You aren’t referring to our Babaji by any chance, are you? Please be respectful. He is our spiritual guide.”

  “Oh, I would’ve imagined he’d be on a more down-to-earth level looking at him.”

  “He is divine.”

  “He sure is—whose is he, by the way. Ritu and I are dying to know. Or are you both sharing him—Kumar and you?”

  “I don’t know what to say—you are perverts, the two of you.You have no higher feelings. I didn’t really expect you to have any—but this is the limit.You are insulting His Highness—he is an enlightened being. A Sufi saint. The reincarnation of Gautama Buddha and the final avatar of Krishna.”

  “Wow! But you haven’t answered us—where did you find him?”

  “We didn’t find him—he found us. Just ten days ago.”

  “Pray how? Did a star rise over your home and guide him here?”

  “Stop being horrible—it wasn’t anything like that. Mataji brought him to us when she felt the right vibrations.”

  “Now who is this Mataji?”

  “You mean I haven’t told you about her? She is the Godly Mother, who leads all our bhajan evenings. She makes our kundalini rise and tells us about our past lives and past sins.”

  “Sounds boring. I’d rather know about future sins—at least it’s something to look forward to,” Ritu said.

  “Don’t make fun of subjects you know nothing about. These are all highly evolved people. After knowing them, our lives have changed. K is a different man now.”

  “You mean he prefers girls these days?” I said.

  “Shut up, will you? But if you must know, he has taken a vow of total celibacy for a year.”

  “Poor Murty. How does he get his kicks?” Ritu said.

  “Oh, Babaji is working on him too.”

  “Oh wow! I love this—you mean he has stolen Murty from K and convinced both of you it’s for your good? This guy has to be smart. I’d love to talk to him. Is that allowed?”

  “I’ll first have to seek his permission. And I’ll have to route it through Mataji. If you give her the right vibrations and she feels a cool breeze against her palms in your presence, then she’ll take you to Babaji. He doesn’t meet just anybody. By the way—it’s considered a big honor that he is with us today. Half the people here are his followers. He has brought them for the prasad and puja.”

  “I get it—him and his wild bunch. We call people like them freeloaders.”

  “They are not freeloaders—have you seen how they’ve been sitting next to my Krishna and looking after him?”

  “Yes—I also noticed the thali they’ve placed in front of the deity. At the end of the day, they’ll clear at least five thousand bucks. Not bad. And a free meal too.”

  “You won’t understand what all this means. We are into bhakti and charity is a part of it.”

  “Then why don’t you feed a few of the urchins and beggars at your gate? Or adopt a few kids from one of the orphanages?” Ritu said.

  “All that is so obvious. To each his own charity, is what I say.” We left it at that.

  I strolled across to where Babaji was seated, Ritu by my side. One of his disciples was busy applying sandalwood paste on his feet which he had stretched out before him. “He was getting hot vibrations from someone in the crowd. This makes his feet sweat. It means there is an evil presence amidst us. When Babaji feels very sorry—his feet start to weep. We are trying to cool them down,” one of the crowd surrounding him volunteered
, unasked.

  “Sweat.” I whispered, “Nothing more than sweaty feet.”

  Ritu was staring at him with her eyes twinkling. “No, Ritu. Don’t you dare,” I said, knowing what she was thinking.

  “I’ve never made it with a sadhu before. And it would be so easy too—off goes the lungi.”

  Babaji had noticed her as well. I saw him giving her his hypnotic special. “Let’s go and chat him up,” Ritu suggested. I demurred but she went ahead anyway and kneeled in front of him and asked for his blessings. He said to her, “Beti, tum bahut dookhi ho.” She nodded her head vigorously. They started a conversation, with him telling her how he had immediately recognized her disturbed state of mind. She got to the point pretty quickly and told him that she also knew the minute she saw him that he alone could help her.

  “I am in your hands, Babaji,” she said, and gave him one of her soulful looks. I noticed him peering at her cleavage from his vantage point. He placed both his hands on her head and let them linger there. Then he drew them down her nape and onto her shoulders. “Come and see me tomorrow at noon. You will find me in the Taj Mahal hotel. I forget the suite number.”

  Ritu folded her hands, bowed and walked back to me. “I did it,” she crowed.