Socialite Evenings

by Shobhaa De

  Paying no heed to my silence, Anjali went on. “Good, it’s a good thing you did. It would have come to nothing.” I didn’t want this to continue. Hoping to distract her I got up and walked around her office. “So how are both your careers doing?”

  “What do you mean both careers? I have only one. And you know that perfectly well.”

  “OK. I take that back. What about that little punk—Murty—is he still hanging around?”

  “You bet. I have got used to him actually. Don’t mind him all that much. He has his uses.”

  “Such as?”

  “He’s the person I send off with my partner to the Gulf to get more business there. The Arabs just adore him. He adores their generosity. Each time he comes back with a gold Rolex or a CD. That, plus a new contract for us. The Sheikhs are willing to trade a couple of their prize white camels for him, but K isn’t biting!”

  “Are they still in love?”

  “Murty is more relaxed now. He knows K doesn’t sleep with me. K does go off sometimes for a sneaky quickie—generally foreign pursers he picks up at the Holiday Inn pool, but even those one-afternoon stands are getting rarer. Age—he’s getting on. He still has a glad eye for the boys, but he doesn’t come on strong. Besides, Babaji has a very strong influence on him.”

  “What do you mean? Are they a number?”

  “Rubbish! Don’t even talk like that. Babaji has shown him an alternative lifestyle—a purer one. K now keeps animals.”

  “Really! Now I’ve heard everything! Kumar isn’t into bestiality is he? Anjali, this is too, but too shocking!”

  “Your mind is worse than a garbage can. Can’t you think of anything besides sex? Woman—you are hard up. Really hard up. Finished.” Suddenly Alak’s poor sorry face came into my mind and it occurred to me how flip I was being. I excused myself hastily and left.

  All the rest of that week Anjali phoned but I refused to see her and kept our conversation short. I’d call Mother and cry into the phone until one day that patient, long-suffering woman said firmly to me: “Look, we all should have done something for Alak but we didn’t and now it’s over and done with. She’s happy as she ever can be, she doesn’t feel or know a thing and there’s no use your crying and wishing you had done more.You’ve got to lead your own life, so do it.”That was the toughest speech she’d given in her life and it succeeded. Gradually I began climbing out of my depression. And after refusing Anjali’s invitations a couple of times (it had become a habit) I agreed to have lunch with her at one of our favorite old haunts: the Apollo bar at the Taj.

  She was her old self. After making a couple of throwaway remarks about my reclusiveness and after cursory inquiries about my well-being she was off again on the topic of her beloved Babaji. The focus was still his love for animals.

  “It’s amazing how cats, dogs, deer, monkeys, even tigers behave when he goes near them.”

  I held my peace.

  “And birds, he has an extremely valuable collection of birds—he’s given me a Brazilian parrot—he is so attractive that I’m thinking of using him as a prop in one of the restaurants I’m designing. So what are you planning on doing?”

  “I don’t know just yet. I’m very keen on theater, but I’m not too fond of acting so I’m thinking of taking a course in directing at Bharat Bhavan. Or maybe I’ll go to Pune to do a course in film direction. I’d like to try my hand at documentaries.”

  “Goody! Do that. Then we can hire you to do one on Babaji. We have all his foreign disciples here at the moment. There’s also a TV crew from Germany. Babaji is deeply into environment these days. He quotes from scriptures and everything.We are planning to launch an international movement to adopt a tree or an animal. I’ll let you know.”

  “Sounds fascinating. A little old hat—but the more the merrier.”

  “I’ve got an ad agency to design the campaign with the Peepul tree as our symbol. Babaji is very pleased with that—Peepul—People—you know—the connection? I’m very excited. All my new designs have something to do with trees. It’s my motif for the year. I’ve done a whole new line using the Tree of Life as the theme. The Arabs just love it. An American buyer also flipped for it.”

  “Whatever has happened to Mataji and her pink nails?”

  “She’s around, but she’s concentrating on doing her own thing.”

  “You mean she isn’t a part of your zoo—she doesn’t vibe with the animals and the birdies?”

  “In case you are really keen to know, the animals can’t stand her. Bad karma or something.They start baring their teeth and growling.”

  “I must’ve been an animal in my last life—or maybe I’m one in this life too without knowing it, because that was my precise reaction on meeting Mataji. I would’ve bitten her had she come any closer.”

  “You are a vicious female canine—I’ve always known that. It’s surprising more people don’t think the same.You have a pretty good market image—very goody-goody in fact.”

  “Isn’t that a wonder considering all the pains you’ve taken over the years to ruin it? Must be my good karma. What news of Ritu? Why is she lying low?”

  “Oh, she’s jouncing around in Hong Kong with her husband. Expected back Tuesday.”

  “God, what a lot of holidays that woman takes. I miss her,” I said. “Say what—why don’t you throw one of your obscene parties. Throw a theme party—‘Come as your favorite animal.’ Most of your friends won’t even have to spend on costumes. They can come as themselves.”

  “Talking about theme parties,” Anjali said, “we went to one two weeks ago. It was hilarious. Guess what the theme was—‘Whores and Pimps,’ and you are absolutely dead-on—most people came as themselves and looked the part.”

  “Whose place?”

  “That crazy couple. Remember them from Abe’s days? They used to be neighbors. The woman is half-Swiss and half-Sardar and the guy is Assamese. You must remember that apartment—it was the talk of the town in those days because they were the first to have a glass disco floor with lights underneath. And a huge bathroom with one glass wall that overlooked Bombay—a bird’s-eye view of the city from the potty.”

  “I remember them vaguely. Particularly the woman. Each time she came back from Goa she’d show off her all-over tan to anyone who cared to see it—same one?”

  “Yes—not that she had anything to show—tan or no tan. But she’d display the two little pimples on her chest like she was Brigitte Bardot.”

  “So how was the party otherwise?”

  “Fun. You remember that other woman—also a neighbor, the one who Abe had a brief thing with?”

  “How can I recall her with that description? Abe had a thing with every single neighbor and her maid.”

  “Come off it—he wasn’t that bad. But this woman was the buxom Marwari who had a yen for Rajasthani cooks—the Maharajs. You must remember her, she was rather attractive in her own way.”

  “Well, what about her?”

  “She was there. Met her after years. Obviously she’s heavily on the booze—and maybe other stuff. At one point she disappeared into the bedroom and stripped down to her blouse and petticoat.”

  “Why on earth did she do that?”

  “She said it was terribly hot outside—and she was cooling off on the bed. Soon that slobbering egghead—you know him too—the computer guy—decided to join her on the bed and cool off as well.”

  “What fun,” I said sarcastically. Anjali missed it as usual.

  “No, it wasn’t very funny—at least her husband didn’t think so. He charged into the bedroom and ordered her to wear her sari. She refused and he started to get aggressive. The baldie just sat around with that silly smile on his face repeating, ‘Let’s all have a drink and talk about it.’ Her husband bellowed, ‘There’s nothing to talk about—get dressed, you bitch.’ Soon the entire party shifted to the bedroom and it became a sort of makeshift theater with an impromptu performance.”

  “How did it end? Did everybody strip
and join the party on the bed?”

  “No. But the woman removed her blouse as well and pulled her petticoat up over her huge breasts. It refused to stay there and kept slipping off.The hostess very sweetly offered her a kimono from the bathroom. She put that on and removed her petticoat, leaving just her bikini panties on. The kimono kept opening, so there was this terrific scene, especially when the husband tried to rough her up. She ran straight out of the flat and toward the elevator—and who do you think came out of it? A khadi-clad minister—the hostess’ great friend. He had his security guys with him, plus the usual hangers-on. This woman knew the minister slightly from one of the earlier parties at the couple’s place, so she flung her arms around him and cried, ‘Save me! Save me! I’m being raped!’ There were also a couple of journalists around—not the scruffy ones—these chaps were Oxford-Cambridge types.The minister recognized one of them and nearly collapsed at the thought of the headlines this incident could make.”

  “Sounds like a super party—the sort Abe and you used to have in the good old days. What’s with him? Is he still alive?”

  “He’s alive. Still drinking. The cow is still around, also drinking. And that’s all I know.”

  “Are you coming to the Patel party next weekend?”

  “Well, we’re invited but we have one of these Arab types in town that day. I’ll check with them if I can bring him along. He’s coming with another builder—Gul—you must’ve heard of him? He has bought up half of Bombay?”

  “Vaguely. That shady NRI fellow—is that the one? He’s supposed to be the front man for that local slimo—isn’t he? How’s your Krishna?You haven’t mentioned him in a while.”

  “I went to Dwarka in between, and to Mathura too. This year we’ll spend Holi at Vrindavan. I’ve changed the temple a bit. I thought Krishna needed a little more color around him.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve given him a disco of his very own to dance the garba raas with his gopis. How hep!”

  “Choke up. I’ve merely changed the marble and added one more air-conditioner. It used to get very hot in their during aarti time.”

  After I came home I felt better. Anjali’s inanities were the sort of thing I could cope with, I decided, not my sister’s madness. A day later Ritu called. She sounded despondent. Her first sentence to me was: “Where are all the men?”

  “Oh—oh, that sounds ominous. I thought you were having a great time in Hong Kong.”

  “Well, Hong Kong’s Hong Kong. Big deal.You know I’m beginning to ask myself basic questions.”

  “Don’t. That’s dangerous.”

  “Can’t help it. They pop up even when I don’t want to think about them.”

  “What kind of questions? Men-related?”

  “Naturally. But not the silly kind. I’m sick of my life. It’s so empty. What do I do all day—smoke and embroider.”

  “Doesn’t sound so bad. You could be a junkie. Or one of those kitty-party wives.”

  “I’m feeling worthless. I want to do something useful.”

  “Why don’t you get on the hotline to the Sisters of Charity. Or organize an anti-sati cell in your locality. It’s very ‘in’ to involve yourself in women’s issues these days.”

  “It’s not all that simple. I’m looking for an alternative life.”

  “You mean another husband—why don’t you just say that? Thought of putting in an ad? Let’s work out something naughty for the Classifieds—just for the heck of it . . . Are you coming to the Patels?”

  “Yes. Maybe I’ll feel more cheerful by then.”

  “Maybe you’ll find a husband there.”

  The Patels, who’d made their money in cement, were the hottest party-givers of the season. And the husband was determined we should go. For once I agreed for I was trying my best to distract myself. The Patels turned out to be quite an event all right for that’s where I saw Ritu, perhaps my closest and calmest friend, go totally down the tubes. It had to do with a man of course—Gul, the crooked builder Anjali had brought along. I was with Ritu when she saw him for the first time and I instantly recognized the mutual attraction. And their being introduced was a mere formality for the die had already been cast.

  Thinking back on it everything seemed to happen freeze-frame. First Ritu said to me: “Omar Sharif. He reminds me of Omar. Isn’t he too much? Look, I’m trembling.” Kumar brought him over to meet the husband and I saw Gul leaning over his shoulder and whispering something into his ear. The husband laughed, looked up and pointed at me. Gul looked relieved and Ritu piped up, shouting over to him: “Share the joke with us—we’re feeling left out.”

  The husband told her, “Oh, he just wanted to know which one of you two was my woman. I was tempted to say ‘both,’ but I thought your husband would slug me.”

  Ritu laughed uproariously and dropped her pallav. I saw her husband shrink further into his chair.

  She turned to Gul and said, “I haven’t seen you here before but you look very familiar. I never forget a face.”

  He smiled but said nothing.

  Her husband excused himself and headed for the bar.

  I whispered, “Behave yourself.You’re making it far too obvious.”

  She ignored me and carried on. “I know where I’ve seen you. It was at a fashion show in Delhi ten years ago. You were standing at the entrance by yourself. I remember you distinctly—but you wore your hair in a different way then—with a parting.”

  Gul’s hand flew to his hair and he laughed. “You have an excellent memory. Yes, I remember the show—but it’s my misfortune that I didn’t see you there, or I wouldn’t have forgotten your beautiful face either.”

  She beamed and turned to me. “See, I told you I never forget faces.”

  I whispered, “Bet you made it all up and he’s a sharp one, the way he caught on and played along.”

  “Nonsense, I swear I remember the guy.” She pulled out her Charles Jourdan cigarette case and, in a flash, his gold Dunhill was on the ready.

  “Baby, won’t you light my fire . . .” she said huskily. My husband glared at her and went to join hers at the bar. I felt awkward hanging around and told her I had to go to the loo. And that was it.

  A week later, Ritu moved in with Gul even before the gossip rags got wind of the whole affair. She phoned me from her new penthouse sounding ecstatic. “This is it,” she said triumphantly.

  “What am I supposed to call you now—Begum something? What have you done, Ritu? Rather, what has that scoundrel done? Are you wife number thirty-four?”

  “Gul is the best thing that could’ve happened to me. It was fated this way. We knew it that night itself. He said to me, ‘I’ve waited all my life for you—you are my new moon.’”

  “Don’t tell me more. I’ll probably puke.You must be out of your head. That man’s a don—a smuggler. He might bump you off once he’s through with you. How could you, Ritu? Why didn’t you treat him like all your other men—why couldn’t he also just hang around like them?”

  “Because it had to be all or nothing. If I hadn’t moved out immediately, I would’ve lost my nerve and then everything would’ve gone back to square one like before. You know how often this has happened in the past. It would have been one more affair. Another ten years of nothingness. I feel I have taken my first major step—whatever the consequences. Maybe Gul will get rid of me when he finds someone else, someone younger; but right now, I’m confident and I’m happy.”

  “Why were you in such a hurry? And Gul? How did it all happen?”

  “That night he told me he found me terribly attractive. I replied that he was the most devastating man I’d met. Then, just to tease him, I asked, ‘You look so dangerous, do you carry a gun?’ and he thought I was being cheeky. He got his own back by saying, ‘I like what I see of you. But it isn’t enough. I’m a leg man basically. Why don’t we go to the garden?You pick up your sari and let me see your legs. If I like what I see, I’ll take you to bed.’”

  “How crass. Did you d
o it—behave like a hijra and hitch up your sari way up above the knees?”

  “Yes. I was beyond caring. I wanted to show him that his challenge was nothing—that I dared!”

  “Obviously, your shanks impressed him, though, if you ask me, they aren’t your best assets.”

  “Now, let’s forget all that and tell me, when can you come over?”

  “You must be kidding. I won’t be caught dead in your smuggler’s den. If you want to be the kept woman of a criminal, that’s your business. But count me out of that scene. The husband will be horrified. I’ll just have to disown you till you work this one out. Call me after he ditches you or you ditch him, whichever is sooner.What about your divorce—or is that irrelevant?”

  “I want to see how this arrangement works first. I’m not such a fool.”

  “Is this a trial marriage then?”

  “I haven’t thought the whole thing out as yet. I’m having a wonderful time—and that’s what matters. Gul is unbelievable.”

  “Spare me the details. Good luck, girl. I can see you are going to need it. Dollops of it. Don’t forget to call if you need something—like a gun, a butcher’s knife or a rope.”

  Anjali phoned three months later and filled me in on more details about the Gul-Ritu business in the midst of telling me about a “tragedy” that had taken place in her own life: Kumar had been raided by the income-tax authorities. But to take things in order. Apparently Ritu, in the short time she had been with Gul, had changed out of all recognition. As her lover (and by extension she) belonged to what was called the Duplex Sindhi set—vulgar, nouveau riche builders with nefarious reputations—she was now regarded as something akin to the chief gangster’s moll and looked the part. Anjali had seen her at a party. Her hair was hennaed to an alarming shade of red with blond highlights scattered through it. The bright-eyed girl who shunned makeup in the past, now wore loads of the stuff particularly around the eyes. Her taste in jewelry (never discreet) now ran the gamut of glitz. Indeed, according to Anjali, she’d looked as though she’d raided a gold souk in Dubai and worn all the loot in one go. If she wore saris at all, they were at crotch level with bralike cholis in lamé.