Socialite Evenings

by Shobhaa De

  It was a quaint household.Three lunatic women and a dog (“the only male in our life, dear,” Mrs. Mehta had joked, but I’d had a weird feeling that maybe there was something more to that remark). She’d introduced me to her daughter Shireen. (“Do you know a good diet, dear? My Shireen eats all day. Such a lovely figure she used to have, very nice legs and all that. Then she started to eat. Brutus and Shireen finish a kilo of mutton a day—and you know what the price of meat is these days, dear? I’m not complaining. By God’s grace, we have enough. Shireen’s father—may his soul rest in peace—has left us more than enough—but I worry about her weight.”) Shireen was piglike—pink and fat. She lived in flimsy nighties (“only from St. Michael’s, dear”) and ate her way through the day. The third woman was the servant, Savitri, who had been with them for twenty-five years (“I got her as a wedding present, dear”), and ran the house. Brutus was her companion and obsession. She would talk to him for hours, complaining bitterly about the shabby treatment she received at the hands of her “Jeroobai.” I was scared of Savitri. Once, I’d seen her threatening the butcher. He was a sturdy Muslim youth from the nearby mohalla. Savitri stood over him, brandishing his awe-some knife, threatening the obviously nervous fellow with instant castration if he put another bone into the meat. Between the three of them, they lived a life of heightened sexuality, seeing phalluses everywhere. “Look at that,” the mother would giggle, holding up a cucumber after Savitri came back from the market.They’d exchange meaningful glances and dissolve into hysterical laughter.

  Jeroobai woke the house up with the BBC. “Dance music, dear,” she’d say, foxtrotting around the place in a faded housecoat. This was at four forty-five a.m. Savitri would produce hot chocolate for Shireen, milk for the dog and tea for the rest of us.

  “I’m not like the others, dear,” Jeroobai explained to me one morning. “I am not greedy for money. I keep PG’s because I like company. They make our life interesting. But, frankly dear, I prefer to keep men. Don’t feel bad. But they are less fussy and cleaner also. Oh yes, please do not flush down your you-know-whats, dear; every month. Once we had a girl who choked up all the toilets by flushing her you-know-whats. It was very expensive to get the plumber.With men there are no problems of this type. Only thing is they eat much more. But don’t think I’m lenient with men—they are also not allowed to bring ladies into the room. Once, a PG did that and closed the door. I sent Savitri to bang on it and order them to open up. We are decent people, dear. There’s a young, growing girl in the house. We have to set the right example.”

  “So you do, Mrs. Mehta,” I said and tried to go to my own room.

  “Don’t mind my asking, dear, but—no husband? Don’t answer if you don’t want to. Savitri saw your mangalsutra, so we were just wondering.” I took the option not to answer. In any case what on earth was Savitri doing snooping around in my cupboard? But then, the cupboard wasn’t really mine at all, I realized. And it made me think—actually I didn’t have very much that was “mine.” I didn’t have “my” room in my parents’ home (my sisters did). I didn’t have my cupboard there (my sisters did), I didn’t have my bed (my sisters did). There was nothing that was mine apart from what I was wearing—and the odd piece of jewelry in the cupboard (not “my” cupboard). Such a depressing thought. And it seemed too late to do anything about it now. I wished suddenly that I’d been more acquisitive in my youth like some of my friends. I thought of a schoolmate who had started working in some women’s magazine then moved over to a film rag. Within a year she’d organized a “loan” from an actress she was publicizing in her magazine, borrowed some more from her employer, arranged for another bank loan and bought herself a two-bedroom apartment in a cooperative housing society at Bandra. All this before she was twenty-five. Now she was sitting pretty on an asset worth thirty lakhs. Her actress friend had written off the loan long ago—they were quits after all. And the young woman had a roof over her head and enough money stashed away in the bank not to have to worry about her future. And here I was—no money, no job, no nothing. Not even a cupboard to call my own.

  And now here was Krish sitting easily in the stuffed armchair under the lamp, listening attentively to Shireen playing a prelude on the piano. She was still in her nightie and I could see her enormous panties. They’d crawled up the cheeks of her bottom and buried themselves inside. “Why don’t we go for a walk?” I suggested. I couldn’t bear to sit in the flat with three hungry women hovering over us. “No, no, dear, let the gentleman have his tea first,” Jeroobai interrupted, placing a firm hand on his arm, pinning him to the chair. “Oh, I feel more like a beer actually,” Krish said. I felt like killing him. Shameless jerk. “Sorry dear, when my husband was alive—God bless his soul—we used to keep hot drinks in the house. But not now.” With her eyes she indicated Shireen. “Why leave temptation around?”

  “Quite right, Mrs. Mehta,” I agreed.

  Krish stood up and took my arm. “OK, let’s go, babe.” Once outside the door I jerked my arm away. “What the hell are you doing here? And how did you find me?”

  “Kid stuff, babe.What are ex-husbands for? Ran into the old boy at the club bar—nice place—nice and friendly. He was a bit sticky initially, but there’s nothing a couple of stiff ones can’t thaw. Got the dope from him—and here I am. Glad to see me?”

  “You must be joking! I don’t know why I’m bothering to be civil to you.”

  “Because you’re still in love with me.”

  “Go to hell, Krish. I can’t stand your corny humor anymore. What do you want?”

  “Nothing, babe. Just relax. I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d pop by and see how things are. I still care about you.”

  “Like hell you do. In any case, it doesn’t matter a shit to me. I’m OK and I really don’t have anything to tell you.”

  “Well, your old man gave me all the news—too bad about the operation and all that. How are you keeping now?”

  “Listen—you are getting on my nerves. I don’t feel like discussing my body or my life with you. I only agreed to go for this walk to get you out of that house.”

  “I thought we might have a spot of dinner somewhere. Lots of new restaurants in this area I hear. My buddy—your ex-hubby—recommended a few. By the way—did you know he’s planning to get married?” Now, that was a new one on me. I hadn’t heard anything about his marriage plans. But I didn’t want Krish to see my curiosity. I kept my voice carefully neutral.

  “Good for him.”

  “Know the woman? I believe you do. She used to hang around in the same crowd—Vinita—Winnie to friends.”

  Good Lord! Winnie and him! I could see what was in it for him (she was an attractive, sophisticated party girl)—but why was she getting involved?

  Reading my thoughts, Krish went on. “He’s a good catch, you know.To some women, these things matter—family, education, success, money. Not all of them are foolish enough to throw it all away on account of some passing fancy.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Krish. I didn’t leave him because of you—ask him if you don’t believe me. Anyway what’s the point in raking all that up? Especially with you. And if he’s getting married to Winnie that’s really their business. It doesn’t interest me.”

  “I believe the old bird is very happy. Winnie has all but moved in—taken over the place, in fact.The servants adore her, and she has changed the whole show all around. It’s unrecognizable actually.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Oh, I had a couple of drinks with them last night.”

  “Really? And did you remember to take chamelis for her—or did she fling them back on your face? I bet you didn’t spend on an extra gajra for me—is this last night’s reject?”

  “Oh-ho. So it does matter. The Ice Maiden has some feelings left after all. For your information, I’m not such a heel. No, I didn’t take chamelis for her. But, if you must know, I did pick up a rose on the way.”

  “And did you flamenco i
nto the living room holding it between your teeth? And did you then fling it at her feet and shout olé?”

  “You must be a witch. This is spooky. How did you know?”

  “Because I’m a witch.”

  “It turned out to be an interesting evening actually. The two of them seem very well-adjusted. She drinks quite a bit, smokes too. So there were no disapproving glares to cramp our style. Did I tell you my wife was with me? She’s still here. I’ve left her with some friends.”

  “Isn’t that fascinating? A cozy foursome. How cute! And did you switch partners and dance to Tina Turner?”

  “Well, Winnie is the one who is heavily into dancing—but we didn’t do it at home. As I told you—she has turned the place around. The old music room has been converted into her office—she’s a management consultant—you know that. So, anyway, she suggested we go off to the 1900s which was fine by us—we had to be dropped that side of town as it is.”

  “And nothing like a fancy evening at someone else’s expense—right Krish? I bet your wife was most impressed.”

  “You are still bitter, my love. Don’t be.We had a good thing going. It’s over now. Why can’t we be friends? Be nice, woman.You are on your own now. A grown-up girl, all alone in the big bad world.You could use some charm. You aren’t planning to knit sweaters night after night, are you? Word gets around. Single women are in great demand. If you wanted it—there would be three parties a night to go to. Think about it. Unwind. A smile can take you to places—provided it’s beamed at the right person. What are you planning to do with your life now, babe?You’ve got to get your act together. Ask me. I’m an expert on survival. You are in your prime—a ripe pear ready to be plucked.There aren’t too many available women in your age bracket—make the most of the situation. And if I were you, babe, I’d get myself a new look. I notice you are painting your nails these days. But that’s not enough.You need a total makeover—new hair, new clothes and, mainly, a new set of expressions. Fix yourself up nice and pretty. Trust me—I’m not such a heel. I’m your buddy. Maybe the only one you have. And I know you—every bit of you, babe. So, just let go, loosen up, and feed me some dinner. I’m famished.”

  “Krish,” I said, slowly and deliberately, “I find you an unfunny, superficial, wreck of a man. I’m surprised you don’t see that. Now why don’t you be the creep that you are and creep the hell out of my life.”

  I walked home pensively, having refused Krish’s offer to see me home. More than anything else I was surprised by my lack of emotion at the encounter with him. Where was the rage? Where was the loathing? Where was the sorrow? The only thing that disturbed me at all was the thought of Winnie in my home. I still thought of it as “my” home. All my dreams were located in it. I could recall the complicated pattern of the floor tiles, remember the corner of the coffee table that always hurt me, the spot on the carpet where I’d once spilled red wine, the hole in the curtain which the husband had caused with a carelessly held cigarette, my secret drawers under the dressing table full of trinkets from my teenage days, shelves full of old photographs and school report cards, a suitcase filled with trophies won through college. What would Winnie do with all this? Call the raddiwalla and dispose it all of? I wanted to phone and tell her not to throw important portions of my life away. But I didn’t dare. Besides, I didn’t have any place to keep my things. Jeroobai kept complaining about the few possessions I’d installed in the room as it was. Winnie—imagine! I couldn’t picture her in that setting at all—the music room turned into an office! What had she done with the enormous chair which we used to joke was large enough to stage an orgy in? And the books? Records? Framed wedding photographs? Madhubani paintings? The Pichwai on the wall? Oh God! I didn’t feel like thinking about it. I didn’t resent her, it was just that I didn’t approve either. The common theory about second marriages was obviously wrong—the husband hadn’t opted for another me—Winnie and I couldn’t have been more different. She was assertive, bossy and flagrantly sexual. Her first husband had been a mild German with blond eyelashes and bad breath. She had produced three children with him. Unable to keep up with her, he had fled to Cologne taking the kids with him. She had then attached herself to a five-star hotel as a top bracket PR person and consultant. I would run into her every now and again, as she strode around the lobby, ticking off nervous juniors, a docile secretary at her elbow taking notes. I also remembered the husband being most impressed.

  “Quite a woman, this Winnie,” he’d commented once while following her with his eyes.

  “Yes—if you are an admirer of Attila the Hun,” I’d remarked.

  “What’s wrong with efficiency? That doesn’t make her a monster?”

  “I wonder whether she performs as ferociously in bed,” I’d said and got a dirty look in return. And now, there she was, installed in my room, on my side of the bed. I wanted to go back and reclaim the Jaipuri razai that had been my security blanket. Unless of course, she’d thrown it out by now and replaced it with a silk quilt. I wondered, if I should believe Krish about the servants reacting positively to their new memsaab. Or did they disobey her out of loyalty to me? Did they refuse to turn down the bed, just to spite her? Did they think of me with affection and sympathy and consider her an intruder? Somehow, the matter of Winnie hurt far more than everything that had gone before. It’s not because I’d expected the husband to spend the rest of his life pining for me—far from it. But this seemed obscenely soon. Barely had I picked up my hair brush and vacated the place—than there was this new woman installed in our home. And not just any woman—Winnie!

  “You’re just jealous, darling, it’s natural, don’t fight it,” advised Anjali. She was looking radiant after a quick trip abroad. “Any other woman in your place would feel the same way, even if she didn’t care a shit about the ex-husband. The only thing you have to worry about is safeguarding your own interests. I’d told you not to sign all those papers till you’d got everything you’d been promised. But you didn’t listen. Now that he’s free and with a new woman, you’ll be last on his list of priorities. Forget it, kid. If he hasn’t come up with anything so far, it’s unlikely that he will now—particularly with that woman around. Maybe she is just what he deserves. She’ll take over the place and kick him around in his own house. He needed a bully. You were too much of a lamb for him.” Anjali was right of course. She was so much shrewder in such matters. She understood the ways of the world and men in particular. But even with her tutoring I still had a lot to learn.

  She was still being a considerate and thoughtful friend. Often, her driver would come around with things to eat, dishes she knew I liked and could never hope to get in my present setup. Each time she came over the three crazies would gherao her. She handled them beautifully, with great tact, but I would seethe at the imposition and take her to my miserable room quickly. There was barely any space in there even to move. There were no chairs, and the bed was a high and narrow old-fashioned one—the sort of bed you climbed into with the help of a stool.We’d sit on it and chat and then she’d suggest a ride into town or a shopping spree.

  Krish called once after our unfortunate meeting. I was pretty stupid in not hanging up on him, considering the purpose of his call: he wanted me to meet Rini, his wife. As he spoke I thought about the woman whose existence I’d once tried to obliterate from my memory. To my astonishment I now found myself discussing her. I asked him what he’d told her about me. There was no masochism in the question—just curiosity. What does an unfaithful, wanderer of a husband tell his long-suffering wife about the other woman? Everything it seemed. Or so it was in Krish and Rini’s marriage. They had discussed me threadbare at the height of the big romance and Rini had read every single one of my letters! Krish admitted all this readily and unashamedly. I asked him whether she sometimes scribbled off replies on his behalf when he was busy otherwise.

  “No, she didn’t actually do that, but she would remind me if I was behind.”

  “Then why all the farce
about secrecy? Why the no-calls-on-weekends pact?”

  “I did all that for you—you would’ve found out about Rini and me earlier, and you weren’t the sort of woman who would have played along with our game.” So that’s all our romance was—their little game. I asked him wryly if he’d met other women who enjoyed their roles. “A few. In fact, we all ended up friends later.That’s why I was wondering whether you’d be willing to meet Rini—after all, there’s little she doesn’t know about you.” It was then that I finally hung up on him. I never saw or heard from the man again. But the phone call took me back to his visit at my PG lodgings. What was it he had said? You’ve got to get your act together.Yes, I had to. Melodramatic as it sounded I had no one to rely on but me.

  I seriously started to hunt for a “proper” job. I’d been freelancing with the theater crowd, doing the odd thing—model coordination for agencies, small scripts for television pilots, organizing props for photography shoots—but that was far from lucrative. And I hated the poverty, this meager income forced on me. I suppose I was a bit too old for the drastic changes I had to adjust to or perhaps I just wasn’t cut out to be middle class, lower middle class. For a start, there was the matter of transport. I’d never traveled by bus since my schooldays. Or waited in queues for anything. Getting into a local train and commuting to town was a major trauma. I could not relate to the other women in my compartment. I felt revolted by their small concerns. I’d watch with horror as they squabbled over small change and petty issues.Their conversations depressed me. It was all so stomach-turning, their talk of vegetable prices and milk strikes. Sometimes I’d overhear a husband being discussed, but it was invariably in servile terms. Every problem of theirs seemed trivial and insignificant to me. The quotidian detail of their lives—spats with the mother-in-law, a child with mumps, school admissions and donation money, husbands’ stalled promotions, office gossip, a crisis at the neighborhood crèche, an ailing parent, a relative’s hernia operation, sari sales at Kala Niketan, haldi versus cold cream, Garden Vareli at a suburban store, discounts at Sahakari Bhandar—I hated to be in that environment. Rubber monsoon sandals and drippy raincoats, the musty smell of old saris, BO camouflaged under cheap perfume, the sickening smell of stale flowers and coconut oil. I didn’t belong to this world. I felt nauseated, physically sick. I’d sit there staring at a spot on the partition hoping none of the women would attempt to strike up a conversation with me. I’d watch them devouring cheap novellas as greedily as they dug into their station-bought wada paus. I’d listen to their comments on the latest exploits of popular film stars and all the while feel sick at being there, forced into a lifestyle that I’d rejected twenty years ago.