Socialite Evenings

by Shobhaa De

  Kunal fetched me a nimbu pani. Girish said, “I hope that’s OK with you.”

  “Just fine.”

  He got himself a tough whisky and sat down next to me. “So—busy day?”

  “The usual.”

  “How did it go?”

  “What?”

  “Desire.”

  “Better than last night—thank God! I was so ashamed of our miserable showing yesterday.”

  “Happens all the time. Have you thought over what I proposed?”

  “You proposed something?”

  “Shakuntala.”

  Impulsively, for it was certainly not the lime juice, I said, “I’d like to get involved.”

  “But you are involved. I thought it was all settled last night.”

  “Really! That’s wonderful. I think I’ll drink to that—what do you say?”

  “You don’t have to ask me, go ahead—fix her a drink, Kunal. Vodka?”

  “No, champagne—if you have some going. I think this is a very special occasion. Am I being difficult?”

  “Not at all. I’m not a champagne drinker myself. Hate the stuff—and no, there’s no Moët et Chandon in this house—but you’re right—tonight deserves nothing less. Come on, let’s go—we’ll find champagne somewhere and I know just where that’s going to be. Kunal?”

  “Thanks Baba, but I think I’ll stay home. Got some stuff to catch up on—if that’s OK?”

  “Sure, son. See you later.”

  Girish flung the jeep down the deserted streets at high speed, while I clenched my fists on the leather of the seat, thinking—Dear God what have I let myself in for.

  “We’ll drive forever if need be to find champagne,” he laughed, as we finally hit South Bombay. “Rendezvous?”

  “Perfect,” I said relaxing as we slowed to a more sedate pace.

  It was already pretty late and the restaurant was dead, with a few old couples shuffling around on the floor while a bored rock group reluctantly played a waltz. But the view was spectacular with countless ships crowding the busy harbor. Nobody was keen to serve us just champagne, but Girish was obviously a popular regular.

  “To us,” he said.

  “To Shakuntala,” I replied, and knocked back my drink in three easy swigs.

  “I am not dressed for champagne.” I giggled stupidly, three glasses later.

  “How does one dress for it?” Girish asked.

  “Glamorously. Like Anjali. She’d be shocked to find me here like this, dressed so dowdily in a crumpled workday sari.”

  “I think you look beautiful—and who is this foolish Anjali?”

  “Oh, an old friend—very stylish. She taught me to polish my nails. It was a bit late in the day by the time I started—but now they’re doing fine.”

  “Show.”

  “See.” He took both my hands in his and asked for an extra candle at our table. “This I have to examine thoroughly,” he said with a sol emn frown.

  While my nails were being inspected closely, he asked, “How old are you?”

  “That’s a very rude question to ask a woman you barely know—but I’ll tell you.” I told him.

  “Perfect.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean the age difference between us is perfect—eight years.”

  Nail inspection over, we drank some more in silence. “Do you know that second marriages invariably turn out to be stronger than first? There’s an interesting study done on this—maybe you ought to read it.”

  “Really? Who conducted it?”

  “Someone very prestigious—but don’t ask me who. I believe in that strongly myself. We also share a lot of cultural affinities—did you know that?”

  “No—but it’s you who are telling me.”

  “What’s your mother’s name?”

  “Why?”

  “Do you mind telling me—it’s important.”

  “You’re never going to believe this—it’s Shakuntala.”

  “It had to be! I call that my first good omen—let’s have another drink. I’d like to meet her—your mother. Possible?”

  “Sure. But she is very old and reticent. I don’t know what you’d talk about.”

  “That’s my problem, really. When can you arrange that—tomorrow?”

  “You do seem to be in some mad hurry.”

  “I am.”

  In retrospect I blame it all on the champagne.

  I didn’t go to the Mehtas that night. And Jeroobai brought the roof down. “You should have informed us in advance, dear. Those are the rules in my home. We run a respectable place. Besides, it isn’t safe these days to keep the front door unlatched. We could have been robbed or murdered. This is most irresponsible, dear.You should at least have thought of little Shireen sleeping alone in her room.Thank God, we have Brutus to protect us. Anyway, this is my final warning to you, dear. Next time you do this, I will have to ask you to leave.”

  “I have already decided to do that, Mrs. Mehta,” I said firmly. At that moment all I wanted to do was to get the hell out of that place. I didn’t care about the deposit I’d have to forgo or anything else. I didn’t even know where I’d go. In any case, last night’s champagne was still crowding me. I could feel a massive headache coming on.

  We’d left the Rendezvous at three a.m. and had gone to Apollo Bunder across the road.

  “Let’s watch the sunrise—and then eat hot waffles at the Shamiana,” Girish had suggested. I hadn’t thought twice before accepting. We’d talked, sitting on a hard stone bench. Rather, Girish had talked and I’d listened. He spoke about his life, marriage, the death of his wife, his son, his career, the rest of his family, his childhood, his dreams—just about everything came tumbling out in a champagney rush. His accent had changed and he seemed far less sure of himself. He’d stop every now and then to check my reactions, to see whether I was laughing at him. I wasn’t. I had felt weepy at one point, but I sure as hell hadn’t felt like laughing at the life and time of the unusual bearded man by my side. And so it went until dawn and waffles.

  On the spur of the moment, I decided to go to my parents’ home. My sister Alak, I knew, had been shifted permanently to a nursing home at Swati’s, my doctor sister’s, insistence (she paid most of the costs as well) and I knew there’d be room. Somehow, despite everything that had happened, I was confident they’d be happy to see me. I wasn’t wrong. Mother’s eyes shone when she saw me on the doorstep with my suitcases. There were no questions, no explanations. Just a mugful of Mother’s tea and butter biscuits from the Irani down the road. We sat in the kitchen as we had done in the past in a quiet and companionable silence. She did not urge me to talk. After a while I said to her, “I met a man last night.” She looked at me sweetly and said, “I know. I could tell from your smile.” I leaned over and hugged her and just at this point Father walked in. “I heard some noise in the kitchen—oh—it’s you!” He was leaving when I said, “Oh, Baba, I just felt like coming home—is it all right with both of you?” He stood and looked at me for a long moment before replying. Finally he appeared to come to some decision. “Let me just say that our doors are always open to our children.” He left and I wept. Mother said nothing but simply took my hands in her strong callused ones.

  It was wonderful to be looked after once again. To have someone make tea for you, wait up meals for you, get the bathwater ready for you. I began to notice the “cultural affinities” I had with my family, the affinities Girish had spoken about at length. My calling my father “Baba”—now that was something I’d never thought about before, a constant that had remained through every phase of my life. But other things came back naturally too. The flying of the hands into a namaskar when the lights were switched on at dusk (the ex-husband had found this gesture ridiculous and primitive and I’d given it up early on in the marriage). But I’d noticed Girish doing the same and not feeling at all self-conscious about it (another plus in his favor).

  My living nearly twenty miles away from
both Prithvi and Girish was turning out to be a bit of a nuisance. The play closed with fairly good reviews. Swapna, of course, flattered herself into believing it had been a colossal hit. She was headed back to Delhi, but had managed to swing a couple of assignments in sponsored programs on television. I was asked too—a minor acting role in a soap and a chance to work on a lengthy script. I was happy to accept both. Girish wasn’t pleased about my decision. “You don’t need to waste your time on such faltu projects,” he told me as we sat over coffee at the Sea Rock.

  “They aren’t faltu, besides I need to work.”

  “That’s rubbish.You could join my unit—you know that. It’s really a full-time person I’m looking for. Shakuntala is going to be a major production. I want to work on the screenplay with you and you haven’t even found the time to read the first draft.”

  “I’ll do it over the weekend—promise. But I don’t know why you’re making me this offer when you aren’t familiar with my work—not that there is too much of it.”

  “Are you fishing for compliments? You know you are bloody good—or you should, if you don’t. I need you, dammit. In fact, I want you to come location-scouting with me next week.”

  “I can’t do that, Girish. I have a few modeling commitments. I’d promised I’d help out with that suitings campaign. In fact, I might have to go to Jaipur with that unit if they want me to coordinate things on the spot.”

  “Sooner or later you will have to make up your mind what you want to do with your life.You are much too talented to waste your time on these trivial jobs. Aren’t you tired of looking for hair-styling mousse and arranging eight identical leotards for a bunch of cretins jumping around singing an asinine jingle?”

  “Look, all this may not be intellectual but I enjoy it. Some of the kids are lively, bubbly, crazy. I love listening to their mad comments and zany plans. I feel relaxed in that setup.”

  “But life is about more than just goofy kids and surfboards. I want you to get involved. Commit yourself. Get into the mainstream.”

  “The mainstream of what? Cinema? Life? I find all that very complex.”

  “You are just running away from reality. Don’t you see the superficiality of your existence? How long can you continue to live with your parents? And scrounge around for work? Don’t tell me you enjoy sweating it out—you are too spoiled for that.You don’t have the time for anything meaningful.There’s a festival of Tarkovsky films next week that I’d like to go to with you—but can I be sure you’ll accompany me? The French Film Festival is after that. Everybody dies to get passes to it. Kunal and I were hoping you’d come with us—I asked for an extra pass for you. But you are so indifferent. Stop running, for Christ’s sake. Stay with me—you won’t regret it.We enjoy so many similar things. I can’t remember when I last looked forward to a lassi on the beach, or reacted to a hibiscus garland, or noticed the fragrance of champak flowers—don’t laugh.You think I’m making an ass of myself, don’t you. But listen I’m not feeding you a line. I can understand your being wary of smooth-tongued charmers. But believe me, I’m not doing a number on you. So why don’t you just relax and leave things to me?”

  “Girish, I appreciate what you’re saying. But I feel all closed up and insulated. I need a little time. I’m discovering stuff about myself. I enjoyed this little patch of independence. I’m reconnecting with my parents—they need me. I’m enjoying their presence. We may not talk very much, but it’s a lovely feeling to have them at home when I get back. Don’t rush me, please.”

  “Have it your way. Shakuntala goes on the floors in four months—we’ll see how you feel about it then.”

  “Thanks Girish. I know I’m probably testing your limits. I’m sorry.”

  “What about my friend Varun’s dinner tomorrow night? Coming?”

  “Should be fine—but I’ve nothing to wear.And besides if it’s going to be a filmi affair count me out—I’d feel terribly out of place.”

  “No, dear girl, it’s not one of those dinners.You know who Varun is, don’t you?”

  “Hotshot magazine editor.”

  “Right. And he’s an old school and college friend. We were at La Martiniere together—in Lucknow. And then at St. Stephen’s.”

  “I’ve seen him at the club a couple of times. Attractive wife, nice kids.”

  “Have you read him? He writes quite well, actually, but poor chap doesn’t get enough time.”

  “How come? Isn’t that his job?”

  “Well, Outlook has a team of correspondents but as the editor he gets very bogged down with the administrative side of the magazine. And being a weekly he has to be on the go constantly. Plus, he spends a lot of time in Delhi—he is very close to the high command these days. Did you see him on television the other night? Thought he spoke rather well on the Tamil situation.”

  “I saw the program toward the tail end. He has an impressive vocabulary, good voice but I thought he was inappropriately dressed.”

  “Why?”

  “Wasn’t he wearing a paratrooper’s jacket or something?”

  “It wasn’t a paratrooper’s jacket. It’s the sort of informal jacket a lot of international journalists wear these days. I’m sure you’ve seen photographs of the foreign press chaps in Beirut. I think Varun picked it up on one of his jaunts.”

  “He’s always zipping around, isn’t he, this friend of yours? No wonder he doesn’t have the time to write.”

  “Now, now—that’s also his job. He has to travel to get his stories, and he is one of the best guys for on-the-spot coverage.”

  “He strikes me as being terribly opinionated and pompous. He smokes a cigar bigger than his face and goes around in a chauffeur-driven Maruti. That’s yucky.”

  “Come on, don’t hold such things against the guy. Look at what he has done with the magazine. He has taken the pants off everybody else.Today, whatever he writes carries a lot of weight. Nobody has been able to beat his scoops. He has terrific sources, here and abroad. He was the first one to break the gun-running story, plus the other one on defense deals. His exposés have brought down ministries. You must have read some of his interviews—deadly. There’s no doubt about it—Varun is a dynamite. You’ll see when you come to the party—he gets the best crowd. Everybody’s there—politicians, journalists, film people, dancers, singers, authors, even a couple of underworld types. And mind you, Varun is very selective about his guests. They come there for him. His wife may be attractive, but she’s no great hostess. They don’t bother about the khana daana. His parties are most informal—you help yourself to drinks at the bar, and dinner generally consists of cold cuts and cheese, with maybe a salad thrown in. That’s left on a side table, and people fix their own sandwiches. If he’s feeling particularly generous then he throws in a handi full of biryani with a dekchi full of raita—that’s it. On very special occasions, a few cans of rasgullas are opened for dessert, otherwise there’s a plate full of ready-made paans. Guests prefer to arrive there after finishing dinner—he’s well-known for his lousy table. But in any case, those who are there haven’t come for an eight-course meal. It’s important to be on his list—a lot of wheeling and dealing goes on at these affairs. Varun has the knack of getting the right mix together. Things hot up sometimes. I remember a very volatile evening once, when an opposition leader came to blows with a local Congress guy. A lot of glasses were broken that day.”

  “Sounds almost as riotous as one of Anjali and Kumar’s parties.”

  “Possibly, except these are supposed to be cerebral altercations—issues are battled, policies get born, reputations made or broken. Everybody courts Varun—including his enemies.”

  “Does he have lots of those?”

  “Every powerful person does. He is far more proud of the number of people who detest him than those who think he’s a great chap.”

  “Didn’t he write something nasty about Kumar once? Yes, of course he had. I remembered Anjali showing me the item and weeping over it. Pretty awful stuff—t
his was soon after Kumar was raided.”

  “Oh, that’s all a part of the game. He’s carried a few scandalous tidbits on me as well—you know, linking me to this and that actress. But one has to learn to take these things in one’s stride. For all you know, you might find yourself in his gossip column after tomorrow night.You’d better look your best. I don’t want to be linked up with some frump. Kunal and I have a reputation to live up to.”

  “That does it—I’m not coming with you. I don’t need to be listed among your conquests, Mr. Sridhar—thanks, but no, thanks.”

  “Come on, I was just kidding. It will be fun. I assure you, you won’t get bored. Besides, maybe a bitchy little piece is just what you need to get you out of that ruddy rut of yours. I’m dying to incriminate you. If you don’t come I’ll tell Varun to fix an item about us, anyway. Kunal can supply the pictures. If you think I’m blackmailing you—I am.”

  Varun’s party was pretty much the way Girish had described it the previous evening. Unlike other parties in the city, where people tended to float around at random, throwing “hi”s and kisses all around, this one was more structured. It had easily recognizable power centers. The biggest was in the study. “That’s the real adda,” Girish said as he steered Kunal and me toward Varun who could barely be seen behind his cigar smoke. The room was already stuffy and my eyes started to water. By the time we reached the host, I had streams of tears trickling down my face. “Good heavens, Girish! What have you done to this poor woman,” roared Varun, drawing everybody’s attention to us. “Don’t tell me you’ve been ill-treating her, as you do the rest?”