Socialite Evenings

by Shobhaa De

  “But Mother, why does security rest with a man? I feel confident now that I can look after myself. I am earning as much as any man. I have a roof over my head. I don’t really have any responsibilities. I am at peace with myself. I’m not answerable to anyone. I don’t feel like complicating my life by getting into a second marriage. I like and respect Girish. We share a lot of common interests. But I am not sure I’ll make a good wife to him. Or he a good husband to me. Perhaps we are both far too selfish for marriage. I can’t make any ‘sacrifices’—not now.”

  “Well then, since your mind is made up, I think you should be frank enough with this man—again, I’ve forgotten his name. Tell him your decision so that he’ll be free to find someone else. He has been through a tragedy. He looks lonely. So does his son. They both require the presence of a woman in their lives. I think they are hoping it will be yours. So if you don’t want to be married to him please let him know. Poor man, let him not feel let down.”

  “Mother, I can see you are trying to make me feel awful. I know you mean well—but don’t push me into something I’m not ready for. Girish is a good man but I’m not in the frame of mind to consider marriage. But you are right—I must tell him. And Kunal. I love both of them, especially Kunal. But not enough to change the way things are and become a part of their family. I think they’ll understand.”

  But when I did muster up the courage to finally tell them, neither of them seemed to understand. At least, Kunal didn’t. I suspect Girish only pretended to. I could tell they were both sore at me. And, as such things normally go, our friendship began to crumble and my involvement with Shakuntala began to wane. Girish talked less and less of my playing a role in the film. Oh sure, we met, we discussed changes in the script, we talked about the casting, but it was all very lifeless. There was no soul left in the project. I thought it was time to opt out. One day as I sat wondering about how I would break this to Girish, Anjali phoned. “Babaji is released!” she announced. For a moment I thought she was talking about a film. “We are planning a party to celebrate.You have to come and please ask Girish and that handsome boy of his to come as well. There is so much joy again. I haven’t stopped laughing. K is on top of the world.”

  “Where’s the little creepo—Murty?”

  “He’s away in Europe—business trip.”

  “Sounds wonderful. But, Anjali, I’m feeling so out of things. I’m not in a party mood. Would you mind terribly if I didn’t come this time.”

  “Yes, I would. This happens to be a very special occasion in our lives. Mimi is back home too. She’s going straight. I’ve got her involved in the business. After a long, long time the family has got its act together. Happy days are here again. And you must share this with us.”

  “Let’s leave it open.”

  “Let’s not. But before that—I’m coming into town for a massage and perm and we should meet.”

  “You mean after all these years in Juhu you still haven’t found a good enough hairdresser there?”

  “You know how it is, sweetie, one gets used to one woman. I can’t dream of leaving my head to anyone else. Besides, the car makes the trip in that direction daily—so, it’s only a matter of my spending extra time—not money. I can afford that. And while I’m at it, I might as well get a facial. Also I have to pick up my ring from the jewelers.”

  “Another one? At this rate you’ll outshine Liz Taylor.”

  “This one’s not for me—it’s for Babaji. Just a token to show him how happy we are. He had mentioned that a navgraha ring is useful to ward off evil. K and I thought he’d like it if we gave him one.”

  “Very thoughtful of you. I could do with one myself.”

  “What evil do you have to deal with? You’re such a goody goody.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “So, what is it? Are we catching up or aren’t we? I can buy you a cold coffee and some salad.You can have your face fixed too.”

  “Thanks, but no, thanks. My face is beyond fixing. Actually, I’m quite happy with it. Tell you what—let’s leave it for another time. And I’ll see you at the party.”

  “Great.You’ll really like it. It’s Guru Purnima that night, so we’ll be celebrating it by the pool. It’s important to have the moon’s rays shine on you—your body’s batteries get recharged for the rest of the year.”

  “Oh and by the way I’m not sure about Girish and Kunal—but I’ll pass on your message to them . . .”

  I wasn’t really surprised when they both declined—politely of course.

  I nearly didn’t make it myself to the party and thought of wriggling out of the whole affair at the last moment. But as I always seemed to do, when one of Anjali’s dos were concerned, I went.

  The first person I spotted was Varun. I nearly turned and walked out. But it was too late—Anjali had seen me.

  “Alone?”

  “Yes. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all, sweetheart. Maybe just as well—who knows whom you might run into tonight? Always best not to have hangers-on.”

  Varun came up to me. “Why, hello there Ms. Celebrity, going solo?” “Why don’t you look for some other victim tonight? I’m sure there’s no shortage. Or is your paper that hard-up?”

  “My! My! We are getting prickly, aren’t we? Why don’t we get ourselves a drink and talk this thing out. I have nothing against you—in fact, I rather fancy you.”

  “Go take a walk,Varun.Your schoolboy lines don’t impress me. I wouldn’t like to create a scene—Anjali is an old friend of mine. Just leave me alone.”

  “Get off your high horse. I told you—I have nothing against you. My reporters tell me it’s all off between you and that pseudo fart.”

  “It’s none of your stinking business.”

  “No? Maybe it is, maybe I have chosen to make it so. In fact, I was hoping we’d meet tonight. I have something for you to do.”

  “There’s nothing I’d care to do for you. I wouldn’t spit on you if you asked me to.”

  “You are reacting like an emotional teenager. Mature people don’t behave like this—they keep their opinions to themselves. They play clever games.They try and swing things to their advantage. Don’t be a fool. Can’t you see how easy it would be for me to destroy you? I wouldn’t bother—you are small fry. But I can do it. Now be sensible and listen to what I’m saying.” He caught hold of my arm and started to steer me toward a marble bench near the shrubbery.

  “Let go. How dare you. I’m not afraid of your threats. You can bloody well go ahead and print what you wish.”

  “All I was suggesting was an exclusive from you. It’s not you I wish to fix—it’s that bastard. Now that it’s all over between the two of you the time’s right.You get your own back—and I help you to do so by printing your story. That way both of us get what we want.”

  “What makes you think I want to fix Girish? I don’t. I’d rather fix you but then, I don’t waste my time on worms. I leave them to grovel in their own dirt. Excuse me—I’m getting out of this toxic zone.” I walked away swiftly. Almost without thinking I landed in my old room—the one that had seen me through my breakdown. I locked myself in and sat on the bed, my own words ringing in my ears. I’d made an ass of myself. All that bravado—how foolish really. Yes—Varun was going to get me—I’d asked for it. I could imagine him on the phone, right this minute, dictating a mean piece to his minions. But then, I said to myself, what the hell does it matter! A splendid thrill of defiance surged through me and I decided to go back to the party and have fun.

  Babaji glowed in the moonlight as did the mother-of-pearl throne he sat on. Two beautiful foreigners stood behind him fanning imaginary flies away. K was clad in a dhoti—he looked beatific too. Anjali had rigged up a small tent for her Babaji made out of mogras and jasmines. Besides looking utterly pretty, it was divinely fragrant. Enormous thalis strewn with rose petals were placed all around the garden. She’d even managed to get lotuses to bloom in the lotus pond. The setting was exquis
itely done and Varun started to slip from my mind. I started to float—it was all very heady—I half expected the moon goddess to descend from the sky and scatter stars on the gathering. Was I hallucinating? Had Anjali put something into the thandai? I wasn’t worrying. I noticed a man talking earnestly to Babaji. He had a very high-tech tape recorder in his hand. In the dreamlike state I was in, my normal diffidence disappeared. I walked up boldly to investigate. His accent was peculiar. He looked Indian but spoke American. He was asking Babaji about his experiences in jail. So he was a journalist. Not a local one, obviously. One could tell that from the way he phrased his questions. Babaji’s nubile fan ners pitched in from time to time, helping their guru out with some of the more complicated questions. Babaji handled the whole show with supreme confidence. His answers were delightfully esoteric and charmingly vague. He cleverly dodged those relating to money matters or to his ashrams and investments abroad. The reporter was relentless without being rude. I was enjoying myself and I suppose it showed for the reporter asked pointedly, “Are you a part of Babaji’s entourage?”

  “No,” I laughed.

  “Excuse me—but we are in the middle of an interview. This is private. I was given forty-five minutes with him—exclusively. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to carry on with my job.”

  “Maybe I could help you out with some of the questions—I noticed you were quite off the track on some points.”

  “Are you a journalist?”

  “No.”

  “Lay off, lady. It really isn’t any of your business how I conduct my interviews.”

  “I was only trying to be helpful.”

  “Thanks. But I can manage perfectly without your help. Now I’d like to get back to my story, so beat it. You’re cutting in on my time.”

  “What if I refuse to budge?”

  “I’ll have you thrown out.”

  “Try.”

  “Look, what’s with you?”

  “Nothing. I’m enjoying your interview. And I’d like to sit in on it—why don’t you relax and get on with your job?”

  “You are behaving like a bloody bitch. I’ll have the host himself get rid of you.” I sat tight while he went off in search of Kumar.When they returned Kumar looked astonished at the sight of me. “You?”

  “Yes, me!”

  He turned to the reporter.

  “She’s OK. I thought it was someone else. She’s an old friend of Anjali’s—perfectly harmless. Just ignore her and carry on.”

  “Look buddy, I don’t work that way. I don’t care a shit who she is or whether or not she’s harmless. Get her out of here, or I’m leaving. Our deal’s off—no interview—you understand?”

  “Easy.You are insulting a guest.” Then K turned to me nervously and held out his arm with a flourish.

  “Shall we?”

  “Are you asking me for a dance?”

  “Why not?” We moved off, but not before I made a rude gesture at the reporter whose face resembled a thundercloud. He silently mouthed “B-I-T-C-H” before switching on his machine and returning to his interview.

  “Who’s he?” I asked Kumar.

  “Oh—that’s Ranbir Roy from The Washington Times. He’s well known—a roving correspondent. It took a lot of work to rope him in for this interview.”

  “Help! Did I blow it for you?”

  “Too late to think about that now, dearest.”

  Just before I left the party, I saw Varun, enshrouded as always in a cloud of smoke, holding forth to an eager crowd of admirers. He looked not a little sinister, only the paunch and goatee spoiling the general effect. I shuddered a little despite myself.

  Ritu phoned some days later to say that she had finally decided on a property in the hills. The place was being renovated and she would, she said, henceforth spend the better part of the year there coming down to Bombay only for the winter. She was throwing a farewell party to which she said I must come. I went, happy for Ritu but sad for myself. One more friend gone and how many left to make? Ritu was looking lovely in an ash-gray sari and a vermilion bindi. Anjali had departed on a scouting trip and because Ritu was being mobbed by the crowd, I wandered off as I usually did.

  Perhaps because I’d been seeing or colliding with too many journalists lately I began to notice how much of the conversation had to do with journalists. And wherever the Press was mentioned there was one name that stood out: Varun.

  “It wasn’t worth taking him on,” a senior journalist was saying to an agitated industrialist who had been the target of a Varun operation. The polyester king was full of contempt. “This is a town full of gutless people. Here is one of your tribe indulging in gutter journalism and what do you people do? You flock to his parties, drink his Scotch, screw the starlets he provides and feature him in your own publications. I have been counting—in the last four months one weekly has carried three articles on this man. Why? What are his achievements? Does he have any credibility?”

  Another media man interrupted, “Fear. That is the explanation. Fear.”

  “What are you afraid of? Unless all you fellows have dirty secrets to hide.”

  A small-time politician explained, “Arre baba, it’s not that. This man is capable of inventing stories. Ruining reputations. Damaging business. Who wants the jhanjat of annoying him?”

  Soon it appeared that Varun had become the theme of the party. Even Ritu seemed content to just listen to the Varun stories that evening. A respected and respectable film-critic from an established nongossip film journal talked about how Varun had hounded a talented filmmaker who had refused to grovel at his feet. Eventually, broken both in spirit and financially, the man had committed suicide. Varun had capitalized even on this tragic death by making it a dramatic cover story for Outlook. “He sent those snoopy girls of his to interview everybody from the Gurkha of the building to the jamadar in his house. Even close family members weren’t spared. One of those bitches went to the school and tracked down Deven’s kids. A photographer clicked away as the children broke down and cried remembering their papa. He wrote about his ex-girlfriends, present wife and future affairs. The headline said ‘Who really killed Deven?’ It was so sickening.”

  “Why doesn’t someone do something to fix this man?” a bearded art filmmaker from the South asked.

  “How do I fix him—I don’t own magazines and newspapers? My own editor is too scared or won’t stoop as low to muckrake. Who will carry my story?” the critic said.

  “Achcha—let’s leave that aside. Tell us Samtani saab, why didn’t you take him to court for defamation?” an industrialist asked.

  The polyester king told everybody what everybody there already knew. “Are you joking? Ask any press-wallah—is it worth going to court? My lawyers told me to forget it. Apart from anything else, I would’ve done Varun a favor—his paper would have sold even more copies—he thrives on these defamation cases—don’t you know that? The case would’ve gone on for ten years, twenty years, then what? It was not the money—I would’ve spent any amount. But who has the time to waste in courts?”

  The Southern filmmaker turned to the senior journalist and asked, “Why do you people chamchofy this man so much? Why does your group keep writing about him, promoting him?”

  “It’s simple, yaar. It’s better to keep good relations with Varun. Take my example. Who knows when I might need a job? Varun pays the highest salaries. He looks after his staff very well. He offers all sorts of perks—soft loans, driver-ke-saath gaadi, air-conditioned cabins, generous expense accounts. All journalists like to flatter him and he likes to flatter them. Nobody respects Varun, but they like his money-power. Do you know he even sends his editors abroad for holidays? How many proprietors do that?”

  The polyester king stared at him sadly and said, “Afsos hai, yaar. You people have no integrity.You will sell your soul for a free trip to London.”

  “It isn’t that. Varun has made himself very powerful. If he takes a khunnas against anyone, he can go all out to finish off t
hat person. He doesn’t forgive any of his editors if they decide to leave him and join someone else. He carries out an organized slander campaign and makes the person’s life miserable till he or she is forced to quit his new job and return to him.”

  “But can’t people do the same thing he does to them. Find out what the skeletons in his closet are?” the filmmaker persisted.

  “Plenty, yaar,” said the film critic. “We all know that Varun is actually a homo. Forget all that wife-shife front. He prefers young, chikna boys. Just notice how many pretty boys he has successfully launched. All these aspiring heroes have a price to pay—but they don’t mind. They know that if they please the boss they are made. He picks them up from nowhere and then starts to build them up. A few who fall out with him talk about his sadistic kinks—but who will listen to them? We all know that he takes these boys to his bungalow on the beach. He is terribly discreet about the whole thing.

  “But I must say it’s strange that he has managed to keep all this out of the gossip press for so long? I’m sure there must be some enemy of Varun’s who has the guts to write about him,” the chiffoned wife of a businessman said.

  “Who will dare to write? Varun has a dossier on just about everybody in town.You pick on him and he’ll get you for something or the other. Could be a tax default or some long-forgotten scandal—after all, every person has something or the other to hide in a city like Bombay. Varun is a vindictive man—like all aging queens, he is very insecure,” the critic said.

  “And yet all you chamchas flock around him. Didn’t I see a big color feature in your weekend supplement?” said the filmmaker who was becoming quite drunk and belligerent. His question was directed to an attractive young editor with a huge bindi on her narrow forehead.

  “I was only following orders from the top,” she cooed. “It was really a complicated tie-up. Some sort of a swap deal with Outlook, with ad spots on his video films. My instructions were to do a soft story, a glamorous lifestyle piece talking about his gorgeous homes, his gorgeous wife, his gorgeous kids, his gorgeous parties, his gorgeous clothes and his gorgeous success. He paid for everything—so we even saved on photography costs. Now that he is losing his hair and has just had an expensive hair transplant job done, he’s very careful about his angles. Rather than take a chance with an unfamiliar photographer, he prefers his favorite blue-eyed boy to photograph him. He has an impressive collection of stock pictures which he hands out to any reporter interested in featuring him. God! That guy is so vain. I know the beautician who works on him weekly—his beauty routine is something else. Do you know he spends at least five hours every Saturday getting his face and nails fixed? The works, you know. Apricot face packs, cucumber eye masks, almond oil hair massage, malai body massage, manicure, pedicure, even threading and waxing and a dye job.”