Socialite Evenings

by Shobhaa De

  I was dying to know what he threaded, waxed and dyed but felt embarrassed to ask her in front of everybody.When I got the chance, I quickly inquired. “Oh—he threads the hairs off his toesies and his fingers. He shapes his eyebrows and dyes just about everything—I mean EVERYTHING down to his eyelashes and you can guess what!”

  Varun had so dominated the evening that the only time I managed to have a few words with Ritu was when I was leaving. We promised to write each other regularly.

  About a month after this party, I was amazed to receive an invitation to Varun’s annual jamboree—the anniversary party of Outlook. I vaguely thought about calling Girish and asking whether we should go together just to score a point off Varun and then put the thought out of mind. Anjali then. I’d go with her for she would probably be going. And if she hadn’t been invited, I’d go alone. Thinking about it now, I wonder why I was being so obsessive about Varun and the only reason that seems in any way plausible was his dangerous reputation which held me in a sort of thrall. The sort of hypnotic effect some spiders have for flies.Which is as good an analogy as any for that was what I was going to do. Go to Varun’s party and be the proverbial fly on the wall. As things turned out, Anjali was going.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world darling,” she said with much excitement in her husky voice.

  “You are behaving like it’s an invitation from Buckingham Palace to Charlie-boy’s coronation.”

  “Oh, baby—this is much better than that, don’t you know? Now stop talking rubbish and let’s decide important things—what are you wearing? What shall I wear? I can’t think of a thing! I don’t want to wear a sari—so boring. K is also very excited. This is our first time—what do you know! We rate, darling! Just about the entire city will be there. I’m told lots of politicians fly in from Delhi. This year they’re saying the PM’s wife might decide to put in an appearance. Can you imagine? In any case, I’ve been looking for a way to make a breakthrough with Varun. K and I are very keen that Babaji gets featured in Outlook. K is willing to pay for the write-up but that’s not the point. We feel that more and more people should be made aware of Babaji and his work—especially now, with all the international chapters opening and his plans to start a World Peace Center near Hollywood.”

  “I don’t know about all that but as to what I’m going to be wearing, as usual I’ve nothing to wear. And there’s no time to go out and buy a sari.”

  But Anjali wasn’t listening.

  “You know, I saw a gorgeous outfit in London. I wish I’d bought it then. I could always telex K’s office there but will there be enough time? Even if I send out the message today, it will take at least five days for the dress to make the flight. And then, with the time difference and everything—it might be a touch-and-go situation. If it doesn’t get here by Saturday the whole effort will be a waste. And K will get most upset.”

  “Why don’t you do something really sensational?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like go ethnic with a vengeance.”

  “Like how?”

  “Like dress up à la Amrapali—remember Vyjayanthimala as the court dancer?”

  “Are you mad? She was practically nude in the film. You know very well that I don’t have boobs. Are you being bitchy?”

  “No—I just had this flash in my mind, and you were dressed in that sort of a costume. At least in my imagination you looked sensational.”

  “Something’s happening to you in your old age. It can’t be menopause-related, surely? Varun isn’t throwing a fancy dress party, remember? There will be all sorts of very posh people present—and you’re telling me to go dressed like a cabaret dancer.”

  “I’m sorry Anjali, I was feeling weird—it was just a thought. Forget it.”

  “I won’t be able to sleep till I can decide on my look for the evening. Do you know Outlook carries lots and lots of photographs of the anniversary party? It’s considered very prestigious to be invited and then featured as a VIP. People die to get in. I want to make sure K and I make it to that feature. Varun doesn’t publish just anybody’s picture. If I’m wearing something outstanding his photographers will definitely notice me. And I’ve heard this year he’s planning to bring out a special cassette of the function. Imagine—everybody who owns a video will see this.”

  “What makes you think anybody is that interested? I wouldn’t pay a hundred bucks to watch some stupid publisher’s party.”

  “He isn’t going to sell it, stupid, it’s for private distribution. A PR gimmick. Varun is apparently going to send the cassette free to all the people who featured in it. Isn’t that a great idea?”

  “Really, Anjali. I’m already depressed at the thought—maybe I’ll just chicken out. I don’t want to die of anxiety wondering whether or not I’m good enough for Varun’s video show.”

  Anjali pretended she hadn’t heard a word. “I hear he’s announcing something big this year. People are speculating. Could be another magazine. Or maybe he’s launching his own movie production company.”

  “Perhaps he’s joining politics. Wouldn’t that be the next logical move.”

  “Hey! Maybe you’re right! That must be it! I’ll ring up Sheila who knows someone who knows his wife. I’ll find out. I bet that’s what it’s going to be.”

  “Weren’t there strong rumors that he was lobbying for a Rajya Sabha seat? I remember reading that somewhere.Then he backed the wrong mentor and lost. Now that he has switched sides and there is a seat coming up—that must be it. Judging from his recent editorials and columns he has certainly been playing his cards well.”

  “You read his magazine?”

  “You mean you don’t? Don’t you let him hear you say that. He’ll cancel your invitation.”

  “Well, K does bring it to the house and I do glance through it—but that’s all. I read all the gossip columns, look at the pictures, a few headlines and captions—bas.”

  “Can’t really say you’ve missed anything.That guy can’t write for peanuts. I suspect he gets someone to ghost-write his pieces—including the editorials. Plus, for me at any rate, he has lost whatever little credibility he once had. It’s so obvious he’s doing chamchagiri—and nobody does chamchagiri for nothing. He has been supporting even the most absurd policies of the PM. Other editors have hinted that he’s going to be rewarded with a plum assignment. A future ambassadorship maybe? In any case he has already extracted quite a few concessions. Someone was saying he’s constructing a huge Outlook Towers on prime property. The CM has given him all the go-aheads on a platter. There are charges of land scams—but of course, he’ll manage to get out of everything—since he has the government in his pocket. Can you imagine, he got the President to come here especially for the foundation stone laying ceremony?”

  “Wow! I must tell K all this. I didn’t know Varun was so influential. You are right—he is a future politician. This party must be for that announcement. But do you think he’ll actually stand for any elections?”

  “He doesn’t have to. But even if he does—he has the machinery to win. He can buy any number of votes—particularly if he picks his constituency carefully. Who knows? Of course, once he wins an election, the sky is the limit. But I’m told he is waiting to be inducted directly into the PM’s secretariat. He’s hoping to become his press advisor. Or to head a special media cell to monitor everything—television included. Or a slot in the Information and Broadcasting ministry in some sort of a special capacity.”

  “Who will run his business if he goes away to Delhi?”

  “Oh, that’s not a problem. He can make any of the established editors an offer they couldn’t refuse. Or he could plonk his wife at the helm of affairs. There’s also an obliging chachaji on the scene—he’s the person who handles all his financial matters.”

  “All this khabar is most exciting. K will be kicked by it. How do you get to know so much? Don’t tell me it was all because of your association with Girish?”

  “Well, let
’s just say I’m a good listener. And, darling girl, it also helps if you read the newspapers occasionally. Try it. At least on the day of the party. Make sure to memorize the headlines if nothing else. The place will be crawling with opinionated asses. You’ll feel very left out.”

  “Do you think the PM’s wife will really come? Gosh? If she does—who will look at us?”

  “Not us, say me.”

  “Oh, all right. You know you are turning into a crotchety old maid. What you need is a good screw. When was the last time you had one, anyway?”

  “You are beginning to sound as trashy as Varun’s rags. I think you’ll be the biggest hit at his party.”

  Anjali did become the star of that party. In a manner of speaking. And it took Anjali years to recover from the aftermath. To start with—her dress drew attention and not of a particularly complimentary kind. Well, what can one say about a white georgettey number that made the wearer resemble an extra from a mob scene in Spartacus? God knows what it was supposed to be—a gown? A blouseless sari? I couldn’t resist asking.

  Anjali giggled, “I haven’t a clue, darling. I got that sweetie-pie Xen to design it.”

  “Who’s Xen?”

  “You don’t know? He’s the hottest guy in films today—he dresses everybody!” That more or less explained the concoction. Yes, now that she’d told me, I had heard of Xen—he was the absolute rage ever since he draped a buxom starlet in five kilos of bugle beads. Period. He was fat and funny and gay as a coot. His drag act more than anything else was what had attracted all the attention initially. Xen dressed in either virginal white or devilish black. He loved makeup, masses of it, and ostrich feathers. He’d insisted in an interview somewhere that he only felt inspired after he had bathed with his client. “A lovely, long shower, or a good soak in a tub full of bubbles. Nothing quite like the intimacy of a bathroom to drop all inhibitions. And that’s when I can really look at the tits and ass and decide on the lines. Most of our women have atrocious figures which they conveniently hide behind miles of sari. I like the new breed—they are daring. They love their bodies—and I love them.” His costumes were truly bizarre but in their own crazy way they worked in the movies. But here was Anjali trying hard to pass off as a screen queen. She looked so comic I was embarrassed. He’d even persuaded her to sprinkle glitter dust over her shoulders. Her hair was up in a spangled mess and her eyes were done up Cleopatra style. “Where’s the asp?” I hissed, but she missed it.

  Outlook’s anniversary parties were always held at different venues. This time Varun had picked a stationary concrete training ship at the southernmost tip of Bombay. I remembered visiting it with Father as a child. Getting to the deck involved clambering up a narrow, near-vertical ladder. There was a strong wind blowing and I kept wondering how many women would make it to the top in their stilettos and billowing saris. And, more interestingly, how many people would make it back to ground level at the end of the evening without breaking a couple of limbs. (Varun’s bar was legendary.)

  By the time K parked, we were halfway to the ship. After getting out, as we headed to where the party was, I realized we were marching unconsciously to martial music being played by the enthusiastic police band. We must have looked pretty funny. But so were most of the other people who were also making their way to the ladder. There was a long queue waiting to clamber up and many women were attempting an acrobatic maneuver to make it to the top without their panties showing.

  The harsh light of sun-guns flooded the place as several video cameras whirred, capturing “golden moments” for posterity. Idly I wondered whether people might not find the footage more memorable if at least one cameraman had been positioned at the bottom of the ladder.

  We managed to totter up without a mishap. The deck was already full of glamorous city people. A rock band played in one corner while a few self-conscious couples boogied awkwardly. Varun was at the far end. He had two good-looking, light-eyed bouncer types on either side of him. They were dressed like maître d’s in a fancy London hotel. One of them was his latest “star discovery.” I scanned the place looking for a dark corner to disappear into but Anjali grabbed my hand and commanded, “Don’t run away. Stay with me.” In retrospect, I’m glad I did.

  Lots of booze, lots of foods, lots of action. Each time the police band broke into a Sousa march, I peered below to look at who’d arrived. Varun had actually rolled out a red carpet right up to the ship which little chokra boys brushed from time to time. Most of the people were familiar-looking though I couldn’t put a name to every face. Anjali could. Just about everybody was there that night, including the two reigning cinema superstars—male and female.The male had obviously patched up with Varun after a prolonged and ugly war.The female was in a golden Xen creation straight out of the Arabian Nights or The Ten Commandments. Anjali gasped at the sight of her.

  “Just look—isn’t she something! And her eyes—hey—look at that—she’s wearing golden contact lenses!”

  “Yes—they make her look like an owl or a blinded cat.”

  “I think she looks gorgeous.”

  Varun saw us and waved. “Look. Look. He’s waving. Did you see that? Wave back or else he’ll think we are very rude. And, K, your kurta has climbed up at the back—just pull it down.”

  Kumar was all dolled up in an elaborately embroidered zard ozi-style kurta pajama, which looked as if it had come from Anjali’s wardrobe. I could’ve sworn he was wearing mascara and some other discreet makeup. His hair was freshly dyed, blow-dried and gelled into place. His jewelry exceeded his wife’s. He wore a gold biscuit encircled by diamonds on a thick chain around his neck. Two heavy-duty bracelets on his wrists. A gold Cartier watch, and diamond buttons completed the look. I peeped to see whether he’d dared to wear gold anklets or something—he hadn’t. He didn’t know too many people and stuck around with us. And his nervousness showed in the steady stream of paan masala he popped. “Where’s Murty?” I asked Anjali. “We’ve left him to look after Babaji. He wasn’t feeling very good and wanted a massage. Murty wasn’t invited in any case.” I saw Kumar eyeing Varun’s bouncers.

  Potbellied, dhoti-clad ministers with folded hands and fake smiles floated around the place with their lackeys walking two steps behind them. One or two Delhi VIPs were conspicuous by the presence of machine-gun-toting bodyguards around them. “The best accessories to show off these days,” said Kumar looking very impressed. A re clusive industrialist made a grand entrance with two or three of his vice-presidents flanking him. “Wow!” said Kumar. “He never goes to any function. This is quite a feather in Varun’s cap.”

  “Maybe he threatened him with an exposé if he didn’t show up,” I said, half to myself.

  On the other side of the ship was a gigantic screen made out of flowers. It said Outlook in red carnations. Disco lights and laser beams made holes in the night. There was a lot of activity going on at the other end of the deck. Obviously someone or something was attracting a great deal of attention. (I felt tempted to stand up on a chair to look.) The video boys rushed there with the long wires of their equipment trailing like snakes behind them.

  We eventually made, rather squeezed, our way to where it seemed the action really was and discovered that everyone was focusing on the dance floor. An ugly, diminutive man in a ridiculous brocade jacket was gyrating drunkenly with a nubile starlet. She was giggling uncontrollably at all the attention, while he slopped and flopped and nearly collapsed with the effort.

  “Who’s that creep?” Anjali asked.

  “Not sure. But looks like that obnoxious expat writer.The one who lives in London and writes pornography which passes for literature.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “I forget his name. But I think that’s him. He comes to India once a year and makes a complete nuisance of himself. Revolting chap. I remember meeting him years ago at a writer’s home. He’d puked all over the carpet.”

  This evening the writer was sloshed to the gills (as he usually was) a
nd at his exhibitionistic best. With a grand sweep, he tore off his jacket and requested the band to break into the “Spanish Gypsy Dance.” He looked like a vicious little dwarf as he swung his shiny jacket around like a matador’s cape.The young girl didn’t know quite what was expected of her so she continued to shuffle her feet and giggle stupidly. Exasperated by her lack of response, he dismissed her with a rough shove and looked around for a new partner. His eyes fell on Anjali as she stood on the edge of the dance floor watching. Without warning he rushed toward her with a wild expression in his eyes. “Helen of Troy herself,” he announced with a deep bow. “Here’s one ship you won’t be able to launch, my dear—do you know why? Because a concrete ship can’t sail.” Then, holding out his arm, he suggested, “Shall we?”

  Uncertain about what she was supposed to do, Anjali accepted and went on to the empty floor. I wanted to pull her off but didn’t dare interfere. Kumar stood around looking miserable and clapping feebly to the rhythm of the pseudo-flamenco music. Almost all the guests had converged on the spot by now. The floor was lit up like a movie set. Under the bright lights Anjali’s dress had turned transparent and one could see all the way up to her crotch—not a particularly pretty sight. Someone threw a long-stemmed rose at her. The Brat swooped down on it and savagely stuck the stalk between her teeth.