Socialite Evenings

by Shobhaa De

  “There—that completes the picture,” he snarled. “Come on, shake that ass of yours—what’s the matter with you? Relax, unwind, let’s go.” She was almost immobilized by all the attention. He started to circle her, still flourishing his jacket. “Toro! Toro! Toro! Come on,” he urged. She looked around desperately—I suppose for Kumar, and attempted a halfhearted charge in the direction of safety.

  Just as she nearly cleared the extended jacket, the Brat stuck out a foot and tripped her. We all saw him do it. She went sprawling across the floor, her legs spread-eagled at a ridiculous angle. Before anyone could stop him, he pounced on her after chucking his jacket away. To the tempo of the music he started a lewd, simulated love dance—the sort one sees in two-bit peep shows. “Move! Move! Move!” he said. “Ole! Torero. Now I am the bull, baby!” Even though he was much shorter, she seemed paralyzed by his weight. Her eyes were tightly shut, and her lipstick had smeared all over her face. The Greek Goddess dress was torn and mucked up. One could see her underwire-cupped bra clearly. It was a horrible sight. “I’ve never fucked an Indian woman before—never. This is fun. Move it, bitch. Never had it done to you before? I knew Indian women were cold—just my luck that I had to land on the coldest one.”

  I searched the crowd for Kumar. He had disappeared. There was just one thing to do—get the bastard off Anjali. I ran up to them and attempted to haul him off. He leered up at me. “Aha! Another cold fish! Come on in—join the party. Maybe you can thaw together.” It must have been the sight of his reptilian pink tongue and the drops of saliva trickling down his goatee that did it. Something snapped inside my head. I wanted to lift my foot and land it hard on his bony backside. I could almost hear him yelp like a kicked mongrel. I was lifting my foot when my courage failed me and the nervousness poured in like a flood. Anjali was still groveling on the floor. Awkwardly I found my voice, but the rest of me refused to move. I heard myself saying weakly, “Anjali, it’s time for us to leave—let’s go.” She tried to struggle up but couldn’t. “Clumsy bitch,” the dwarf taunted. “Bastard,” I mouthed silently. He wagged his bottom in Anjali’s face and made out like he was about to pull his pants down as well. The band continued playing. It was “You Better Come Home, Speedy Gonsalves” now. Finally, tiring of the sport, the Brat walked off with an exaggerated swagger. Anjali wobbled up to me.

  “Where’s K?”

  “No idea.”

  “He must be furious.”

  “Don’t worry about him. Let’s get out of here first.”

  The crowd parted silently. Not one person came to our help. Anjali was bruised and had tears streaming down her face. I must’ve looked quite a sight myself.You must have the same sort of feeling in hit-and-run cases or in street fights, I remember thinking, as we traversed the agonizingly long way back to the edge of the ugly ship. A new worry presented itself. Would Anjali be able to make it down the steep ladder on her own or even with my help? People seemed to jump out of our way like we were deadly killers or sickening lepers. Bombay society lived up to its reputation that night—nobody “interfered.” Nobody helped. And nobody cared. People had got to watch a tamasha for free. They’d got their money’s worth. We had provided them with something to talk about, laugh about, for at least a fortnight to come. I could almost see the blurbs and the captions in Varun’s own rags—oh yes, he wasn’t going to miss out on this one. How could he—it had happened on his own turf, at his own party. And it was recorded evidence. I still don’t know how we made it to ground level. Anjali was clutching the wispy shreds of her dress around her, and I was trying hard to keep my sari on.

  The car park was full. We didn’t know where to begin looking for her Merc for the narrow road leading to the training ship was choked with cars parked at crazy angles. Besides, it was ill-lit and full of idling chauffeurs and I certainly didn’t want to linger long enough to be the object of the stares and comments of the assembled drivers. We just stood there, holding each other, wondering what to do next. Finally someone came up to us. He was an elderly man dressed in an old-fashioned suit. I recognized him vaguely—but was far too disoriented to get his name.

  “May I help you ladies?” he asked in a soft, refined accent.

  “About time,” I growled and instantly regretted my rudeness.

  “Terribly sorry about what happened,” he added. “Are you looking for your car or shall I drop you home in mine?” He pointed. “There’s Tukaram—that’s my driver. He can at least drop you to your car, if that is all right with both of you.” I nodded quickly. He held out one arm for me and placed the other around Anjali. She must have shivered at the touch for he quickly removed his jacket and gently placed it over her shoulders.Tukaram drove up in a magnificent old Bentley. The gentleman stepped aside and held the door open for both of us. We drove along the narrow side-lane looking for Anjali’s car and then turned onto the main road which was also lined with cars.There was no trace of Anjali’s metallic green Mercedes. I kept wondering about what had happened to Kumar. When we reached the big traffic island, Tukaram turned to his master with a questioning, “Saab?” He, in turn, looked at us and said, “Please allow me to drop both of you home. It’s no trouble at all.” I told him that “home” in Anjali’s case was a long, long way off—Juhu to be precise. With a warm smile, he placed a hand on my wrist and told me, “Well, now, isn’t that a coincidence! I have a long way to go myself. I was on my way to the airport.This won’t be a detour at all. Please do not think anything of it. I’ll be very happy to see you both to your residences—and I have plenty of time to spare. My flight leaves at some god-forsaken hour. I would have read a paperback or dozed off in the lounge anyway. So, please.” I sank back into the deep seat thankfully and looked gratefully at our host. As I relaxed I recognized him: he had once been a popular governor of the then Bombay state!

  We found Kumar cowering at home, Murty applying Tiger Balm to his forehead. He refused to meet my eyes. I was far too drained to get involved anyway, so I led Anjali to her bedroom and helped her remove her sandals and lie down. “I made a complete fool of myself, didn’t I?” she asked pathetically.

  “Drink a warm glass of milk and go to bed,” I said. My mind wandered over Kumar’s cowardly reaction. He had fled, leaving his wife to fend for herself and make her own way back.What a caddish thing to do!

  Anjali’s hair, under my hand, was a tangled web, teased and sprayed and stiff like wire. Gradually she felt calm enough to open her eyes and lie still, staring fixedly at the ceiling.

  “Don’t leave me,” she said flatly. “Stay. Stay the night. Call your parents. The driver will reach you back in the morning.”

  I didn’t have the energy to go back all the way anyway. I called Mother, who responded impassively, “Are you safe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will we see you tomorrow? Shall I boil your egg in the morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s the dhobi day tomorrow—what about your clothes?”

  “Mother—can we discuss that tomorrow?”

  “All right, I was only asking whether I should give your towels and bedsheets. Also, your sari petticoats should go to the bhatti.”

  “In the morning. Mother, in the morning.”

  “Don’t blame K,” Anjali said when we awoke. “He’s a weak man. He can’t handle scenes. He has to escape. He didn’t mean it. He ran away because he was so embarrassed. I understand him.”

  “Well, then, that’s what counts.What does it matter what I think? He’s not my husband.”

  “Don’t say anything to him when you see him at the breakfast table.”

  “I’ll be gone before that. I’m not dying to meet him.”

  “Don’t say it like that. He really didn’t want to dump us—but he’s like that. He finds such things terribly painful. He gets completely disoriented. Scenes give him bad vibes.”

  “Don’t make stupid excuses for him, Anjali. It’s OK. You don’t have to explain anything to me. I’m concerned about you�
�not him.”

  “I’ll be all right. I was stunned at that moment, but really, I can handle it. I’m stronger than you think.”

  CHAPTER 20

  MONTHS LATER I RAN INTO THE REPORTER FROM WASHINGTON again. The one I’d insulted at Anjali’s party. This was at a recording. I’d graduated from writing to making ad films and to my great relief I was doing very well.As a result of this and my work on the Shakuntala script I’d even been asked to script a major TV serial sponsored by a soft drink company. This morning we were scheduled to complete a jingle for a new brand of jeans. When I got to the studio, the gay music director was preening all over the place.

  “Guess what, darlings? I’m being interviewed today. This is big, I mean BIG. He’s from The Washington Times—now ask me dumb questions like,‘Why is an American paper interested in you?’ If you chaps want to run along and dab some lipstick, rouge or whatever—feel free. He might even do you.”

  Someone joked, “Well, baby, you’ve got on sufficient makeup for all of us—by the way, isn’t purple mascara a bit much even for a foreign paper?”

  “Piss off—you’re just jealous. What mascara! This is natural color, poppet.”

  The reporter walked in scratching his thick mop of hair. He spotted me and said wearily, “It’s you again! Are you following me around or what?”

  “Yes—I’m a KGB agent pretending to write for Pravda. De bosses have told me to tail you during your visit to India.”

  “Smart kid, huh?” He turned to the gay music man and demanded, “Who is this broad? Why doesn’t she get off my butt?” There was an embarrassed silence. Nobody in the unit had ever seen this side of me. In fact, I used to wonder what they imagined I was all about since I preferred to keep to myself. Probably, the speculation was that I must be a lonely spinster with a dark secret.

  “You can’t talk to her like that,” said the director flapping his hands nervously.

  “Oh, yes, I can. She almost screwed up a previous interview too.”

  “Who let you in here?” I asked.

  “Why?”

  “Because I call the shots. This is my unit and we are recording a jingle for my film. I can throw you out, you know.”

  “I don’t believe this.”

  The music director was almost weeping. “I’m sure we can sort all this out, darlings,” he said stroking my hair.

  “That depends on the spoiled brat here,” I said.

  “OK lady—let’s call a truce,” he replied holding out his hand.

  “What story is this anyway?” I asked.

  “Oh, I just got a telex to do a longish piece on the television boom in India. You know—the ads, the soaps and serials, their impact, the people behind them, what the villagers make of the stuff they watch nightly, how much money is involved, the small-screen stars and their lifestyles—that kind of stuff. I’ve been given a few leads—not much to go on actually. I hear there is a series in the offing that everyone predicts is going to be big, real big, something à la Dynasty with a bit of Miami Vice thrown in. Do you know the woman behind it? Very successful ad film career and now poised to break into the soaps.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “You drive a hard bargain—don’t you? Forget it, baby. I can locate her on my own. Problem is, I have a pretty tight deadline. This has got to be wrapped up in four days, pictures and all.” The rest of the unit watched this exchange in silence. I said, “Best of luck, buddy, and now, if you don’t mind, I have to get on with the recording. We have to wrap it up too—and we don’t have four days for it—more like four hours.”

  “Mind if I hang around and talk to the musicians, ma’am?”

  “Fine. So long as you don’t disrupt the session—it costs, you know.”

  “Right.”

  The next evening I got a call while I was washing my hair. The parents were engrossed in a TV show, so with dripping hair and cursing I answered. It was the reporter again asking very formally to speak to me, making sure he got the pronunciation of my name right.

  “It’s you again,” I said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, it’s you—the relentless reporter strikes again. What can I do for you?”

  “Have we met?”

  “Have we met? Are you kidding! You nearly botched up my recording yesterday.”

  “Hell! I should’ve recognized your voice.You mean it’s you? You are the Soap Queen in the making.”

  “Yes, and if you want your quotes, you’d better be nice to me. No rough stuff.”

  “Hey! This is fantastic—how about a drink tonight? How does that sound?”

  “Sounds complicated. First, I’ll have to kill my husband. Then, dope my lover. Maybe I’ll drug my six kids and tie up my mother-in-law while I’m at it. After that, I’ll give my blind parents their evening meal—and then I shall be ready for the big date. How does that sound, smart ass?”

  “Terrific. Can’t wait. Eight-ish?”

  “Yes. Got to go. Lots of suds in my eyes.”

  “Soapy days are here again . . . ?”

  “Something like that.”

  The relationship started off all right. The light banter, the pj’s and smart comments. He talked. I talked. Plenty of cute talk and “in” references. I found him attractive in a boyish kind of way. His stream of corny jokes and labored puns made me laugh. There was a serious side to him but for some reason he preferred to hide behind his buffoon mask. I envied him his nomadic life. He talked about cities and places I’d only read about. He was regarded as a whiz-kid—or so he claimed. He’d got his breaks early and fast. He hardly knew India and saw it through American eyes. I found this disconcerting in the beginning since I couldn’t think of him as an “American”—which is what he really was. Second-generation American. But, like a good Brahmin boy, he’d married a good Brahmin girl selected by his parents. And, like any other Indian man, his wife had been converted into a fixture in his apartment. She could’ve been a microwave oven or a compact disc for all the difference it made.Yet, he repeated rather lamely that he loved her and that she was a good wife. Which to me meant just one thing—he played around while she stayed put at home. They’d produced two kids who loathed India. He mentioned how his wife would start loading suitcases for their annual “native” holiday, months before their departure. “She’s crazy. She brings enough food supplies to feed the marines.”

  “Does she bring American toilet paper?”

  “Sure she does—but how did you know?”

  “Your kids must be used to the texture.”

  “Cut it out.You can be such a bitch.”

  “Don’t you know any other terms of endearment?”

  “Say, why don’t you come back to Washington with me?”

  “Oh God! That’s all I need. No way. I’ve done that number once, years ago—and it’s not for me.”

  “Why don’t you help me with some of my stories? I have a huge list—I could do with a research assistant. Can you type? Can you load a camera? Take notes? Reference material? Come on—think. I’m sure you could make yourself useful if you really wanted to.”

  “That’s it. I really don’t want to. Why should I hang around with you? What’s in it for me? Besides, I have stuff to do here.”

  “I’m offering you an out. Think of the options.You’ll be able to travel, write, have fun—at someone else’s expense at that. In fact, I’m thinking of quitting my job and doing a book. I also have plans to get into documentaries with a talented filmmaker I know—she’s terrific. You’ll get to meet her. Both of you could do great things together. I can fix all this for you.What the hell are you doing, busting your ass and wasting time? Here’s your big chance. Get out of this environment. Put yourself on the line. Find out what you’re all about. I think you’ve got the stuff in you. If you let it go now—you’ll never do it later. Remember, a Ranbir Roy doesn’t walk into your life every day with offers you’d be crazy to refuse.”

  “You are cocky, aren’t
you. I hate people who refer to themselves in the third person. It stinks.”

  “I could play humble—but why should I? I’m special, baby, and you know it.You’re special too. I think we should team up together. And look—no funny business. I’m not chasing a piece of ass—you know that. I ain’t one of dem hard-up natives always looking for the nearest available tail. If you want—I want. If you no want—that’s OK too.”

  Truth was, I did want. But not in that crude way.What I really wanted was a Grand Romance with violins and roses. Ranbir had no time for such stuff. Nor was he cut out for it. His wooing was done via one-liners—which, incidentally, had never been particularly good. And he was usually never there. He was invariably onto half a dozen stories, many of them outside Bombay. He’d phone from wherever he was, often booking lightning calls, only to say, “Heard the one about . . .” These calls would follow me to the studios and sets, and I’d find it very difficult to keep a straight face and pretend they were business-related. He made a quick trip to London and back during this period. Again, I got a call from Dubai airport, another one from London and they carried on at the rate of three or four a day, with funny notes (“Why do you reduce me to marmalade?”) and doodles posted at regular intervals. He was a Beatles freak and so was I. One call from London was devoted to “Yesterday.” He hummed the lyrics. “Yesterday . . . Love was such an easy game to play.” It became “our song” and I would feel all mushy and sentimental, when I heard it. “I’m just not the man I used to be . . . there’s a shadow hanging over me . . . Oh yesterday . . . came suddenly.”

  If the parents were puzzled or curious they didn’t show it. They hadn’t asked me about Girish’s abrupt exit either. Perhaps they just didn’t find me at home enough to talk to me about it. For if Ranbir was busy so was I. I’d discovered soon enough that making serials was no cakewalk: trips to Delhi (to deal with unyielding bureaucrats and idiot ministers), budgets, crews, schedules—and while all this went on Ranbir flitted in and out of my life. Our usual meetings would be in coffee shops between engagements and seldom went beyond jibes, wisecracks and a retailing of woes.The sole evening we went to the Sea Lounge was typical. “You guys live in such a primitive state—how do you function? No working telexes, telephones, typewriters and no public conveniences. Hell—ever tried moving your bowels in an open field with three curious cows staring at your exposed butt?”