Socialite Evenings

by Shobhaa De

  “What are you cribbing about—there—you’ve got your story. Or, at least, one paragraph for your future book. File it all away—you never know when you might be stuck for five hundred words on ‘shitting alfresco.’”

  “You have a filthy sense of humor—it stinks!”

  “Thank you. I take that as a compliment.”

  “You would, you pervert. How do you get your kicks anyway? Pulling wings off butterflies—or is that far too innocent?”

  “I graduated from that a long time ago if you must know. These days I specialize in castrations.”

  “Balls to you.”

  “You may not have any left by the time I’m through with you—you stand warned.”

  “You talk tough.You must be butch. Admit it—you prefer girls, don’t you? You are far too macho for the natives. Ever thought of making it with a big black American? Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

  “This is so juvenile—grow up, Peter Pan. Brush up your locker room jokes. Next you’ll be singing soccer songs and expecting me to laugh.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. Those might be far too subtle for a lowdown broad like you.”

  This was the usual pattern and very rarely did we get down to serious talk. I suppose this was more Ranbir’s fault than mine—perhaps because he was afraid that being serious or taking anything seriously would boomerang. But as a professional he was good. He managed to file respectable copy. His byline rated. Very, very infrequently he expressed his misgivings. He was walking me home one evening when he said with some bitterness, “I’ll never make it to top dog—I can’t. Unless the color of my skin changes miraculously.”

  “That can’t be true—what are you saying?”

  “Simply this—I can’t lick the system. It’s been fun while it lasted, but this is the end of the road for me—careerwise. I’ll never make it to the editor’s slot—not a chance. I don’t want to die a reporter. Can you imagine me at fifty still flying round the countryside doing stories on population explosions and gas leaks forever and ever? I must be realistic. If I don’t break out of this rut now—I’ll be stuck till doomsday.”

  “What are your options? Do you feel the call of the Motherland? Are you in search of your roots? Has India cast its magic spell on you? Are you ready to chuck it all up and get into low-cost housing in mud or some such thing? Tell me—maybe we could do a documentary or something.”

  “No. Much as I love being here—loos or no loos—there’s nothing here for me. I can’t see myself fitting into any of the existing newspaper chains. I don’t have the resources to start something of my own. I couldn’t afford to live in Bombay—and my wife would divorce me.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Good and bad.”

  “That doesn’t answer me.”

  “Does it make any difference?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’d better run. Didn’t know you were such a predatory female.”

  “Some bitch said that to me years ago—I hate that word. Don’t call me that.”

  “What else should I call you? Here you are, to all appearances a well brought up, conservative Hindu woman, wrapped up in yards and yards of sari, propositioning a married man and trying to break up his marriage. Disgusting! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? This only happens to the likes of Michael Douglas. You really are something else.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself too much, bozo. I say this to every man whose name begins with an R. My astrologer has told me that’s the one to go for.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Right.”

  “That begins with an R too.”

  “What does?”

  “The word right.”

  “Is that relevant?”

  There you go—R again.”

  “Say, what is this, a new twist to Scrabble or something?”

  “Don’t be dull.”

  “How about a dirty weekend to hot things up?”

  “How about getting lost? Why don’t you go chase some wild asses in the deserts of Kutch?”

  “I prefer mine civilized.”

  The conversation had degenerated again and as I went to bed that night I remember thinking there was no future to the relationship—had never been, would never be. Ranbir was relaxing and fun but that was it. It was good to have him around because, unlike the locals, he knew where he stood. He didn’t misread signals, and most important, he didn’t behave like a horny teenager in heat.

  We kidded around a great deal, but we also knew the score. The undercurrents of a possible affair were always present, but they did not preoccupy us nor did they cut into the friendship. This was a huge relief because I’d always found it a strain relating to my other male colleagues. I suppose I made them as uncomfortable as they made me. After a point, some silly tension would intrude, spoiling the delicate balance of a fastidiously created facade. Particularly while traveling on assignments out of town, this intangible unease would become very pronounced. After an exhausting shoot, while the rest of the unit met up in the hotel bar, or in someone’s room, I’d stay put in my own, watching cable TV or just catching up on lost sleep. I’d tried fraternizing with the “boys” once or twice. It hadn’t worked. I didn’t enjoy their brand of boisterousness or the familiarity that crept in after a few down the hatch. I hated the leering expressions of men who had maintained a formal distance through the day but thought it was OK to drop the mask in the evening and take a chance. I resented the presumptuousness of it all. The snide, insinuating dig behind a seemingly innocent question like “Madam, don’t you feel lonely after the work is finished?”

  The crews weren’t the only problem. At parties or other functions, if I didn’t have an escort, men would zoom in hungrily—not because they found me irresistible—oh no—but because they imagined I was “available.” One of them even said: “But what have you to lose? You are a free bird.” Perhaps it didn’t occur to these mutts that even free birds could be selective! I didn’t find any of these men attractive—it was as simple as that. And though I felt guilty and sorry for Mother as she worried herself silly over my single status, I wasn’t about to relinquish the status for some cretin or weirdo. After all, even if it may sound snide, I wasn’t Anjali. Single was good for me. It was this attitude, stated one evening over a heady bottle of champagne at the Rendezvous (Ranbir had sold a big story), that initiated something that has ruled my life this past year. He said: “Is it usual or unusual for an Indian woman to feel this way?”

  “Don’t know, I mean I haven’t conducted a survey or anything. But, offhand, I’d say it isn’t the standard attitude. For instance, I can’t think of a single school friend in a similar situation—however good or bad it may be.”

  “Hmm. Just a thought—why don’t we do an update on the status of the urban Indian woman, using you, babykins, as the central figure. Tell you what, I’ll send an outline to my editors. Fill me in on all the goriest details of your life. If they buy the piece—we are in gravy. I see it as a longish, generous spread—maybe we can hawk it to someone else. I’ll also telex my agent. We can go the whole hog, make a documentary perhaps—take you back to school, or sooner—didn’t you tell me you were born in some remote dusty district of Maharashtra, where your father started his career as a lowly civil engineer or something?Think of the photo opportunities. We will locate the guy who delivered you—was it in the bush? Or in your mother’s old-fashioned four-poster bed? Maybe at a dingy, far-from-sterile village clinic? Great. Then we’ll cut to your early school years—what was it—a municipal patshala? Your switchover to a Scottish Protestant Mission—the horrific experiences of growing up with glassy-eyed spinsters teaching you the gospel according to St. Mark. Your mousy adolescence. Your father’s rise up the bureaucratic ladder. College. A Jesuit hangout yet. The Beatles and the Vietnam war. Elvis Presley and Blue Suede Shoes?Your first love and jam sessions at Bistro’s. Learning the Peppermint Twist and jiving to Chubby Checker. Conforming to parental expectations, toei
ng the line of authority. Forays into modeling—the Anjali character will be a sure-fire winner, the ‘safe’ marriage—do you think hubby dearest will agree to an interview? Or the Old Bird—is she still alive? Breaking out of the holy bonds of matrimony, finding your feet in a career you happened to drift into.The success story that followed—hey, how did she do it? Did she have to sleep around, compromise herself? Work her way to the top on her back? I just love this part.

  “Anyway—cut to you as you are now—disgustingly self-assured and revoltingly self-sufficient. Baby—you’ll give one of those padded shouldered Wall Street American broads a run for their money! This is going to be a terrific project. I can see it—maybe we can throw in an Indira Gandhi angle, link it up with the desi-lib movement. Get your half-baked views on dowry deaths—perhaps coerce you into saying stuff the American media will lap up—like your refusal to remarry since you don’t want to end up as a heap of kero sened ashes—will you say that? I’ll give you a few bucks more for it! We can sit in on your shoots, have you sip martinis in exclusive clubs, get you to smoke a cigar and talk about your lovers—you do have some, don’t you? Or else, we can always hire a few. That gives me an idea—what about a gigolo—just a suggestion—nothing crass, maybe a sly reference to how you pick up guys as and when the libido works itself up. I can see this turning out into an eyeball-popping shocker. Here we have this Bombay socialite all parried out with nowhere to go. And to imagine where she actually sprang from, wow, the potential. And you must stick to your drab saris and horrible tikas throughout. Let the externals remain. Zap them with your inner landscapes. So what do you think, love of my life?”

  “I think it’s a great idea. In fact, I think I’ll steal it. There may be a documentary in it but I’m going to give a book a shot. I’ve always wanted to write one—so you can go take a walk, Yankee agent. I know when I’m on to a good thing and the good thing is me. If anyone is going to cash in on this, baby, it isn’t going to be you. Thanks for the lead, though. I’ll try and write you in somewhere. Nothing major, maybe a paragraph or two. Now get lost, I have work to do. The opening line will read, ‘I was born in a dusty clinic in Satara, a remote village in Maharashtra . . .’”

  EPILOGUE

  The woman rose from her typewriter and walked to the window of her study. It had been very hard work, this packaging of her life, and quite often it had almost seemed impossible to finish the book. But now that it was over she felt a certain sadness, autumnal in its intensity . . . Outside the day was almost gone and the streetlights of the Queens Necklace had begun to glow—a string of old sunflowers against a field of gray. She loved this time of day and she willed herself to relax.Tomorrow’s anxieties could be dealt with later, today she would rest.

  READERS GUIDE

  Socialite Evenings

  Shobhaa Dé

  A CONVERSATION WITH SHOBHAA DÉ

  Q. Socialite Evenings was your first book. How did your life change when it was published?

  A. The writing of Socialite Evenings came about under rather dramatic circumstances when a tall, dark and handsome stranger walked into my home and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse! That person was Penguin India’s first editor/publisher, David Davidar, who now heads Penguin’s operations in Canada. I was flattered but puzzled. He wanted me to write a nonfiction book on Bombay (which is now Mumbai) . I was pregnant with my third child and big as a house, but keen to take a crack at writing a book. We decided to make it a novel instead. I wrote furiously and at a demonic speed—and totally loved the experience. The novel created shock waves across the subcontinent when it was launched. Looking back, I’d say the book spoke about the sort of urban Indian realities that were taboo subjects at the time—divorce and adultery.

  Q. How has Mumbai changed in the twenty years since your writing Socialite Evenings?

  A. Mumbai has not changed as radically as some of the other, smaller cities in India. Mumbai was always ahead of the curve. But India in its present-day avatar is virtually unrecognizable from the India I grew up in. It is affluent, glamorous, aggressive and ambitious. It is now a world player in every sense of the word.

  Q. What inspired you to write this particular story?

  A. A first novel remains the most self-revelatory one for most authors. You write about the world you know and understand best—your own. That is your territory, your unique turf—you cannibalize your own life, and the lives of people you know. Socialite Evenings reflects my immediate world—it remains a fascinating one. These are urban realities that make Mumbai such a magnetic city. The story of Karuna could so easily be my own story or the story of countless upper-middle-class girls who get sucked into a crazy world filled with crazy characters. I was keen to track Karuna’s trajectory—it’s really an old-fashioned morality tale at the end of the day. Socialite Evenings remains a personal favorite with all its raw edges—there is so much truth in it.

  Q. Are the characters in this story based on people you know? Do you feel that you need to be a part of the world you write about in order to be an authentic voice in this genre?

  A. Some of the characters are people I know, some are loosely based on people I’d met, and others are created. But I also believe most fictional characters are based on the writer’s experiences and observations. They don’t jump out of hats. For me, it is important to know the world I am writing about. I need that level of intimacy with the subject. No false notes or missed cues.

  For me to connect with my reader, I want to provide the real thing—draw him/her into my world. Make the person believe in that world and get involved with the lives of the characters. A good storyteller must know how best to exploit these rich, personal resources.

  Q. When did you first realize you wanted to be a writer? If you could speak to yourself back then, what advice would you give?

  A. I joke that I crawled out of my mother’s womb with a pen in my hand! I have been in love with words from the time I uttered my first one. It is the one love affair that I trust implicitly! The only advice worth giving is to say, “Write from the heart and you can’t go wrong.” I did it then. I continue to do it now—there is no other way. Remain true to yourself. Take ridiculous risks—you must! Above all love what you do.

  Q. What is the writing process like for you? How much do you write a day? How long does it take you to write a novel?

  A. I am an obsessive-compulsive writer. I need to write every single day. I go into withdrawal if I don’t. I love the process of writing and watching words as they fill a page. It gives me an incredible high each time I start a fresh project—be it a column or a book. I write for approximately eight hours a day, with small breaks in between. On a good writing day, I can easily produce twenty-five hundred words—they pour forth in a torrential, unstoppable way. I take a year or so to complete a book.

  Q. What kind of experience do you hope your readers have when reading one of your books?

  A. I hope they will be able to crawl into my mind and heart and get totally involved in the narrative. I want them to feel for the characters, weep, laugh and cry with them. I want my readers to beg for more! I want to convert them into Shobhaa Dé junkies.

  Q. What’s your favorite thing about Bollywood? Least favorite thing?

  A. Bollywood is adorably bizarre. It is an insane world. Surrealistic almost. We produce the maximum number of films in the world. Bollywood has its own magic—I hope it never changes its unique formula. What I detest about Bollywood is its lack of professionalism and its chaotic method of making movies. But the OTT nature of our movies dictates a certain system that makes no sense to the outside world.

  QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

  1. Socialite Evenings was considered controversial and shocking in India upon its initial release in 1989. What, if anything, shocked you about this story?

  2. Is Karuna’s rise to the top an admirable achievement?

  3. Whom do you most relate to in the story?

  4. What do you think the moral of the story
is here? Is there one?

  5. What are the most prevalent themes of the story?

  6. Do the characters ever suffer any consequences for their actions?

  7. Who is the happiest, most content person in the story?

  8. Who is the American equivalent of Karuna?

  9. What do you think of Shobhaa Dé’s depiction of women? Of men? Of Bollywood?

  10. Shobhaa Dé considers the city to be a character in the story. What experience did you have reading about Mumbai?

  11. What are your feelings about the ending? Were you expecting something different?