In the hiatus a stupor settled. A few rows down an old man with a neck like snakeskin shook himself awake. The woman next to me hitched her sari up and began to scratch an old mosquito bite just underneath where the bone protrudes at the ankle. She stared at me with unabashed interest as she used a fingernail to pick at it. The wound, a small black ring with a flaky white centre, looked deeply ugly against her dark skin. A spot of scarlet appeared and bubbled into a small drop. This she wiped with the pulp of her grubby finger. I turned away, suddenly sick, desperate to move to the better section, where at least the men weren’t all wearing this stinking polyester.
In the front, beyond the people seated on the mattresses, each person had their own metal folding chair. The women wore fashionable saris, some blouses cut low at the back. Beads of sweat ran down the neck of a woman perched upon a chair in the last row of that section, streaking the cake of white powder along her spine. A small, yellowish man with an incipient paunch walked on stage. The audience under the awning was in thrall, their applause thundered as Joshi approached the mic. He gave that speech hundreds of times that summer. Even now they show it on television all the time.
‘My friends,’ Joshi said – this also producing a long round of claps – ‘we have started to climb the long ladder. We will scale the mountain once again. And, let me tell you, we are very close now’ – a finger climbing into the air – ‘close to making our land pure, ourselves pure, pure as the land of the ancients. Soon we will be mentally, emotionally, culturally restored. Soon we will reclaim our rightful place at the top of the world.’
He paused and looked around. ‘We must live according to our own great principles. Our history. Why must we live with compromise? Our purity has been perverted over the centuries. Centuries of rule by outsiders have led to spiritual subjugation. But the atrocities of this age can be combatted. They are nothing but a passing phase. Our cultural roots are too firm, struck deeply into the spring of immortality. We will once again find that purity, the purity that comes from order, from respect, from each of us remembering our communities. Our roles. What runs in our blood.
‘My friends, turn to the right, I want you all to turn to the right. Look where the unfortunate souls sit.’ He raised his arm in a high semi-circle until it landed on the section Sapna and I were in. ‘These people are not from any sector. They are from the Slum. I want you to think. There is a young boy who works for me. His name is Ashish.’ A squeal, quickly stifled, Sapna’s eyes shining. ‘Ashish might be born outside the sectors, but he has proved himself capable in his years of service. He tells me the water supply has stopped to his home. To all their homes. Looking at these people today, does your heart not break? I feel so much sorrow. We must help them also. We must make sure they are not left behind.’
Another round of ovation from the front sections, those seated on chairs. Smattered applause in the middle segment. In our section there was silence. One man, a few rows behind me, shouted loudly, ‘How? How will you help?’ But Joshi seemed not to hear him.
‘Soon we will get to the unfortunates, but first we must complete our work!’ he shouted, arms raised in a V. ‘Still there are places in the city where boundaries are not respected. Can we be a true society if some do not observe our rules? There are people in this city who seem to crave disorder. The people who have ruled you for so long. Politicians, judges, bureaucrats, media. They work together, all of them. They have made us impure with their impure rule. No respect for our oldest rules. This is why I’ve called you here, to this spot. Do you know who lives in the sector behind me? Do you know what they call this – the East End? They think they’re better than us. They think they know better than our respected ancestors. They think they know better than the rules that governed us for centuries.’
I was shocked. Sapna bowed her head, quiet. I felt nauseous, my head spinning. Pins, needles spread to elbows and forearms and then down to my fingers. Why did these people care how we lived?
‘This is not our culture,’ Joshi continued. ‘Our heritage. I have promised you the perfect home. A place of order, discipline, clean and pure. Those who do not obey our rules must feel the strength of our history.’
The elders rose as one, the orange-robed priests, the dumpy imams, the thin bishop and his Protestant counterpart, and the rest, in suits and kurta-pyjamas, whose provenance I could not tell. They cheered with their hands above their heads. The Repeaters were here too, tucked away in a corner in their vestal white, making a ruckus, whooping, cracking their lathis against one another like swords, throwing them into the air. My head spun like a Newton disc, blurring into one thought, one colour.
‘Give me a chance. I will make us pure,’ Joshi shouted, voice stretched with lust. ‘Each must protect our walls, our women, our communities. Make sure they cannot break our rules any more. Go forth and do our work. Once again we will reach the pinnacle of the world!’
I collapsed. The heat, fear, something else. My forehead slumped against the back of the person seated in front of me. Falling, I saw a dome of curved blue with a tiny white plane climbing to its centre, the perky angle of ascent making it seem proud, noble. I hit the ground and knew no more.
III
The bartender has a knowing smile above his bow tie. Am I drunk already? This will be my third flute. Time to slow down. A few feet from him, a huge fish carved from ice, a character from Leila’s favourite movie, slowly drips from recognition. Pyramids of crystal-cut glasses have been arranged to face bottles of grenadine and tequila, champagne, vodka, gin and white wine. One side of the lawn is our small pool, lazurite from the tiles. Yelping infants and young mothers, the lucky ones back in their bikinis. Dark, slight, curly-haired nannies stand just outside the splash zone, preserving their best outfits, smiles and towels to the ready. Along the other side of the lawn an array of inflatable slides and bouncy castles, red and yellow vigorous in the 4 p.m. sun. Riz got permission from our neighbours so we could have the lawn to ourselves. He paid a preposterous bribe to the water officials so they would fill the pool. He wanted to show our friends we were happy, despite all that has been going on.
Riz comes up. ‘You’re fine, na? Don’t dehydrate. It’s only been two weeks. Remember what the doctor said.’
I take water from a tray that hovers by me. It’s so hot we have a separate waiter wending his way between the guests with only water bottles. Since my episode at the rally I’ve been staying out of the sun. Riz squeezes my hand, picks up a beer, wanders into a conversation with two squash buddies. I watch from over my refilled glass. They’re out on the lawn, standing by a serried rank of stone fish that arc water into a tiny moat. Riz is in his day-party-gear, linen shirt, this time pink stripes, grey shorts that show off his calves. As soon as he joins the conversation a woman I don’t recognise appears at their side. She’s in sunglasses and a summer dress that’s all straps. She titters at something and puts her hand on Riz’s forearm. A delicate flirtation, a weighted pause of her outspread fingers. I imagine Riz balling his fist so that his forearm is flexed. Then they’re all laughing and I have a horrible feeling they’ve realised I’m watching.
‘Bad form, Shal. You can’t stare at your own husband,’ Dipanita says, walking up behind me. She is in a thin white shirt that shows an orange bra, matched with white shorts from which her legs emerge in the shade of a new American penny.
‘I was looking beyond him actually. To the food tents.’ Three orange and red shamianas have been set up, under which men in white coats and chef hats make vegetarian and non-vegetarian pasta, hot dogs, burgers, various kinds of chaat and gol gappas. A DJ bounces in headphones, wiry assistant by his side, though there is no one yet on the wooden dance floor laid out to protect the grass.
‘Yeah right. Who is that woman anyway?’
‘It’s good to see you, Dips. You’re looking lovely.’
‘I was so glad to hear Leila got in.’
‘You didn’t think of Yellowstone, did you? For your own kids?’
‘You mustn’t let him say things like that to you.’ At the other end of the party, one of our school friends, Nakul, is running his fingers through the inside of his empty mojito glass, pulling out the mint leaves and tossing them into his mouth. ‘What about Pari and Anshu? How do they like it?’
‘They seem fine. Didn’t even notice. Atul is like his parents, of course. They all think it’s a goddamn blessing. Come on, let’s get a drink.’
‘I need to take it easy. You get. I see the husband is looking for me again. Look at his face. He’s annoyed about something.’
Riz waves at Dipanita, who returns a cheeky nod before slinking off. He comes to me smiling, but hisses into my ear, ‘Did you invite Naz and Gazala? Why are they here?’
They are at the entrance, a few steps beyond the white wooden board with protruding metal hooks on which the valet drivers hang the keys of the cars they park, like that game you used to see in fetes and hill stations, a white-paper panel with neat rows of coloured balloons to fire an air rifle at. Gazala’s slender frame is sheathed in a flowing single-pleat abaya, black with a grey satin strip running across her chest. She wears it with a dusty-pink silk hijab that brings out her alabaster complexion. Cheeks glowing with rouge. This is probably as much sun as she ever gets. Naz is like a lumpy action figure by her side, surveying the party, curling a lip when his eye rests on the men and women chatting in the pool. He nods at a few folk. In the crook of his arm is a small bike with pink training wheels and ribbons trailing from the handlebar.
‘What was I supposed to do, Riz? Not call them? They’re Leila’s aunt and uncle. They know it’s her birthday. They would’ve been so upset.’
‘I don’t give a shit! He’s got a lot of fucking nerve, showing up after he spoke to you like that.’
‘I’m not bothered, am I? It’s in the past. Why are you getting het up?’
‘Because he has no right to speak to my wife like that. Telling you these things. If he has a problem he better fucking come to me.’
‘Your wife.’ Now I was angry. ‘It’s your daughter’s birthday. Put that male ego aside for once.’
‘Why do you take his side? You’re the one who was so angry … It’s okay for him to tell you how to raise our daughter? To say all those things?’
‘You know that’s not what I meant. Just for Leila. Be the bigger brother.’
‘I know why he’s here. Because Abbu is unwell. He wants to sort out the property. That’s all he gives a shit about. He calls me three times a week.’
The catering manager comes scurrying to us. I head to their tent to sort out an ice emergency. The sun has almost set, the sky lit up in yellow and saffron, tattered dabs of empty cloud, ventrals luminous gold, dorsals all muddy grey.
*
By dark everybody is more than drunk. The hooded underwater lights have turned the pool green. Lemon arabesques bob on its surface. Only a few people are in the water now, shoulders immersed to keep away a chill, pale faces spectral against the water. The wooden panels of the dance floor vibrate like guitar strings from the stomping feet. The DJ knocks a beat into the air. Clenched fist. Upright finger. Leila and her friends are upstairs, chlorine showered off and changed, animated movie on the big screen. They will drift to sleep one by one as the nannies gossip in the corner. I go up to make sure the mattresses have been laid out okay for the kids and the ayahs are given cake.
Heading downstairs, gradually aware that I haven’t eaten anything myself, that an emptiness presses up against my insides. I steady myself for a few seconds against the thick teak bannister, sit heavily on the second step. It isn’t that sickly, spinning drunk. I’m relieved, elated even. Everything has gone well. Now we will cut loose, there will be pink and blue shots and selfies and talk of how much life has changed in the ten years since school.
I look up, ready to re-enter the party, and Naz is standing in front of me. I first notice his thighs, like unripe, knobbly papayas. Overhead lights bounce off the marble, fill the air hard yellow.
‘How’re you feeling?’ he asks.
‘You’re still here? After the lecture you gave me that day? Didn’t think this was your scene.’
He scratches his beard noisily. ‘Bhai is being a dick.’
‘Where’s Gazala?’
‘Driver took her home.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘I don’t want her here. Not around this.’ His chin draws up slightly, lips a slim, scarlet line. ‘Why won’t Riz take my calls? He blew me off when I went to talk to him. Acted like I wasn’t there.’
‘You should’ve known not to talk to me like that.’ The alcohol has given me courage. ‘We’ve dealt with this crap since we started dating. I don’t need a lecture from you.’
‘What lecture, man. I was only looking out for you guys.’
‘I really thought you liked me, you know.’ Trying my best not to slur, to leave my words undiminished. ‘Then you repeat this bullshit that’s going on outside. Come on, Naz.’
Eyes and mouth sag at either end, but there is something theatrical to his contrition. ‘Will you talk to Riz for me?’
‘He knows what he’s doing. Why should I tell him what to do?’
A man and woman come lurching into the marbled foyer, holdings hands and laughing. One of Riz’s buyers. When we were introduced a few hours earlier he said his wife was out of town. The tails of the shirt he’s thrown over his swim trunks are soaked. They’re looking for the stairs but stop short, still laughing, when they see us. Naz gives a disgusted look. The man bows, twirling his right hand, spins them both round and out into the night.
For some seconds there is only the pounding music. Finally, Naz says, ‘Riz knows what he’s doing, doesn’t he?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that. It’s in his interest not to talk to me. In both your interests.’
When he flings his arms out, I burst out laughing.
‘Great. Laugh, laugh. What do you think, I’ll let you take it all?’
‘Are you crazy, Naz? What’s gotten into you?’
‘I’ve figured it out. If Abbu dies, Riz will get everything. He’s the older one. Then what splitting? He’ll take the factory, all the land.’
‘Is that what you think? We would do something like that?’
‘I’m sorry, Shalini.’ He pulls a phone from his pocket and punches in a number while walking to the doors leading to the lawn. I rest my back against the sharp edge of a step. Phone between shoulder and ear, he places a hand on a door handle, turns around and mutters from the side of his mouth, ‘Leila deserves better. She should know her culture. Not grow up like this.’
Round about ten the music changes, stalking seamlessly from film-dance to something spikier, the beat faltering – gauche – then swirling suddenly. Dipanita is on the grass without her shoes, giving off a gentle whiff of the poseur, only three buttons of her shirt still done up, eyes closed, palms pressed to her temples, feet kicking side to side in a whirring shuffle step, every fingerbreadth of coppery skin bursting with exothermic glow. The cups of her bra are like orange beacons under the scanners. Perhaps forty people left, between the dance floor and the grass, drinking around the narrow moat, the gurgling fish now lit up lichen green. Riz is alone on the small flight of steps between garden and house, surveying everything with a tranquil, cellophane aspect to his eyes that makes me think one of his friends brought dope.
I tell one of the waiters, a hair-gelled fellow with a flakin
g birthmark covering half a cheek, to fish the moulded-plastic champagne flutes and whisky cups out of the pool. That’s when I hear shouting at the gate. The guard bleating some kind of refusal as a crowd of fervid, guttural voices encircle his pleas. Sharp anger. The old guard cries out loud. He is there to open the gates when we drive up, take packages from couriers, turn the generator on. Not this. Twelve, fifteen men bound in, swinging their lathis like golf clubs at my daisies and petunias and the low halogen lamps lining the pathway. It is immediately surreal, as if a scene from the Slum is being acted out for us. I feel sick, my stomach churns, all at once aware of the bitter spirits that slam against its walls. Everything keels, but then something within asserts itself: adrenal clarity, the world-at-drunk-speed fading away. The clomp of the Repeaters’ boots, the shocked howls from my guests, the whip of lathis through the air, sometimes riffling the leaves, sometimes breaking the spines of the big bushes – all this happens in slow motion, as if home and garden and everyone in it is encased in amber. They go through the flower beds, toeing up clods of damp dirt, the white trousers and shirts I saw for the first time when they came for the couple who lived across the park. Riz is no longer near the stairs. He is nowhere to be seen. He’s left? He wouldn’t have. How could he? I’m sweating now, but shivering too.
DJ Gaurav only spots them when they have garrisoned the lawn. A Repeater climbs onto the low platform. Gaurav brings his hands together, eyes green from the lights. The Repeater uses the bottom of his staff to prod him in the chest. He raises the lathi over his head and comes down on the electrical equipment time and again, triangle sparks that fade to black. The dance lights go off, we are almost in darkness, only the few garden lamps that still stand are working.
Our friends are gathered in a tight knot, half on the dance floor, half off it. The men have formed a loose perimeter. Some are shouting into their phones. Each face shows private panic. I am halfway to the bouncy slides, frozen, as the waiters and bartenders are shepherded to a food shamiana. A Repeater sticks his face into each of the serving trays, sniffing for contraband meats. When done he kicks the tray to the ground, senseless in his anger, his disgust.
Leila Page 9
