Shobha Didi, the pot-bellied cook, housekeeper, butler all
rolled into one opens the door. A plain, matronly woman, she isn’t much to look at but the kindly expression on her pockmarked face more than makes up for it. Any day, I find her more beautiful than my clear-skinned, fair and slender mother. I wouldn’t be surprised if even her husband called her Didi; couldn’t imagine her anything other than everyone’s older sister. The very old Maali Uncle addressed her as Didi too. “Look who’s here. Where did you skedaddle off to, love? Come in, come right in.” She takes the umbrella from me, and contributes to the gloomy weather with her purple, that being her favourite shade of lipstick, smile studded with lousy yellow teeth, “I’ll tell him you’re here. He’s in the toilet, probably playing Tetris.”
Ushering me into the mahogany wainscoted living
room, she says, “Go sit by the fireside, girl. You’re freezing.”
I stare wistfully at the empty upholstered armchair placed against a window with embroidered drapes. It looks like the
loneliest chair in the world.
“I wish you were here, Mrs. P.” I stroke the polished arm
of the rocking chair before drawing forward a burl-walnut
chair toward the heavy cast-iron fireplace. The room glows like a blushing bride—no wonder that, considering both Mrs.
Patel as well as Shobha Didi are passionate about home décor.
‘Mrs. Patel was …’ I think dismally.
As I wait, I scroll through my Instagram and am pleased to see the number of likes on my post announcing my ‘nurse of the year award,’ second year in a row. It’s getting warm. I remove my plaid coat and sling it on the back of the chair. MedMac has put up the post, too. Surely, this means a hike in salary and prestige. Though Papa had scoffed the first time I was nominated, ‘These trinkets are merely thingamabobs— no real value.” Mummy’s not exactly a cheerleader either but at least she has the decency to sometimes pretend to be one. She had said, “Badge again? Ask for cash. Insist, okay?” Hardly anything impresses her. The only thing that did is: Beauty. “Remember Pooja? All pimple riddled? You should see her now; clear, glowing skin. She could be a model for a cosmetic brand. Did you try that charcoal mask? Believe me, it’s life-changing. You and Priyanka can take turns oiling each other’s hair—it’s very important. One day, you’ll thank me for my advice.”
Someone clears his throat. I look up to find Vikram …
sorry… Mr. Patel puffing on a cigar, his gaze fixed somewhere below my collar-bones. I peek down to see the top couple of buttons undone exposing my firm, rounded assets and a sliver of my white-lace ahem … B. Girls my age usually have this blatant disregard for decorum where their vocabulary is concerned. They wouldn’t have any qualms about saying certain words out loud. Call me stuffy if you must but I call it polish and pedigree. My hand flies to the cheeky buttons and ends up pushing them into the wrong eyelets. A warm flush creeps up from my long white neck toward my hairline. I giggle self-consciously.
“Lovely arrangement,” I say by way of conversation.
“Winter flowers.” Mr. Patel points the cigar at some January snapdragons blooming outside the window. Rivulets of rainwater glint silver on the ledge. “Maali Uncle’s a whiz with these things. Here.” He hands my coat to me before running his hand through his dark-brown combed back hair. “Anita wanted you to have this”—he clamped the cigar in his mouth and took out a box from a drawer in a mahogany chest— “Yash and Maya approve too.”
A lump rises up in my throat. Such a sweet family.
Respectful, too—addressing their staff as ‘didi’ and ‘uncle’.
Quite unlike my dysfunctional one. Mummy refuses to call her cleaner even by his real name. “Whatever your name is, we will call you Chotu, eh?” —that’s what she tells every boy she hires.
“Really Mr. Patel, that’s not needed. I couldn’t.” I stand up
and avert my eyes from the red, leather box, locking them onto the crackling flames in the fire-place. It’s never that cold in Delhi—this isn’t London, but I guess the rich have to find ways to spend their money.
“Please. She wanted to.” He tries to press the box into my
hands.
I withdraw my hands hastily as though stung by a bee. It’s
too soon, I think.
Just then Shobha Didi bustles in carrying a tray with a
crystal decanter, two wine glasses and a bowl of wasabi
peanuts. “Anything else, Saab,” she asks him before addressing me, “you could use a drop, love.” Her eyes insistent. “Saabji, only one for you,” she goes on, “you gotta ditch smoking, too.”
She sure runs a tight ship.
“It’s on my to-do list,” he tells her through a haze of smoke before putting the box back in the Victorian chest.
Seeing he is busy, the kindly lady whispers in my ear, “Help him—you’re a good egg.” Then in a normal voice she instructs me, “Do put the leftover peanuts back in that there airtight container.” And then in a loud voice, “Saab. My mother-in-law’s dying.”
“Again?” he asks.
“Yeh. Sort of. Can I take the evening off?”
“But there’s no one—” begins Mr. Patel.
“Sister Tana’s here” —she sneaks a wink at me— “I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”
I blush again while nodding abstractedly. Mr. Patel
touches his brow. He’s got this high moral compass. Kind of
puts him in a spot.
“I could open a bottle of whisky,” he clears his throat, “if
that’s your guilty pleasure.”
“Whisky doesn’t agree with me,” I say.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Just the one.” I take the glass of the ruby-red-wine from
him. Our fingers brush against each other.
Two bottles later, I fling off my coat, kick off my Aldo
leather slip-on-shoes carefully since I don’t want them getting
scratched, curl up on a couch, and try to plop my head
against the plump bearskin swathed cushion. “I’m so sorry, Vikram—I thought that was the cushion.” My clumsy attempt to pick myself up ended up in me landing head down in his lap. “Oh, kill me someone,” I blurt. I guess I fell for the oldest trick in the book—getting plied with drink and losing control. Not that I mind.
“Would it be out of line if I kissed you right now?” asks the gentleman. I nod coyly. A strong hand holds my chin and a hot well-defined mouth descends on mine. Pri was right—he hadn’t invited me only to hand me Mrs. Patel’s red box. Men! But in his defence, we are single adults. It happens.
“Are you okay,” Vikram mutters under his breath without
leaving my mouth.
My phone pings, and then rings. A sorry, sorry, interruption. I’m gonna kill the encroacher. I steal a glance: ‘Wassup? U ok?’ It’s Pri.
“Yash, Maya?” I ask.
“At granny’s house; they needed that,” he manages to reply,
“you alright?”
In reply I kiss him back fiercely, every cell in my body
screaming for more. Much later, I write back to Pri: ‘Yasss!
More than ok.’
I WAKE UP TO THE sound of pleasant piped-in music and the sight of a dozen WhatsApp messages from Pri starting with, ‘OMG. All night out? Spill the tea,’ graduating to ‘Oof girl, the suspense is killing me,’ and the last one being, ‘BTW, U’r crushing me.’ I wrote back, ‘It’s all gucci.’
Rainbow-coloured discs dance cheerily on the walls—the
rays of the morning sun refract through the Swarovski
chandelier in Vikram’s bedroom. Thorny ornamental bougainvillea vines form a canopy above the window outside and clusters of bright fuchsia flowers hang from the branches. Yellow-billed creamy mynas flit from branch to branch as they expertly catch insects with sharp mid-air twists and turns. If I crane my neck far enough to the west I might just ca
tch a glimpse of the Presidential estate, I pinch myself. This is real.
“You up?” Mr. Patel calls from the toilet.
“Mm-hmm.”
He comes in, lights a cigar, and points at a peepal tree
that had sent down aerial roots, which has shot up into
multiple trunks, “That one is hundred years old.”
I lock the diary, keep it on the bedside table, and remove
my gloves.
“Why the gloves?”
“Because oils and residues from your hands can stain and
damage pages.”
“And that eye-mask on your diary?”
“That’s not so hard to guess.” Slightly annoyed, I look out the window.
“You could toss it out,” he smiled, “I’ll get you an iPad.”
“Heads-up: Pen and paper girl, old school, that’s me,” I brush off the callous offer. My first ever entry in the Diary is linked directly to my separation from Mr. Chatterjee.
“Do you like me, er… Sister Tana?”
“Tana, please.” I stroke his ear, trembling at the emotion
the action stirs in me. “More than you know. Sir, I think it’s gone deeper than a mere liking. All I’ve ever wanted is a man
with a good heart.”
“We should get to know each other,” he smiles.
“We did, didn’t we?” My eyes glitter with mischief.
“You’re an only child, right?”
“Mm-hmm,” I nod. Thank heavens, there wasn’t a fellow sufferer getting knocked about. “I was enough for my parents. Ahem, are you listening?” I try to catch hold of his eye but clearly the competition is stiff. A silver-ring glints in my cute-button-navel just above my neat and flat belly.
“Is that real?” he asks, placing the cigar in the ash-tray on the night stand.
“Yeh, I guess. Real silver.”
“No, I mean this,” —he sweeps his large palm across my
tight belly— “Anita had this cotton-ball-dumpling-like
paunchy … um …” he bends down to lick my navel. “And those apricots real too?” He grabs my breasts. “Mmm… graceful, willowy Tana with apricot-like-cherry-topped hangings. Tana means stem, right?”
“Oh Sir, Vikram,” I moan.
“Not hanging though; firm kind of.”
“Are there any other kind?”
“Yeh, mushy ones; like Anit—”
I put a finger on his lips. “She had cottage-cheese thighs,
too. I get it.”
“How do you know?”
Again, I shushed him. “You told me last night when …”
Later, at the mother-of-pearl inlay patterned breakfast table, the red box shows up again. Usually, I sit to the right of Mrs. Patel, today I sit in her place.
“Go on, open it,” Vikram says.
I open it cautiously. A black thread nestles in the groove in the velvet-lined box. “It’s the charm your mother gave to Mrs. Patel—the one she got from Fatehpur Sikri,” I croak, my eyes misting. “It won’t fit me.” My ankle was at the very least three times narrower than Mrs. Patel’s—swollen as hers were from all the steroids.
“Ha-ha …” laughs Mr. Patel, “you can simply tie a few
knots.”
“Shobha Didi?” I leave the question hanging in the air.
“Go on, take it love,” she gives me a knowing smile as she
brings in a mound of freshly churned white butter. “Not for you, Saabji,” she tells Mr. Patel when she finds him eyeing the
butter longingly.
I put the box in my purse and smile gratefully, my heart
tied in a thousand knots.
“Just a tiny knob?” Mr. Patel extends his arm toward the butter bowl. “Can’t do much harm.”
“Can do. Trust me. I have a diploma in nutrition,” says
Shobha Didi.
“Have your way,” Mr. Patel gets up and turns to address me, “I’ll call you. I have to use the toilet.”
When he is out of sight, I hear Phoolvati, the stereotyped, sullen maid whisper to Shobha Didi, “Did she really, um …?” —she jerks a finger secretively toward Mr. Patel’s bedroom— “What happened?”
“Young-blood plus hot-blood happened,” Didi whispers back. “I told you not to wear such fitted clothes. Can you even breathe, girl? You’ll have to peel them off,” Didi says to her.
“Figs?” Didi hands me a piece in a bowl.
“I used to like figs until I found out there is at least one dead wasp in each.” I pick up a toast to pop it back into the toaster to char it black the way I like it.
“Sister Tana, you’re wearing your night dress inside out,”
giggles Maya.
I blush to the roots of my hair.
After Mr. Patel leaves for work, I apologise to Shobha Didi.
“Are you kidding?” She beams at me. “You’re good for
this house.”
Smiling gratefully, I open the refrigerator to pour myself a glass of milk.
“No, no, no. Stop right there.” Shobha Didi comes running.
Slightly scared, I jump back. “Is it hot, Didi—the pan?”
“Don’t be silly. It’s in the fridge, isn’t it? Plus, we fan the
pan before we can keep it in the fridge. The thing is the cream
hasn’t set in this one. That’s why you have to leave it alone. It’s important.”
“Oh.” Treading with caution, I touch another pan.
“No, wait, I’ll take it out. There’s a specific way to lift off
the cream. I’ll teach you one day.”
“Thanks, Shobha Didi. I think.”
Afterward, she hands me a few photo frames. “Place them wherever you think appropriate.”
Certainly, the highest honour she could have bestowed on
me—a clear stamp of approval on my new status in the
household.
Yes, Lutyens Bungalow, we sure are good for each other, I
thought. Can’t blame a girl for dreaming.
FOUR WEEKS LATER, MR. PATEL proposes to me, not least because of Shobha Didi’s nudging. I had overheard a suggestive conversation:
“Saab, if I may say so, you are too young to spend the rest
of your life alone.” She pressed his wrist.
“You’re like a sister to me.” He staggered back. “I call you
Didi.”
“Hey Ram.” She pulled her hand back. “I’m talking about
Sister Tana. She’s not your sister.”
“I don’t know…” He rubbed his face.
“Exactly.”
“The children … she’s a young girl. One day she will want
kids of her own.”
“About that, Saab … she’s had a difficult childhood; a
tempestuous sort of parent-child relationship. Not a regular
one. She says she’s decided not to have any of her own.
Undoubtedly, a good thing for Yash and Maya.”
“Mm-hmm,” a hint of a smile tugged at a corner of his
mouth. The smile quickly turned into a frown and he asked, his
voice full of concern, “Is she okay? Did she share her troubles
with you?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. I just gathered from a snippet here, a
piece there. She’s not much for small talk, keeps to herself.
I’ve seen her write a journal kinda.”
“Hmm.”
“Saab, she’s a hard-working girl who’s gone through her
fair share of struggle; unlike the terribly cossetted gold-digging socialites who’ve begun to latch on to you since Memsaab…” —Didi dabbed at the corner of an eye with her saree pallu— “this one walks the talk. So, what I’m saying is all things considered, she’s the best thing that could happen to the children.”
“How so?”
“I can sense she dotes on them. Absolutely the sweetest girl, a strong one, too,” —she smiled— �
�other than her phobic fear
of blood.”
“Socialites … reminds me. Mallika texted me saying she might have heard something about Sister Tana er… not quite fitting in, and being intoxicated sort of—high once or ...”
“Impossible. Even a single peg of whiskey gives her a
migraine. Jealousy, Saab. This is what I’m telling you. They
are jealous. That’s all. What meaning Saabji of: ‘Not quite fit
in’? The relevant part is she looked after Memsaab devotedly,
and likes the children. I know that.”
As clear as day, Shobha Didi was right about many things.
Papa’s death had made me stronger. If I could live through that, surely, I could handle raising a couple of kids. And yes, I had come to have a soft spot for Mrs. Patel—the feeling was mutual—the children are adorable, too. It touched my heart to hear Didi shower terribly kind words of praise on me—very unlike the misbegotten cascades of invectives my parents habitually unleashed on me. But that is okay too. I have made my peace with it. That’s how families are. Though this one is different.
What Mr. Patel’s friend texted was also true enough. “She
doesn’t quite fit in.” I get that quite a bit. Having said that, it’s
not as if I’m apologetic about that. On the contrary, I pride myself on staying away from the herd mentality—I do like my off-kilter mix of things. The lone wolf is who I was. Probably why I’m not great in crowds or as a team player.
To my utter dismay, Priyanka does not react the way I
expected her to when I broke the news about accepting Mr. Patel’s proposal to her, “Tana, Tana, he lives in Lutyens. Do
you really believe he will keep his word? What makes you
think he will actually marry you?”
“Haven’t you been paying attention to what I’ve been
telling you?” —I raise my hand to show her the amethyst
ring— “He’s already sealed the deal.”
“Still. He might be just baiting you, so to speak, with that to
ROSE’S BENT STEM: Girl Tangled. 'Best thriller of 2019,' -The Tribune Page 3
