Joline Bai suggested we pick out one of the silver tea sets but I shook my head. You can never tell which one of these is real silver and which is just white metal - we'd had an unfortunate accident in the past when we ended up gifting a very expensive set at the dhobi's wedding, and a cheapie-fake at a wedding in the home of a chubby lady chief minister from south India. She must've had a silversmith living in her house, because she spotted the fake instantly and presented Amma with a cheap cotton sari as a return gift.
Finally, I fished out a not-too-hideous brass lamp, the kind actresses light at the beginning of award functions, and sent it off to the Pavit Pradesh State Emporium on Baba Khadak Singh Marg to be gift-wrapped. That way, the bridal couple would think it had been bought specially for the occasion.
'Whose wedding is it, Amma?' I asked curiously, as we sat out in the front hall, drinking our evening tea.
'Oh, some industrialist family,' she said vaguely. 'Big Pragati Party supporters. The important thing is, Top Brass will be there. And everyone else too. It will be good to be seen there tonight.'
Awesome. I couldn't wait.
An hour later, as we rolled up to the wedding venue on Kushak Road, just off Rashtrapati Bhavan, I looked at all the VVIP cars in the drive and frowned.
'Amma,' I said.
'Hain...?' she answered distractedly, screwing in the back of her massive stud earrings grimly, wincing as she did so. Her ear lobes, if you look closely, are a truly grisly sight. She's had to have them stitched up surgically a couple of times because they split right down to the end under the weight of the thick, heavy gold earrings she's always wearing.
'The IJP list for Pavit Pradesh was announced today, wasn't it?'
She winced and continued to screw in her earring. 'Yes,' she said shortly. 'But not the name of the Bittora candidate.'
'How come?' I asked uneasily.
She shrugged. 'Who knowj? Maybe they are trying to broker a deal with that fool Dwivedi. You sud have pinned your hair up, Sarojini. So untidy it looks!'
'It's the Half-blown Rosebud Cut,' I explained glibly. 'Its spontaneous, bouncy unruliness shows off my long neck, brings out the pointiness of my chin and the rosiness of my skin and makes my eyes twinkal.'
Amma grunted. 'Looks like Half-Mad Full-Crack Cut to us,' she said. 'Must have paid one thousand rupeej for it, extravagant girl.'
As I had actually shelled out two thousand, I wisely said nothing to this. Anyway, she was a fine one to talk, with all her Shahnaz Hussain ShaSmooths and ShaYouths and ShaTooths. Instead, I said, And your usual IJP opponent, what's his name... Pant? Didn't he just die or something?'
'He did not die, he just had bypass,' she said. 'It could still be him - or they may bypass him, who knows?'
It figured. Really, it's sick how old some of these pollies are. Guys in their fifties are still in the Youth Pragati. Guys in their sixties are referred to as Young Turks. And every time there's a party meeting at the Akbar Road office, the driveway gets jammed because there are so many wheelchairs toiling up the hill. Some of them are so decrepit that you're scared they may actually die on you while you're talking to them at a function. You'd be sparkling and going all so-how-are-you-uncle at them and suddenly you'd realize the uncleji's so quiet because he's popped it.
The car stopped. As I adjusted my sari, Amma said fretfully, 'And ij this any way to wear a sari? One choochi in and one choochi out! Drape the pallu higher, Sarojini.'
'This is the style, Amma,' I said, rolling my eyes. 'If I drape it over both my breasts I'll look like the Dalai Lama. Besides, I'm wearing a blouse, aren't I?'
'We would not call that thing a blouj,' she grumbled. 'It doej not match your sari colour, and the neck is so deep, if you bend even a little bit, your partition will sow.'
'My what will sow?' I asked her, frankly baffled.
She reached forward and jabbed one bony finger right in the middle of my chest. 'That,' she said austerely. 'Cleevaze.'
'Uff, I promise I wont bend, okay?'
'Okay,' she said in this really martyred voice as she heaved herself out of the car. 'Chalo, let us do some jasoosi. Find out who the IJP is fielding...'
***
The house was brilliantly decorated. There were a million twinkling lights strung across the trees and hedges. We walked in, me shivering slightly, out of sheer nervousness obviously, because the April evening was very pleasant and my red wine coloured velvet blouse and emerald green georgette sari were, if anything, a little too warm for the weather.
The bride and groom were standing on a massive, gerbera-and-orchid festooned stage at the other end of the lawn, but Amma was in no hurry to wish the couple. The extremely invasive frisking at the gate (hold out your arms madum, spread your legs madum) had alerted her to the fact that the big shots were already here. With a few whispered questions, she figured out where the 'VVVIP' seating was, and headed that way. I felt a little nervous for her, worried someone might snigger ho-ji-morphed-photos-morphed-photos when we approached, but everybody was super obsequious and she swept in regally, while I scurried along in her wake, right into the heart of the Ugly People Mafia.
'Coz they're all really ugly. Pollies, I mean. I've never been able to figure out exactly where the vicious circle starts - ugly people join politics and therefore make it look ugly, or regular-looking people join politics and become ugly because it's so ugly. Whichever way you look at it, it can't be denied that, with about three and a half exceptions, Indian pollies are an unbeautiful lot. The exceptions include Amma's darling TB and one quite dishy-looking minister-of-state - but his good looks don't actually count 'coz the guy's an ass. Like, right after the 26/11 terrorist attacks, he actually went all Shahrukh-from-DDLJ and told an outraged media that bade bade shehron mein aisi choti choti baatein hoti rehti hain. And okay, I'll grant that one or two of the young' fifty-plus MPs aren't entirely hideous either.
As I stood there, a little behind Amma, gloomily eyeing the many wondrous specimens of manhood on display, a clammy hand landed unerringly on the bare patch of skin above the back of my blouse and a cheerful, husky voice declared, 'Hello, dear! How are you?'
It was Amma's old buddy, Anthony Suleiman. The one who'd done her the dubious favour of letting her stay on in the house on Tughlaq Road.
In the politically correct Noah's Ark that is the Pragati Party - stocked with representatives of every conceivable religion and caste in India - Anthony Suleiman has a double advantage, being half Muslim and half Dalit-Christian. Elevating him in any way appeases two minorities at once. He's milked the minority card for all it's worth - scrambling onto all sorts of committees and becoming AIPC General Secretary to boot - and is whispered to be seeking a girl who is half Brahmin and half Sikh for his son. So that they can get together and produce a female child (what with the women's reservation bill having been approved and all) who would be so comprehensively representative of all Indian vote banks that she could grow up to be the sole denizen aboard the Pragati Party Ark, rendering all other candidates redundant.
Looking at him now, I realized that Anthony Suleiman was also an exception (kind of) to the whole Ugly People Mafia theory.
He was resplendent in an electric blue bandhgalla, his eyes glinting yellow-green in the wedding lights. With his thick head of grey hair, extremely bushy white eyebrows and moustache, he looked for all the world like a good-humoured, debonair tomcat.
'Hi, uncle,' I said with a smile. 'Amma, look who it is!'
Amma, who had been heading for Top Brass like a guided missile, allowed herself to be deflected from course long enough to say carelessly, 'Arrey, Tawny. Kaise ho?'
And then she kept walking.
I winced. The dude's name is Tony. But Amma is incapable of pronouncing it any other way than how Nirupa Roy says Kumar Gaurav's name in Teri Kasam. Tawny.
Still, Tawny uncle looked pretty sanguine. He beamed at me affectionately.
'You are looking lovely.' he proclaimed, rocking back and forth on his heels a
little. Then he leaned in, indicated the high-level Praggus around us and added, his eyes twinkling, 'Come to study some cartoons, hain? Or should I say kitaanus? Swimming about at the bottom of the Pragati Potty?'
I laughed. I like Tawny uncle. Four years ago, he talked Ma and Amma into letting me take up animation after college. He argued that a couple of very big Maharashtrian leaders were cartoonists too, that it was a time-honoured route to joining politics - and Amma had totally bought it.
'I'm just visiting, uncle,' I said, mindful of the fact that officially, Amma had retired and wasn't hankering wildly after the Bittora seat.
Then, because Amma was waggling her eyebrows and looking daggers at me, I went up to the Praggu Top Brass and folded my hands.
'Jyoti's daughter,' said Amma with a meaningful wink.
'Hello,' I said lamely.
I got a charming smile in return. Some light remark about how he'd heard so much about me, and then Amma filled the silence with some total lie about the suuuperb social work I had done all my life. Then they all started talking to each other again, Amma pausing only to ask me to bring her some galouti kebabs.
I raised my eyebrows. 'Amma, that's pan-fried red meat,' I said. 'Your doctor won't like it.'
She dug her thin sharp fingers into my ribs.
'Arrey bhai, life is sort,' she said. 'Go and get us some, Sarojini.'
And so, leaving Amma triumphantly ensconced at the TB's table, chatting animatedly about this and that while professing a complete disinterest in who would get the ticket from Bittora, I made my way into the thick of the gathering.
I walked past a massive pink sherbat fountain, huge stalls of fruit and salad, past laughing, happy groups of people who all seemed to know each other, until I reached the delicious smelling galouti kebabs. There was a long, rather noisy queue, full of ladies chattering gaily. I picked up a plate and stood in line.
The ladies in front of me finally departed, their plates piled high. I moved forward and the waiter-type behind the tawa came to a sudden stop. He just stood there, staring at me, twin skewers loaded with raw glistening chicken, gobi, simla mirch, tomato and button mushroom, held aloft like a sword in each hand.
I stared back at him.
'I know you,' he said, in a voice so intimate it made me jump a little.
'Uh... really?' I said, looking at him blankly. Wow, he was one hot waiter. Tall, with tousled dark hair and what my art teacher in school would've called a 'nobble' forehead. His black achkan was exquisitely severe, though a hint of deep rose satin showed at his breast pocket. His skin seemed to glow pale honey gold, but that could just have been the light from the coals.
I said the first thing that came into my head, which was, moronically, 'Did you go to Loreto too?'
He flashed a grin at me with slightly crooked, very white teeth as he shook his head and said, 'Err... no... that would've been biologically impossible...?'
His voice, which held a faint hint of 'abroad', trailed off with a teasing upward inflection, and still he just stood, holding aloft the loaded skewers, looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to say something.
I stared at him, looking for clues.
His features were strong. Slightly aquiline. He was cleanshaven but slightly stubbly. His sleeves were rolled up to just above the elbows, revealing lean but muscular forearms. A black thread was tied tightly around one sinewy wrist. A tiny scar lurked at the corner of his seriously sexy mouth.
'Come on, Kirti Nagar,' he said grinning. 'Jog that memory.'
I frowned. Only one person had ever called me Kirti Nagar. Or Lajpat Nagar. Or Malviya Nagar. It was supposed to be this big joke about how my name was the name of some random, overcrowded Delhi locality, only he could never remember which...
But surely this tall waiter couldn't be...
A couple of sparks leapt up from the tandoor, startling me, lighting up his quizzical eyes.
I knew those eyes.
***
It was the first day of the summer holidays in Bittora. He'd hauled me up our favourite mango tree and I, bursting through the leafy branches, landed backward into his arms. Instead of shoving me away like he usually did, he went very still and kept holding me. Then, leaning forward he pressed a soft, hesitant kiss on the bare skin at the back of my neck.
A light, skipping sensation ran through my veins.
We were both thirteen.
Just then, the branch beneath us snapped almost as if to warn us that such activities were forbidden in a place where children played.
We tumbled down, more or less unhurt, and set the ducks squawking. As they flapped away protesting loudly I began dusting the mud off my jeans, and he said touching his face gingerly and showing me his fingers, 'It's bleeding look.'
'Serves you right,'I answered confusedly, not looking at him. 'See what you've gone and done... the mali's going to kill us.'
'I'm not sorry' he said defiantly, and I knew he wasn't talking about the branch we'd just broken.
I felt my cheeks flame as I retorted, 'Well, I am!'
He stared back at me, his dark eyes suddenly stormy. Then he spun around and walked away. I called out to him. But he didn't stop.
***
'Maruti Zain!' I exclaimed, beaming happily.
'Whoa!' He put a hand to his heart and staggered back two steps. 'I'd forgotten that smile... it's like someone suddenly turned on a stadium light. Hey, you should've been in that Happydent chewing gum ad! Grinning down dazzlingly from the chandelier as the Nawab eats his dinner.'
'And you should've been the Nawab,' I retorted instantly. 'Spoilt rotten. Exploiting the serfs on your estate for electricity.'
Zain Altaf Khan - for it was he - put down the skewers carefully and folded his arms across his chest. 'Still worrying about the pure people, I see,' he remarked.
I flushed. 'Poor people,' I said. 'You don't need to keep correcting my pronunciation any more, you know.'
He took no notice of this remark.
'You still have two of my Zorro comics,' he said instead.
I gasped at this ungrateful attitude. 'You ate in my house every day! What about all the stuff I gave you?'
He wrinkled his forehead. All these deep lines popped up instantly, making him look not just hot, but extremely intelligent too.
'That would be... lots of attitude,' he said musingly. 'And lice. And chicken pox.' His dark eyes glowed warmly. 'And three incredible kisses.'
I felt my face go hot. I remembered, suddenly, the curiously caressing, rough velvet texture to his voice.
'And a scar that deformed me for life.'
'Oh, please!' I snapped unnecessarily to cover my confusion. 'You anyway looked deformed 'coz your ears were so big!' I looked up at him with a frown. 'Hey, what did you do...?' Then I snapped my fingers. 'Oh! You keep your hair longer so the ears don't stick out so much. Smart move.'
'Thanks,' he returned drily.
The first spontaneous spurt of conversation over, an awkward silence fell between us. I was remembering the weirdness of our last parting, and god alone knows what he was thinking about. He whistled tunelessly between his teeth as he turned the skewers, and I remembered how clever he used to be with his hands.
Finally, he said, 'So where did you net out in the end? Are you even five feet tall?'
'Five feet two inches,' I replied. 'That's taller than the average height for Indian women.'
He didn't look too impressed. 'You should've eaten the yolks of your boiled eggs,' he said. 'Instead of feeding them to the ducks. You turned them into cannibals, shame on you.'
'I only did that once!' I said, feeling a twinge of guilt. 'And anyway, they weren't duck's eggs, only hen's eggs. That's not cannibalism, strictly speaking. How tall are you now, anyway?'
'Tall enough,' he countered with a grin.
'Matlab?' I asked, puzzled.
His dark eyes danced as they looked around the crowded reception. 'Matlab, I'm over five ten which, if I remember correctly, used to be
your cut-off height for anybody you would even consider getting involved with.'
I giggled. 'Really? God, I was pretty obnoxious.'
'Oh, I was obnoxious too,' he admitted. 'I had some high standards of my own, which you now...' he paused, his eyes flicked assessingly down to my chest, then rose back up to meet my gaze, 'just about manage to fill.'
I resisted the urge to check if my pallu was in place and gave him what I hoped was a glacial look.
'I think.' He grinned, as he sneaked another assessing look.
I choked, but managed to say, with a little self-possessed laugh, 'This has got to be the most bizarre conversation happening at this party'
'Oh, I don't know,' Zain replied. 'There are some pretty bizarre people here...'
'True,' I said ruefully.
Silence for a bit.
Then he said, 'You did well in your boards, I presume? Since Mr Pahuja didn't have to kill you?'
He was referring to our old tuition teacher back in Bittora. An ancient, soft-spoken, mild-eyed gent, Mr Pahuja was very proud of his 'record' which was that no child he had tutored ever got less than ninety per cent in their tenth class boards. Zain's theory was that Mr Pahuja had achieved this extremely impressive average by bumping off all students whom he suspected of being in danger of scoring lower than a ninety, a few weeks before the exam. Zain said he crept up behind them, eyes gleaming manically, and stabbed them to death with a geometry-box compass.
'So what would you like to have?'
Huh?
I looked at the empty plate in my hands.
'Why are you making kebabs, anyway?' I demanded. 'Did your family go bankrupt and have to sell the crumbly fort?'
'Yes,' he replied soberly.
I looked up quickly, concerned. He grinned.
'Ufff!' I said, rolling my eyes.
Battle for Bittora Page 4
