Breathless in Bombay

by Murzban Shroff

  “Where have you been, Aringdham?” Ritika asked reproachfully. “Look, Parmar Sahib is all set to leave, and he hasn’t eaten yet.”

  “No, no, how can that be, Parmar Sahib? We can’t let you go so soon.”

  “I have been here for some time. But you have been absconding.” Parmar Sahib looked at Aringdham with warm eyes that twinkled and saw through him—as if they knew his secret, as if they knew Aringdham had been watching him.

  “I was getting a few things organized. I didn’t expect everyone to make it, but they have,” Aringdham said. He was anxious to stress his popularity with Parmar Sahib, but no sooner had he said that than he felt ashamed.

  “That they have,” Parmar Sahib agreed. “Who’d want to miss a party like this? Especially when it’s your wedding party.”

  With the authority of a man who had built an empire, Parmar Sahib said, “Anyway, I must go now. I have an early flight to catch, and before that, tonight, I have to stop at the CM’s.” He said it so plainly that it didn’t seem like he was showing off. Besides, Parmar Sahib didn’t need to boast of his proximity to the chief minister. His connections were well-known.

  “But, sir, some khana at least,” Aringdham offered.

  “Nothing! I will come, I promise—for bhabhi’s home-cooked meal.”

  “But I can’t cook, Parmar Sahib!” exclaimed Ritika, horrified.

  “Doesn’t matter. You will learn. I know. You will be a good cook and a good wife. He is a lucky man,” Parmar Sahib said, pointing to Aringdham. His eyes fastened on Aringdham, as if they were trying to convey more, as if they had guessed his detachment.

  Just then Rosario came up to Ritika. With the air of a soldier on duty, he asked whether she’d like the rest of the dinner served and whether the vegetarian and non-vegetarian tables should be separated. Ritika excused herself and went off to see to the arrangements.

  “Come, Parmar Sahib, let me walk you out,” Aringdham offered. “I wish you could stay, but since you’ve promised to come home, we are letting you go—on the basis of this promise.”

  “I will,” Parmar Sahib replied, and Aringdham wondered whether he was being facile.

  As they were walking out, Nimesh Pai came running from the dance floor. “Parmar Sahib, Parmar Sahib, please,” he spluttered breathlessly, sweating at the forehead. “Can I call you next week—at the office? I think I might have something good, something bigger than Crorepati.”

  Parmar Sahib stopped. He looked at him hard and then said softly, “There are many ideas bigger than Crorepati, but for that you will have to go into politics.” At this he burst into laughter. Aringdham laughed, too, and the producer also—slowly at first, then uproariously, and then to a whimper when he saw that Parmar Sahib was walking away toward his car.

  Near his Lexus, Parmar Sahib stopped and spoke to Aringdham. He had regained his softness. “I am sorry,” he said. “I didn’t have the time to bring you a gift. I just got in from London this evening. Do you know we are buying four new aircraft? We had an option to lease, but we preferred outright purchase.”

  “Why, that is splendid!” exclaimed Aringdham. “But you don’t have to apologize about a gift. Your presence itself was that.”

  Parmar Sahib put an arm around him. “Do you know what is the greatest gift you have today?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Your wife! She is pure gold. You know, in our kind of lives, we have to endure a lot. Do things we don’t mean, say things we don’t believe. We have to do this all the time, be onstage where we shouldn’t be. But all that is okay if you can come home to one fundamental piece of honesty. One truth to remind you of who you are, where you belong. I think that is what you have achieved today. You have brought your conscience home and are just beginning to realize it. You have built your base. Now you will see how far it takes you.” Parmar Sahib got into his car and disappeared, leaving Aringdham convinced that he had indeed seen him in the shadows.

  Aringdham didn’t feel like going back to the party yet. He knew that Ritika would be busy with the dinner. That was their deal: his planning, her supervision. She wouldn’t back out on that. In fact, she might even prefer it to exchanging pleasantries with people who hadn’t scratched the root of human existence, who hadn’t fathomed its responsibilities and its sorrows, who were too busy enjoying it sunny-side up.

  He lit a cigarette and walked down the driveway, a dark stretch shaded by luxuriant trees on either side. Here no one could see him; only the sporadic gleam of his cigarette gave away his presence. As he watched the tip glow, he thought of it as a dot of enlightenment, a center that dawned and disappeared, as he would one day. And he found the solitude comforting, complete. For some strange reason he’d never felt like this before. He had always needed company, friends, a circle to reflect his success and his well-being. He wondered about Parmar Sahib. He seemed genuine, not the dark, controversial figure he was made out to be. People can be jealous, Aringdham thought. You can’t believe all that they say. But then again, Parmar Sahib had risen from obscurity. He’d just appeared—with interests in two of the most capital-intensive industries. What was his secret? What was his past? What were the ashes he had left behind?

  Whatever it was, Aringdham knew that Parmar Sahib had been an intelligent and sensitive guest. He’d listened more than he had spoken. He’d seen through the facades, as his comment to the producer had indicated. Significantly, Parmar Sahib had liked what he’d seen in Ritika, the same quality Aringdham had seen—the true expression of womanhood: a woman not afraid to follow the callings of her heart, not afraid to draw strength from it and live by her conviction. Maybe Parmar Sahib had also stood in the shadows a long time ago or once in a while he still did.

  Knowing that he had made a friend, one that might benefit him, or not—and little he cared for that—Aringdham returned to the party. At the side where the food was spread, the lights had been made brighter. At the bar alcohol fizzed and flowed; there was a crowd of men and women caught up in conversation. Confidences were being shared and violated. New equations were being negotiated delicately—either for business or for personal development. Nimble-footed waiters scurried across the lawns, maneuvering their loaded trays. They tempted the guests to break from their conversations.

  The society queens said, “No, how could I eat dinner after this?” “Feel how fat I’ve become,” they’d say to the male models, who would grope them with strong, willing fingers, hug them with knowing arms. The queens would sigh and lurch. “Here, not there,” they would say, and feel the warmth through their dresses, a warmth that would flush their cheeks. Bodies would burn; mouths would run dry. The husbands would look away with practiced ease. In the eye of a storm keep your lid; go home and tear it off. Or plan a hush-hush rendezvous on Sam Bakshi’s yacht. Men would be men, God’s irascible creatures. Though, God knows, the women were catching up.

  Behind the food tables the chefs had taken up their positions. On the dance floor the crowd was going mad. Jazzy Joe poured hot lead from his guitar; he was playing “Dum Maro Dum,” the hippie song of the seventies. Jay and Shaheen had disappeared. It was whispered that they had retreated to the restrooms.

  Aringdham stopped at the bar. He picked up a bottle illustrated with a pirate. The label read: “Jim Brady’s Double-breasted Rum,” whatever that meant. He nodded to the bartender.

  Someone thumped him on the back and said, “Hey, dude, great party.” Aringdham recognized him as Anant Ghosh, an upcoming actor who starred in art and crossover films. Someone at his side quipped, “Yes, great bash, but don’t tell him to do this often, or his wife’s gonna kill you!”

  Aringdham smiled and raised his glass. He looked at the man whom he placed as USA-returned—someone’s guest brought in uninvited—and he said, “You bet! She’s seething already because of the gatecrashers.”

  “Hey, what’s your problem?” the man with the fake accent drawled. “You having a bad trip?”

  Aringdham chose not to reply. Sometimes it was correct to be
cold.

  At the other end of the bar, Pai was swaying on a barstool. He looked drunk, and occasionally he would glance at the dance floor and hiccup. Aringdham saw that his model friend had found a new partner, a younger man with whom she was dancing fluidly.

  The bartender served the rum and Coke, which Aringdham stirred absentmindedly. His friend Arup Sen Gupta approached. He was leaving, for he was an early riser and a stickler for yoga and morning walks. He promised Aringdham that they’d get together soon—he, his wife, Nileema, Aringdham, and Ritika—once they’d come back from their honeymoon. “Where are you off to anyway?” he asked. “Not Kashmir, I hope.”

  Aringdham saw his friend to the entrance. On the way he was stopped by people who told him how wonderful the food was, how unprecedented the experience, how gorgeous the costumes, and how spectacular the music! “Like the host,” someone said, and Aringdham smiled and said he was glad they’d come, gladder still they’d enjoyed it. In his mind he was thinking, Why, why not Kashmir? Why not Srinagar? Just a stopover to see how things had progressed.

  He realized that his mind was ready for more alcohol; it was at that stage when anything surplus would be inspiration, because it had figured itself out; it had mapped out his concept of the future. He stopped at the bar before the same bartender, who smiled with understanding. While his drink was being prepared, he looked out for Pai. What a fascinating fellow he was, so bare and transparent, whether chasing skirts or opportunities.

  It appeared that Pai had found company. He was trying to make conversation with Rosario, who stood tall, red-faced, and disapproving. Aringdham took his drink and inched forward. Pai was trying to explain to Rosario the reach of television over cinema. He stretched out his fingers, thrust them at Rosario, and said in a slurred rush, “Television, many households! Cinema, just one.” To which Rosario replied, “No offense, sir, but you won’t catch me before the idiot box. Not with the kind of soap they show these days. As for cinema, it’s not the same. Where are the movies like The Bridge on the River Kwai, Where Eagles Dare, or Hornets’ Nest? That was cinema.”

  “Wait . . . ,” said Pai, almost swaying himself off the stool. “Wait till you see my next film. It’s about an older-man-younger-girl romance.”

  Rosario found it imprudent to reply. He’d rather contemplate rum than romance. As for escapism, there was nothing to beat the lofty slopes of Nainital.

  Glass in hand, Aringdham moved from the bar. He mingled with his guests, accepting their compliments on an impeccable evening, certainly the party of the year. He found A.K., the photographer, posing for a picture with girls on either side of him, wannabe models with their heads on his shoulders, arms around his waist, the hope of a break alight in their eyes.

  “Hey, A.K., you are safer this side of the lens,” Aringdham said, and continued walking.

  The girls howled with laughter, and A.K. shrugged good-naturedly and admitted to a touché. One of the girls came running after Aringdham. “Oh, Mr. Banerjee, please,” she said. “I need to know, will this be on page three . . . the bash, I mean?”

  Aringdham looked at the white face, the anxious eyes, the cheeks and lips moist with makeup, and he was tempted to say, “Sure, look for it in the obituaries, for that’s where you belong—all you brain-dead people, all you soulless wits, who’ve come without even knowing me, because you knew someone who knew me and because I, in turn, am known for my parties and not for what I am or have been through.” But of course he didn’t say that. He just said, “Wait . . . wait and see,” and began walking away, and she stamped her foot and whined, “But that’s just what I can’t do. I need time to inform all my friends.”

  Thinking of all the people there who relied on his hospitality and whom he had come to be associated with, Aringdham shivered. He missed Ritika, missed her poignantly. The rum, too, was beginning to take effect. He imagined himself as a stalker in a deadly game of virtual reality. The lights were virtual, the people and their actions, too. The reality was what he had married, what he had become, and what he craved now.

  He came across Puru Raj Singh, popularly known as P.R. Singh for his pleasant disposition and his willingness to befriend all. The cool restaurateur was with his wife, Ravina, who clung to his arm. They had been married six months and had only just finished with their introductions and parties. Ravina was to make her professional debut soon, something that would keep her shining on the social circuit, a complement to P.R.’s public image.

  “I knew she had it for fashion the moment I saw her with the wedding clothes,” P.R. said to Aringdham. “I’ve spoken to Nats and she agrees. She’s going to let Ravs work on her summer collection—under supervision, of course. You know Nats—she loves to guard her turf. Though once she sees what Ravs can put out, she’s going to walk, I tell you.”

  Nats was Natasha Saigal, the famous designer, and out of politeness she might let Ravina, or Ravs, as she was now known, work with her. P.R.’s restaurants catered to her shows; his clients were hers as well, and there was an unspoken contract of mutual interest between the two. Aringdham felt he was no one to disturb this, so he beamed at Ravs and said, “Well, going by what you’re wearing, Nats has some hot stuff coming.”

  And Ravs purred, patted her shoulders and said demurely, “Oh, just something I put together overnight.”

  And P.R. added, “She didn’t want to outshine the bride, you see.”

  On this pleasant note Aringdham parted with P.R. He knew not why, but it was almost as if he were taking leave of all these people, saying farewell to these stars of Brand India, these icons who kept polishing their own halos, toasting their own success, and who’d burn out eventually because they’d confuse excess with success, wealth with achievement, and opulence with taste.

  He saw her at last—talking to Charu Sinha, the socialite columnist who wrote about people she knew and people she didn’t. Charu Sinha didn’t believe in research or in the tedium of a personal interview. It was her opinion she gave—saucy, brassy, and indignant—and women of a traditional background who did not have the luxury of having a say in their lives would lap her up. Here was a woman ready to shoot from her hip, able to plunge through doorways uninvited and hurl black invective at whomever she pleased. How much catharsis can one expect in a morning paper?

  “I was just telling your wife,” Charu Sinha said, with a flick of her new haircut, “that I’d love to write about the good work she’s doing. It’s so inspiring—to find a woman in a man’s territory, doing her own thing.”

  “Oh yes,” Aringdham said, wondering if relief work could be called her thing, her or others’. Instead he said, “You should see her with those kids, Charu; an angel she is.”

  “Oh, it’s not just me,” Ritika said hurriedly. “I get a lot of support—from him.”

  “Really?” Charu Sinha exclaimed, flicking her hair again, her bangles jangling, her eyes averted, scanning the crowd. “I must hear about this, this new-age metrosexual who allows his woman to stay in the hills, kicking through snow, enduring the cold, the hardships, saving kids who’d be burning up with revenge otherwise. It’s so utterly cool and renegade. Why, Arie, we must meet next week, over lunch, and you must tell me about this very mature arrangement of yours. How is it going to work—with you here, and she there, and a whole country between?

  “And hey,” she said, looking at him sternly, “talking about support, I am expecting you to buy a hundred copies of my new book. It’s coming out next week, and it’s a real scorcher. You must give copies to all your buyers and clients.”

  Aringdham promised and said what a wonderful idea that was; he hoped the publisher would print five thousand copies at least. What, only two thousand! What a shame, what a crying shame indeed. How depressing that no one promoted literature seriously enough in this country. Now, if she were published in the West, like Lahiri or Roy, she’d have gotten places by now.

  Charu Sinha drew herself up. She pulled her sari tightly around her shoulders and spoke in a voice
unlike that of a forty-year-old woman, unlike the steam that crackled and hissed off her columns in the morning papers. “Well, everybody can’t have Jhumpa’s or Arundhati’s luck, I suppose!”

  Near the dance floor a song ended. The crowd cheered and roared their requests. Voices cracked with drink and desire. Jazzy Joe beamed. He looked short and happy. Someone had offered him a drink, the first of many to come.

  The food was out in full array: hot, delicious, and enticing. The servers’ costumes were bright and arresting. People noticed them and flocked to the tables. They came again and again, trying out new dishes, heaping their plates and sighing wistfully.

  A glass broke; no one seemed to mind. Keith Rosario dreamt of the bottle in his desk. Charu Sinha dreamt of a publisher in the West. Ritika dreamt of her kids. Aringdham dreamt of making a call. Bombay-Srinagar-Spain: could that be possible, at this time of the night?

  IN A QUIET LANE behind the club, a police van cruised up silently. Its doors slid open, and its occupants tumbled out. They stretched. They yawned. They clicked their heels and came alive. Some of the waiters rushed out with whisky and glasses, sodas, plates, and trays of snacks. The cops opened the door of the van, revealing the depth and darkness inside, the netted windows like cages.

  They put the food inside the van and opened the whisky. The streetlight illuminated the bottle and the grim, anxious faces of the men who waited, hands outstretched, glasses raised.

  Rats, sniffing at the gutters, stopped their forays. Their beady eyes glinted. A dog, asleep on the pavement, rose from his slumber and approached the cops, wagging his tail and beating it against their legs. Later they would throw him chicken bones and pieces of naan with chilies inside, and they would howl rapturously when the dog went away yelping.

  A car screeched by, its speakers pounding. The cops looked up and then away. Some drunken youth celebrating his father’s wealth. Too much effort to catch and threaten, and for what when the needs of the night had been met?