In the sky above Anush spotted a couple of stars shining meagrely. Why did we think we were special enough that the universe arranged itself and aligned the cosmos in a way that the stars, millions of light-years away, would shine and sparkle elusively for us to decipher? Wasn’t predicting the future just a myth?
But then again, weren’t all the great myths rooted in reality? Bethlehem? Ayodhya, the birthplace of Rama? Hadn’t they excavated archeological evidence of Troy? He’d seen something about that on Discovery the other night but couldn’t remember as he’d passed out with an empty tumbler of whisky and woken up the next morning with the TV still on.
“Do you have a light?” a voice behind him asked, making him flinch. Nasreen. Anush fished his pockets for his lighter and lit her cigarette.
“Thanks,” she said. Her hair was pulled back tightly into a bun and it accentuated the long nape of her neck. The elegant curvature of it reminded Anush of a gracefully designed Victorian cabriole leg from one of his grandfather’s miniatures. Anush was trying to build it to scale but he couldn’t get the curve right. In his grandfather’s notes, there was a lot written about the cyma curve, the elusive line of beauty, concave at one end and convex at the other. A graceful cyma curve can be any shape or size, but an exquisite one is rare—like a slightly swollen pregnant belly, glimpsed at the right angle, it cares not for the rules of arithmetic for it has its own geometry and can inspire much . . . Anush made a mental note to sketch the long elegant line of Nasreen’s neck on a paper napkin in the bar before forgetting it. A fusion of modern and Victorian—it might be the perfect back to a chair he had in mind.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said.
“I’m Anush.”
“Nasreen.”
They shook hands.
Not expecting her to have a firm grip, he offered a half-slack hand and immediately regretted it, feeling emasculated. He’d blown the ever-so-important first impression, first by being startled at the sound of her voice and then offering a dainty handshake. Again, he wanted to rewind ten seconds and have a do-over. Rewind his whole life, not point that stupid Roman candle at Reza so he wouldn’t be sent to boarding school so he could remain with his mother so she wouldn’t get cancer and die.
“You know Saurav?” Nasreen said, gesturing towards the club with her cigarette. It took Anush a moment to realize that she was referring to the jackass VJ.
“Yes, of course. Saurav is—”
“Annoying,” she said.
He’d never met an Indian woman bold enough to start a conversation with a stranger. There was something electric about her audacity. He couldn’t help but notice how full her lips were. Anush smiled in agreement and looked down at his shoes for something witty to say but came up empty-handed.
They stood there and smoked for a while in silence. From the corner of his eye he stole furtive glances of her profile, her long eyelashes, her small nose, her perfectly shaped chin, her exquisite neck, the few tiny beads of sweat on her light brown skin. The night air was humid and he could faintly smell her perfume, which had a trace of orange blossom mixed with her perspiration. He’d never been so drawn to a scent.
“Thirsty?” she said matter-of-factly. “My sister has a suite upstairs for her birthday party. We could get a drink.”
THE SUITE WAS on the fourth floor of the old wing of the Taj. It was luxurious, with a magnificent view of the Gateway of India and the sea. A few people were chatting on the couch, slightly drunk. Anush noticed the furniture right away. Most of it was late nineteenth century, Victorian. Much of it like the stuff that was made in the shop. As he fingered the edge of an end table he noticed the workmanship was decent but not perfect and wondered where it’d been done.
Nasreen opened the fridge, asking, “What can I get you?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
She dropped a few ice cubes into fine-sounding crystal tumblers that she then poured whisky into.
As she handed him a glass they locked eyes, and in that moment Anush felt a thunderbolt surge through him. She had the biggest, deepest, brownest eyes, and he felt her gaze on him as stepped out onto the balcony.
“Where’s your sister?” he asked, trying not to think of the rather firm nipples that he could vaguely make out through Nasreen’s black dress.
“Oh, Ameena’s at the club downstairs with her friends. She’s back from America for a visit.”
“She lives there?”
“Doing her master’s at Princeton. She thinks about staying there but I know she’ll be back. Eventually.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I graduated from there and just moved back. Too damn cold.”
Anush told her about his visit to Calgary. “It was so cold and dry there that it literally hurt to breathe.”
Before long they were finishing each other’s sentences. They talked about coconuts like Paresh. “My cousin and all his Canadian friends play ice hockey in the winter on a frozen lake in thirty below.” They both snickered at the absurdity of it. What they didn’t have to say, what was implicit, was that while there were scores of middle-class Indians who went for a better life, luckily the two of them belonged to a socio-economic class that enjoyed a very comfortable life. They didn’t need to flee elsewhere to work like dogs and drive Toyota Corollas.
Nasreen said, “I liked Princeton but I never totally felt at home in New Jersey. The white ladies working the checkouts at supermarkets were always a bit friendlier with the white customers.”
Anush said, “Yeah, no matter how successful my uncle and aunt become in Canada, I think they secretly long to come back here, to feel at home.”
It turned out they had a lot in common and knew some of the same people in the Bombay party scene. Nasreen, with a master’s in communications from Princeton, was working as an entertainment reporter for the Times of India, covering stories on fashion shows and hot new trends. “It’s not my dream job. I hate how people always judge me to be a vain and privileged socialite.” But Anush could see how people put her in that box. She was patrician, and she carried herself with a confidence that most women could only fantasize about.
“So what is your dream job?” Anush asked.
“Journalist. Maybe even work with the UN or an NGO one day,” she said with a shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe I should just count myself lucky to be a socialite gossip columnist.”
She was the most charming person he’d ever met. Intelligent yet sensitive, confident but self-effacing.
“And how about you?” she asked.
“I make a bit of furniture,” he said. “Vintage stuff with a modern twist.”
She was fascinated and asked many questions. He answered honestly, admitting, “I kind of stumbled into it. Actually, I have a very helpful assistant. I’m just learning as I go along.” It was the first time anyone had taken a genuine interest in his work. When she listened to him, she gave him her full attention, staring into his eyes. He tried to look away but couldn’t and found himself rambling. “Well, I’m taking my grandfather’s old designs and putting a modern spin on them, using heirloom woods like mahogany, teak, walnut . . .” He nervously jabbered on, but she kept listening, eventually making him feel assured. They talked on the balcony for nearly three hours. It was one of those rare times when he didn’t feel like a disappointment, that he might actually be capable of something.
- 15 -
1998
ANUSH AND NASREEN HAD GONE to several posh parties together over the past couple of weeks, but tonight they were going to the party of the year. Kulshand Malwani, the city’s hottest restaurateur, was throwing a lavish party at the Taj Hotel in the presidential suite. Only fifty invites had been sent out. The beautiful Khan sisters, Nasreen and Ameena, having recently returned from America and frequently in the society pages of the Bombay Times, were invited. Anush and Ameena’s friend Taran were their dates.
The party was in full swing by the time the four of them arrived. A statel
y chandelier hung in the centre of the generous drawing room where catering staff served silver trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres.
People were mingling. Nasreen, Anush, Ameena, and Taran were among the youngest. Nasreen seemed to know everyone. She kissed people on the cheek like a Parisian while introducing them to Anush. He couldn’t help but blush when he overheard a woman whisper to Nasreen, “What a dashing couple the two of you make.”
Despite the fact that the shop was being cleaned up to be sold soon, Anush had never felt so content. The past two weeks with Nasreen had been sublime. During the days, he’d be at the shop, working on his furniture, and in the evening he’d meet up with Nasreen and they’d go out for dinner or drinks or dancing. They’d talked of a trip to Goa.
Nasreen wasn’t just glamorous or beautiful or witty or charming, she was also generous, graceful, modest. At the parties she’d taken him to, Anush saw that she could debate anyone on politics, fashion, sports, self-effacing at times, and, if need be, virulent at others. Then there were her deep brown eyes, her luscious lips, her full round breasts. They’d done everything besides have sex. She wasn’t a virgin, and he was aroused by her sexual prowess.
When he was with Nasreen, nothing else mattered. The entire world could collapse but with Nasreen by his side, he was inoculated from the disappointments, the calamities of life, the viciousness of the world. With Nasreen, his destiny didn’t seem like a ridiculous omen. With Nasreen, anything seemed possible.
Kulshand Malwani, the gregariously gay host, squealed like a little girl when he saw Nasreen and Ameena. When Nasreen introduced Anush, Kulshand said, “So this is your scrumptious boy toy? Even more handsome than you said. Only kidding!” and leaned in to kiss Anush. Anush uncomfortably offered his cheek for a kiss, but Kulshand kissed Anush on the lips, which everyone found funny except Anush.
Kulshand gave the four of them a tour of the suite. The balcony had an incredible view of the harbour and the Gateway of India, an iconic local monument erected for some English king, Anush couldn’t remember which. Kulshand casually mentioned, “Cindy Crawford stayed in this suite last weekend, while she was here doing a publicity tour for Rolex, and next weekend the suite is booked for the president of Switzerland.”
The four of them oohed and aahed as Kulshand took them to the master bedroom to show them the four-poster king-sized bed and the opulent marble ensuite bathroom. There was even an adjoining bedroom nearby for the bodyguard. Kulshand winked at Anush. “You can be my bodyguard anytime, Anush,” which again everyone found funny except Anush, who forced a laugh while trying to think of a curt comeback. Nothing came to mind except Kuttay! Kaminay! and he had enough sense not to say that. As Kulshand took them back to the kitchen and they joined the rest of the party, Anush had a loss of faith. It occurred to him that maybe he wasn’t quick enough, smart enough for Nasreen. What was a clever girl like her doing with an untalented loser like him? Her friends were diplomats, writers, fashion photographers; they held doctorate degrees in comparative post-modern literature from Ivy League schools. Anush had barely finished college. If not for his father, he would have failed. He didn’t even have any real friends, had never travelled anywhere except to visit his stupid coconut-Canadian cousin who was now backpacking around India. Up till now, he’d always managed to allay such fears and shortcomings, reassuring himself that he was just as worthy as any of Nasreen’s circle of overachievers and well-borns. But it wasn’t so easy to convince himself with this crowd in the most expensive suite in the poshest hotel in the city, possibly the country, that he was deserving of Nasreen.
As Kulshand led the group away, Nasreen held Anush back for a moment, kissed him, and whispered, “Don’t mind Kulshand—he’s a horny, drunk teenager trapped in an adult’s body.” She always knew what to say to make him feel better. He wanted to hold her tightly and never let go.
Nasreen and Anush were hand in hand as she introduced him to a variety of people. Catering staff walked around with trays. “Miniature crab cake and asparagus royale with stone ground mustard and lemon aioli?” “Fennel and blood orange chèvre butter?” “Mushroom cap stuffed with fontina cheese?” What the appetizers lacked in taste they made up for in title and presentation. Anush had to inconspicuously spit part of a lobster crepe back into a serviette.
A small entourage had formed nearby and there was a hubbub as to who had just arrived.
Ameena said, “It’s that politician, Premtesh Malwalkar.”
Taran whispered, “Isn’t he the one who wants to ban rock concerts?”
“Yes. He says public displays of affection between young men and women are grossly indecent, un-Indian.”
“A right-wing conservative at a party like this?” Nasreen tried to restrain a laugh while Ameena and Taran chuckled.
Anush, who didn’t keep up with the news, joined in, not wanting to be left out. “What an idiot.”
The four of them shushed themselves as the small constellation of people around the man came their way. At the centre of the orb was a short, middle-aged man with a large grin, shaking hands with everyone. Nasreen had to poke her sister in the ribs to stop her from tittering with laughter as they were introduced to the man. Anush thought he looked familiar. When the man shook Anush’s hand, he asked, “How are you? Give my regards to your father.”
It was one of the men his father had entertained not long ago with the Blue Label Reserve whisky. “Of course. Nice to see you, sir.”
The politician grinned with a wink and pumped Anush’s hand.
A photographer from the Times of India noticed the familiarity between the two and asked them to pose, along with Nasreen. The three of them stood together and smiled for a photo before the politician continued making his rounds.
Nasreen, Ameena, and Taran all turned their attention to Anush, curious.
“I think my father is friends with him,” Anush shrugged, and they all laughed.
“Too many old people at this party,” Ameena moaned just before her friend Priya showed up. Priya was a semi-famous model who did toothpaste ads. The five of them had smoked hash and danced till four in the morning at a party recently. Priya surreptitiously pulled out a small plastic bag of white powder and whispered, “Follow me,” and the five of them slipped into the bodyguard’s room.
With the edge of a credit card, Priya separated the cocaine into five lines. Anush had seen enough Hollywood movies to know what to do. When his turn came, he put the rolled-up hundred-rupee note up his nose and thought of Al Pacino in Scarface as he sniffed a line. There was an immediate taste of metal at the back of his throat that he couldn’t get rid of, not even by draining his beer. It was only after Nasreen kissed him deeply that it subsided.
Ameena and Taran rolled their eyes at Anush and Nasreen making out. Ameena said, “Be careful the BJP politician doesn’t see your orgy.”
Taran teased, “Maybe Anush has a ‘get out of jail free’ card from him.”
As they left the room and joined the party, Anush wondered if the coke was real. People were routinely swindled by Africans at the Leopold Cafe who sold fake pot and coke. He also wondered about his father’s connections with the BJP. He knew that the colonel and his old man were supporters of the BJP, but he had no idea what they did apart from raising money for the upcoming general election. He wondered what his father had done to earn that Mercedes-Benz—a rather sizeable kickback.
Anush told himself to stop thinking of his father. He’d been catching himself daydreaming of a world without his father and felt horrible for having such malignant thoughts. But with the old man alive, Anush would probably never be allowed to continue making furniture or marry Nasreen. However, if the old man died, Anush would appoint the right people to keep Sharma Shipping functioning, be able to continue working at the shop with Reza, and spend the rest of his life with Nasreen.
He wanted to kick himself in the face. What kind of son was incapable of loving his own father? Much less wished his father dead?
&nbs
p; A waiter with a champagne tray passed by and Anush helped himself. Soon, his anxieties about his father, about not being intelligent enough for Nasreen and her friends, melted away. As he put his arm around Nasreen’s waist, he noticed how smooth the silk of her dress felt. The tips of his fingers found their way to the part of her back exposed by the dress. Her skin felt like velvet rose petals. For an instant he was transported back to his mother’s funeral, where he’d thrown hundreds upon hundreds of flower petals on her body. Anush told himself to snap out of it. Nasreen looked devastatingly gorgeous in her black party dress, which clung taut to her perfect curves. Maybe the cocaine was real.
Nasreen introduced him to a few middle-aged people who were telling lame Monica Lewinsky jokes. “How many interns does it take to screw in a lightbulb? None. They’re busy screwing the president!” “What does Monica Lewinsky have in common with a soda machine? They both say insert Bill here!”
Nasreen rolled her eyes. She’d mentioned to Anush how sexist she thought everyone was being about the whole affair, how unfair it was.
Anush said, “Well, it takes two to tango.”
“What do you mean, young man?” said one of the men.
Anush said, “What’s the difference between Bill Clinton and government bonds? One of them will mature one day.”
The men laughed. Nasreen squeezed his hand surreptitiously and smiled to thank him. Anush felt more confident than he ever had. Is this what cocaine did? Made you feel confident without being cocky? Maybe it was just being around Nasreen that was his drug.
In his mind’s eye he saw the two of them together for the rest of their lives in fast forward: a large, festive wedding celebration followed by a romantic honeymoon where they’d travel the world, followed by children whom they’d lovingly raise at Sea Face Terraces, they’d throw the best dinner parties, and even as they grew old they’d know how to have a good time, they’d be the couple whom everyone envied, the couple who lived life to its fullest. The old man was nowhere in this hypersonic daydream and a part of Anush knew that the chances of any of it coming true were unlikely. But he fought that with every ounce of his being and pushed those apprehensions away because the optimist in him was blooming, assuring him that everything would turn out well. Maybe it was the presidential suite. Maybe it was the cocaine. Maybe it was his destiny.
An Extraordinary Destiny Page 10
