And so Debjani repeats her ‘his loss’ litany and sheds a few tears under the slowly fading amaltas. Dylan stays awake well past midnight, hunched over his Mac, moodily crunching kalkals. The Judge and the Brigadier talk extra-politely across the kot-piece table, urging Maggi and tea upon each other, playing games of seven-eights and heaping silent curses upon the heads of their off spring. Only Juliet Bai watches Debjani read the news every Friday with calm, proprietary pride. She knows something is Up. Just give him time, she tells the Brigadier, he’ll come around, this one’s different. And every night she sends up a fervent supplication to Mamma Mary that Debjani’s heart stays both unbesieged and unwon. The summer waxes, then wanes.
But Juliet Bai’s prayers seem to have lost their potency. Because as monsoon clouds gather overhead, Binni resurfaces from Bhopal in a blaze of glory, bearing news of a brilliant rishta for Debjani.
The arrival of her contingent is typically dramatic. Debjani and Eshwari are up on the terrace, peacefully watering the plants, when Samar Vir Singh clambers noisily up the stairs, taking them three at a time, his usual poise displaced by an expression of sheer panic.
‘Hide me, hide me!’ he yells, wild-eyed, hair askew. ‘She’s here! She’s here!’
‘Who, baba?’ Eshwari asks, spraying him idly with the water hose.
Samar, always so nice to Eshwari, shakes the water off himself and frowns at her awfully. ‘That bloody Bonu!’ he pants, his voice squeaky. ‘Keep her AWAY from me!’
Footsteps sound on the stairs. Samar, cornered, grabs the hose from Eshwari and braces himself with the air of a wet rat making its last stand. As Eshwari and Debjani watch, mildly intrigued, a scrawny little figure bursts onto the terrace, its short spiky hair standing up like cherry-and-cheese-festooned toothpicks speared into a whole cabbage at a birthday party. It is clad in acid-washed denim shorts and a muddy pink blouse, from the yoke of which dangles a demoralized-looking pink organza rose. It is brandishing a Kissan jam bottle in its hand.
‘It’s my susu!’ warbles the figure gleefully as it capers about, shaking the bottle and making the yellow liquid inside it froth. ‘Watch out, Samar! I’m going to throw it on you!’
Debjani reaches out, grabs this monstrous aggressor around its waist and lifts it off its feet even as Samar turns the full force of the hose upon them, drenching them both. They gasp, the water is cold.
‘How dare you, Bonu Singh!’ Debjani says, spluttering. ‘That is no way for a young lady to behave!’
‘Dabbu mausi!’ Bonu casts both her arms ecstatically around Debjani’s neck. ‘I love you! You were on TV! I told everybody!’
‘Yes, yes,’ Dabbu replies warily, eyeing the bottle the little girl is still clutching in her hand. ‘Put that down, Bones. Gross.’
Bonu giggles conspiratorially. ‘It’s just Dettol with a little water,’ she whispers in Debjani’s ear. ‘But don’t tell him, okay?’
Samar, still clutching the hose, points a shaking finger at Bonu. ‘Stay. Away. From. Me.’
Bonu pulls a fierce face and makes as if to unscrew the lid of the Kissan jam bottle. Samar shudders, throws down the hose and hurtles down the steps. Eshwari scoops Bonu up and kisses her resoundingly.
‘Dirty girl, where’s your mummy?’
Bonu points, and all three girls walk over to the terrace wall and look down. A pot-bellied yellow and black taxi is parked in the Hailey Road driveway, and is busy disgorging, in order of appearance, two thin, bullied-looking young Oriya ayahs, six attaché cases, Bonu’s fair, serene and sleeping twin Monu, and finally Binni didi, who emerges from the front seat beaming and gleaming (it is a hot day), her polka-dotted pallu crumpled to a thin, inadequate strip across her ample frame. Mrs Mamta eyes the contingent with a sinking heart – five more mouths to feed, and these Oriya girls, it’s not nice to say, but they are each capable of putting away a kilo of rice a day. Besides, Binni never offers to help financially when she visits, unlike Anji, who is always sashaying down to Gambhir Stores to buy groceries and flirt with young Mr Gambhir, one of her oldest and most faithful swains.
‘I’m from Delhi only,’ Binni tells the cabbie. ‘I know what the rates are. This is all you’re going to get. Now go.’
Only then does she turn to greet the family, who have by now lined up neatly to receive her. The Judge first, she bends to touch his feet; then Mrs Mamta Thakur, she bends again; and then the rank and file that are Debjani, Eshwari and the cringing Samar Vir.
‘Hello, Dabbu-Chabbu!’ Binodini pats her sisters’ cheeks carelessly. ‘Hello, Samar Vir Singh, visiting again? And so thin! You must eat more – here, I got you some chocolate éclairs. Vickyji has started a new business in confectionaries, you know!’
‘These are not Cadbury’s.’ Samar, restored to equilibrium now that he is far away from the dreaded Bonu, examines the éclair label carefully. ‘They are Catburies. What’s Catburies, Binni mausi?’
But Binni mausi is busy making sure that Monu has touched his grandparents’ feet.
‘Whatever happened to the pharmacy business?’ the Judge enquires mildly, while Samar bites gingerly into the chocolate éclair.
Binni’s round face goes pink. ‘It didn’t go, Bauji,’ she admits. ‘People in Bhopal are too healthy. There was no real gap in the market. But,’ her face brightens, ‘they all have a sweet tooth so this confectionary factory will go well.’
They all troop into the house, Samar looking a little bemused. The label said chocolate éclair, but he hasn’t found the chocolate yet. He bites into it a little harder, but is seems to be toffee through and through. Rather muddy toffee, too.
‘He is an engineer in the merchant navy,’ Binni announces after the twins have been bathed and fed and deposited into the drawing room for the night. ‘Earning in dollars, spending in rupees. Tall, fair, handsome. Only son. His grandfather was a Rai Bahadur. Over the last two years, he has rejected every single Rajput girl between eighteen and twenty-five in UP-Delhi-MP. That’s how eligible he is!’
‘That’s how gay he is,’ Eshwari murmurs, giggling.
Mrs Mamta looks harassed. ‘Bhai, I don’t want a boy who has turned down all my friends’ daughters! It makes things very awkward on Hailey Road. As it is, after Anji married Anant, everybody became so formal with me – they only warmed up again after Chandu ran away.’
Binni bridles instantly. The Judge, relieved that she seems to have got over the shall-I-explain-it-to-you-again-in-Hindi crack, forgets to thunder his usual ‘No talking about Chandu’ admonition. Instead, he hurries in to express the gratitude Binodini clearly thinks is due. ‘Well done, Binni! Mamtaji, we shouldn’t look a gift groom in the mouth – let’s at least meet him, hmm?’
‘He really fancies Dabbu,’ Binni says. ‘He got off the ship, saw her reading the news and fell in love with her that very night. He said her accent was excellent.’
‘What’s his name?’ Mrs Mamta asks uneasily.
‘Dev Pawar. His aunt knows Vickyji’s mamaji, that’s how they contacted me. See!’
She has two photographs: a full-length picture of the boy in a formal suit and a mid-shot where he is smiling, wearing a sporty, hooded Nike jacket, standing on the deck of his last ship with the ocean gleaming azure behind him.
‘See how fair he is?’ Binni says triumphantly.
‘I think the picture’s overexposed.’ Anji squints critically. ‘Look, his hands aren’t the same colour as his face.’
‘He seems nice,’ Eshwari allows, after a tentative glance at Dabbu. ‘He’ll shower you with Juicy Fruit chewing gum and BASF tapes and French perfume. And I think that hoodie jacket is really cool.’
‘It’s the same boy,’ Mrs Mamta says. ‘He turned down Gayatri’s Anju. Said her gums were too big. Like a chimpanzee’s. (Which, to be honest, they are.) And Manno bhabhi’s Meera – because she’s a doctor and wouldn’t have time for him. Gayatri and Manno bhabhi still aren’t talking.’
‘He sounds horrible.’ Debjani’s voice trembles. The
Judge shoots her a keen look. ‘Thinking he’s such a fat fish, thinking everybody’s out to land him, going around rejecting girl after girl! I don’t want to meet him!’
‘Meet him and turn him down,’ Anji advises. ‘Good for your ego and good for his soul. Tab se girls reject kar raha hai, he has it coming. You can do it with a clean conscience.’
‘Arrey, but he says he likes her already!’ Binni avers. ‘From his side it’s a yes!’
‘He said that for Gayatri’s Anju too,’ Mrs Mamta says soberly. ‘After he saw her photo. But when they met and she smiled – though her mother had warned her not to – just one flash of her purple masoodas was enough to make him run backward out of the house and onto a ship bound for Dar es Salaam.’
‘You just don’t want to meet him because I got the rishta,’ Binni huffs, her eyes filling with tears. ‘You think ki I don’t know any people worth knowing. That I only know Hindi medium types.’
‘But there’s nothing wrong with Hindi medium types!’ Eshwari protests.
‘Oh god, Binni didi!’ Dabbu looks upset. ‘I just don’t… never mind… uff! I’ll meet him, if you insist – but no sulking if I turn him down, okay?’
‘Okay, okay.’ Binni face turns sunny instantly. ‘I’ll phone and let them know tomorrow. That’s settled then! Ma, what’s for dinner? My maids eat early.’
Mrs Mamta sighs. The house is bursting at the seams. Monu-Bonu drink three litres of full-cream milk between them every day. Voti has just had another litter of ugly puppies and needs daily calcium supplements. Add to that Samar’s prodigious appetite and Anji’s penchant for putting the week’s ration of eggs into her hair, and it has become impossible for her to balance her budget.
Later, in the privacy of their bedroom, she tells the Judge that she isn’t too averse to the Dev Pawar rishta. The boy seems nice and keen, the family is good, and as Debjani’s gums are exactly what gums should be, things should go smoothly.
‘It’ll be worth it just to see the expression on Saahas Singh Shekhawat’s face,’ the Judge muses. ‘He’ll know then how much in demand my girls are!’
‘Don’t be childish, LN,’ Mrs Mamta cautions. ‘It’s a question of Debjani’s entire life.’
‘And in return for getting us this grand rishta for Dabbu, I suppose Binni expects us to forget that she’s actually filed a case against me in court,’ the Judge says. ‘When are we going to talk about that, I would like to know?’
‘I thought of bringing it up,’ Mrs Mamta admits. ‘But then I thought, she’s here for quite a few days, we’ll discuss it by and by. Why rush these things?’
‘That’s what you said when your precious SIL number two swallowed up all the money from the sale of the Kanpur plot,’ the Judge says gloomily. ‘That money should have gone to all five girls. Instead, he talked us into loaning it all to him to invest in his wretched business. Now if we ask about it, she shouts and screams and gets an asthma attack. And now she wants her one-sixth hissa! That girl, I tell you, she’s turning out to be just like her uncle Ashok.’
Mrs Mamta touches his shoulder. ‘Don’t say things like that. You know it’s her husband who pressurizes her. We’ll just have to deduct that Kanpur money out of her one-sixth share in this house. That’s the simplest way.’
‘Why couldn’t Shekhawat’s son have been less of a harami?’ the Judge grumbles. ‘I actually liked the fellow. Even though he took so long to choose which house was trumps, and ate up all the peas in the Maggi. But I suppose we have to open ourselves up to the idea of this Dev Pawar. Oh, well. D for Dabbu, D for Dev.’
He gets up, pulls on his kurta and starts to shuffle out of the bedroom.
‘Where are you going now, LN?’ his wife asks, surprised. ‘It’s so late.’
‘Oh, just for a little stroll,’ he replies offh andedly. ‘I want to clear my head.’
‘He said, let them have a good time tonight.
But the party ends at dawn.’
In the little town of Puttur in South Kanara, behind a shiny plywood desk in a tiny, clean white-washed office, I finally find Anandam Dhas, a man I have been searching for, for several months.
A native of Jamshedpur and a rank holder in the IAS entrance exam, Dhas used to be a high-profile officer serving in Delhi and poised for bigger things. Why is he now cooling his heels in the interiors of Karnataka?
‘You know the answer as well I as do.’ Dhas shrugs as we sit down to glasses of chilled buttermilk and a plate of sliced apple. ‘I was unfortunate enough to be present at Hardik Motla’s infamous briefing to his officers on 1 November – and stupid enough to talk to the press about it afterwards.’
Why did you choose to give the interview anonymously? Another fatalistic shrug. ‘To protect my job and my family. And I was hoping that my speaking up would motivate my other colleagues to also come forward.’ He smiles wryly. ‘Safety in numbers, you know.’
So what did Motla say exactly?
Dhas shakes one leg restlessly, shuffles the papers on his desk. Then he turns to me suddenly, and his words come out in short bursts, like rounds of machine-gunfire.
‘He said the whole piece. Everything that’s been reported in the press. Everything. Get the anger out, it is required, it will prove cathartic – keeping it inside is unhealthy in the long term. We listened quietly, agreed to take no steps to stop what was basically state-sponsored genocide, but finally somebody asked him how long the pogrom would be allowed to continue. He said, after thinking about it for a while, ‘Let them have a good time tonight. But the party ends at dawn.’
He described it as a party?
‘Oh, yes. Absolutely. Those were his words. Ten people heard him. Eight men, two women.’
Did you speak to your colleagues privately? Ask them to come forward?
‘Yes.’ Dhas looks whimsical. ‘But they chose to move forward instead. Everyone’s been promoted. Need I say more?’
So why haven’t you been promoted? You haven’t come forward with this testimony either?
‘Somehow word got out that I was the anonymous source. Maybe I have some of my colleagues – the ones I was trying to convince to testify to the press along with me – to thank for that.’
Why have you decided to speak to us openly today? ‘Well, I had high hopes from the Special Investigation Commission. I suppose I was hoping the truth would come out without my having to get involved in the outing. But it didn’t. So now I’m telling it like it is. Openly.’
Is this revenge? Because your career has languished?
‘Oh, no.’ Anandam’s smile, earlier so wry, now bursts out wide and cheerful. I get the sense that some massive weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He looks like a mischievous boy. ‘This is just self-preservation. You see, if I keep my anger and my bitterness and my disappointment with the system inside me any longer, it may give me cancers.’
DSS
7
‘Six eggs and one bread please, Gambhir uncle.’
Old Mr Gambhir is hunched over the India Post, his forehead furrowed, his index finger slowly moving between the lines of text, his lips forming each word of Dylan’s article laboriously. Young Mr Gambhir is nowhere in sight.
‘Er, Gambhir uncle?’
The old man looks up, his eyes glazed. ‘Kya?’ he demands querulously, no hint of recognition in his eyes.
‘Namaste.’ Eshwari grins amiably. ‘Six eggs, one bread. So sorry to disturb you.’
He stares at her for almost a minute, then nods, folds up the newspaper carefully and dodders away to the back of the store.
One of his grumpier days, Eshwari thinks, leaning against the white Kwality ice cream refrigerator, drumming her fingers against it lightly.
‘Oh, hey, Steesh!’
‘Hello,’ Satish growls as he shuffles up, dragging his chappals. ‘There oughtta be a law against parents. Who the hell kicks you out of bed this early on Sunday to fetch… shit! What did she want?’
What an unlovely, unwashed sight, Eshwar
i thinks, looking him over with a shudder. If only the class eight chicks with brand-new tits could see him now. They’d get over crushing on him instantly. That reminds her.
‘I wanted to ask you something.’
But Satish is busy having a crisis. ‘Shit, help me, Bihari, I can’t remember what Amma asked me to get. Coffee? Condoms? Cockroach killer?’
‘Soap maybe?’ Eshwari hazards pointedly. ‘Deodorant? Nose plugs for herself ?’
‘I’ll walk back with you and ask her again,’ he says. ‘Here, lemme carry your stuff. What did you want to ask me?’
Eshwari tosses her bouncy ponytail and assumes a mysterious expression. ‘Nothing important.’
She has heard that one Gitika Govil, a class nine lovely, confessed during a party game of Truth and Dare that she has hormonal stirrings for Satish Sridhar. This Gitika is hot stuff – she is known as GG amongst the class twelve boys, which stands not for her name but for her Golden Globes which bloomed suddenly and spectacularly halfway through class seven. Half the graffiti in the girls’ toilets in Modern School is dedicated to her. The Bihari and Manipuri hostellers, whose life’s ambition it is to one day hold the coveted Golden Globes award, duck into this forbidden zone the moment school empties out and scribble heartfelt sonnets to her in scratchy ballpoint pen.
Gitika Govil ke mammay mahaan
Unpe tika hai Hindustan
Young fold mountains, world’s most high
I will climb them by and by!
‘Must be something, I know that look,’ Satish says, raising his voice to be heard above the manic khatakhatakhata of several portable generators. ‘Phew, all I can breathe are diesel fumes! Ask me, I’ll tell you the truth, promise.’
Eshwari gives him a sidelong glance. ‘Had fun at the weekend party?’
He looks at her curiously. ‘Yeah, it was funnish, I guess. Bunch of girls with shoulder pads and plastic earrings singing along to “Like a Virgin”, desperately trying to act like they aren’t virgins.’
‘I heard you found someone special there.’
He goes still, in a very filmi, over-the-top way. His eyes start to dance. ‘Whoooooo?’
THOSE PRICEY THAKUR GIRLS Page 15
