‘I left them talking to that hot sister of your newsreader’s,’ Ethan replies. ‘She’s gushing on and on at them about her favourite book – something called The Thornbirds. There are priests in it, apparently. They seemed pretty happy.’
Dylan goes very still. He knows that Ethan, though his expression is noncommittal, is waiting for him to ask if Debjani is here too. But he can’t. The words won’t come out of his mouth. So he just stands there, head slightly averted, pretending to hang onto the Colonel’s every word like he hasn’t heard the story of how Saahas met Juliet a hundred times before. He raises his glass of red wine when everybody does, drinks when everybody does and then claps as his father gets to his feet to reply to the toast.
The Brigadier has spent a lot of time writing his speech and delivers it straight from the heart, but Dylan barely hears a word – he is too busy not wondering where Debjani is. With the result that by the time the speech ends, he is extremely annoyed with her.
Presently, the cake is wheeled out. The plump pigeonesque girlfriend has been vanquished, Philomina Bai and Dadi-sa are flanking Jason and have firm possession of the matchbox. They light the thirty candles, beaming benignly at the ‘young’ couple, and as the Brig stands to one side, his nose suspiciously red, Juliet Bai blows them out with tears in her eyes and a very full heart.
‘Mujhe Jesu, look you after my boys,’ she prays fervently. ‘Keep Saahas healthy, cure Ethan’s acne, give Jason brains and make my Dylan happy again.’
There are cheers and clapping and the bearers step forward with beautifully packed plum cake slices for everybody. Dylan shoves his untasted into his coat pocket.
‘Is she also here?’ he asks casually.
Ethan, chewing steadily, is sensitive enough not to ask who. Instead, he says, with a slight tilt of his head, ‘Yeah, there, look.’
Dylan looks. Through the gay throng of people cheering and clapping around the dance floor, beyond the huddle of mandatory ayahs clutching the mandatory wailing babies, past the glowing candles and fern fronds and the delicately fragrant champas. And espies Debjani Thakur, lover of losers, at the other end of the lawn, standing with her side profile turned charmingly towards him, smiling up at that old goat Donny Noronha, who is holding one of her slim hands between his two sweaty palms and talking up an oily storm.
She is wearing a diaphanous leaf green and silver sari, and her hair, pinned back on one side with a single white rose, is like a dusky cloud about her shoulders. As she raises her wine glass, sips the deep red liquid and flashes that entrancing street-urchin grin, Dylan finds that his belly has rediscovered its talent for ballet. It raises itself up, flips over gracefully and then swoons over backward in an attitude of abject surrender.
‘Yeah, it’s her all right,’ he says indifferently. ‘Prise her away from Donny soon, will you? He looks like he’s about to ejaculate in his pants.’
Ethan snorts. ‘Prise her away yourself,’ he says, reaching for a chilled beer. ‘Are you man or mouse?’
Dylan plucks the beer from his grasp. ‘No drinking till you’re twenty-five,’ he says smartly. ‘Here, have a Campa.’
Presently, he sips the beer he has confiscated and moodily watches Debjani across the garden. Donny Noronha and she are now sitting side by side. They look amazingly intimate. The white rose drops from its place behind her ear and lands on the grassy ground. Donny pounces to retrieve it – like a famished mongrel after a dead rat, thinks Dylan irately. Rising, red-faced from the effort, he smiles and seems to be offering to pin it back for her.
Dylan swears and gets to his feet. He strides halfway across the garden, then checks himself abruptly, executes a right turn and approaches a circle of girls chattering brightly, sipping from their glasses of Rasna orange and beer.
‘Ladies.’ He smiles, looking the prettiest one straight in the eye. ‘It’s time to start dancing!’
And just like that, the party explodes onto the dance floor. The band kicks off with the latest chart-topper, UB 40’s ‘Red Red Wine’. Dylan’s partner is light on her feet and channelling the latest Madonna moves and soon all eyes are on her smoothly undulating, shoulder-padded black jumpsuit.
Anjini takes one look at her, drops her muddy brown dupatta, shakes out her hair and smiles encouragingly at a gangly young man hovering around the next table. He is at her side in an instant. Before heading off to the dance floor, she pokes Debjani in the ribs.
‘Stop hunching! Smile! And for heaven’s sake, dance!’
It’s all very well to say, Debjani thinks crossly, but somebody has to ask me!
‘My sister isn’t at all a snob,’ Anjini leans over and assures a handsome young man sipping a drink at the edge of the dance floor. ‘She likes people who aren’t overawed by how famous she is. And she loves this song!’
And soon Debjani is on the floor too, swinging somewhat unwillingly to ‘Get outta My Dreams, Get into My Car’, inches away from the girl in the clingy black jumpsuit.
It seems to Debjani that Dylan goes off the floor the moment she steps onto it. He escorts Jumpsuit back to her gaggle of friends and then goes over to Mrs Mamta to say hello even as Dabbu watches, outraged. They talk cozily for what seems like ages, until the Brigadier breaks it up by asking Mrs Mamta to dance. Left all to himself, Dylan loses no time in finding another partner and leading her to the dance floor.
‘Bastard,’ Debjani mutters under her breath as she sees them approach.
‘Sorry?’ says her partner.
‘I’m hot.’ She fans herself. ‘I’d like to sit down now.’
And she exits the floor, her pallu practically trailing across Dylan’s chest as she walks past him with her nose in the air.
And so it continues. Juliet Bai, closely observing this immature class seven type behaviour, starts to feel extremely frustrated. Until finally the band strikes up Phil Collins’ plaintive ‘Groovy Kind of Love’ and Dylan moves away from the bunch of cousins he has been chatting with at the bar and walks across the garden towards the Thakur sisters.
About time, Debjani thinks crossly as her heart leaps into her mouth, hits the back of her teeth and then sinks down to her chest to pulsate alarmingly between her ribs. I have sat through a never-ending church service that was way longer than anything we Hindus can ever be accused of, and Anji didi’s tied the naada of the petticoat so tightly it’s about to saw my body into two, and corns are burgeoning between my toes from these horrible too-small shoes, and my cheeks are aching from smiling at people I don’t know, and my mole has been mauled by about thirty strangers – but now all of that shouldn’t matter, should it, because Dylan Singh Shekhawat has finally deigned to saunter over and talk to me. Well, I’m not going to dance with him. Pompous little shit. I’ll say no. I won’t go. I’ll pretend I twisted my ank –
‘Shall we?’ Dylan smiles at Anjini.
Anjini gives an appreciative, throaty giggle. Dylan, who seems to have eyes for no one but her, leads her gracefully to the dance floor.
‘I assume you want to know the weather report?’ she asks him as they begin to dance. ‘It’s stormy and getting stormier.’
He raises his brows. ‘Oh, no,’ he says blandly. ‘It’s nothing like that. Just…’ He grins. ‘Age before beauty.’
‘Horrible boy,’ she says without rancour. ‘Don’t bullshit me.’
‘Well, I did want to ask her to dance, but she looked so snooty I thought, screw it.’
‘You mean you chickened out,’ Anjini says.
Dylan’s eyes kindle with sudden rage. ‘This isn’t funny.’
‘No?’ Anjini shakes with suppressed mirth. ‘Okay.’
They dance the rest of the song in silence and when it’s over, he escorts her back to her table. Debjani is sitting there, deep in conversation with Donny Noronha.
‘I hope you’re enjoying the party?’
His voice is distinctly surly. Debjani responds by looking left and right ostentatiously, as if to be sure he is indeed speaking to her. Her ha
ir swirls beautifully with every move, the curls thick and glossy.
Surly and Curly. Anji stifles a smile. So cute.
‘Me?’ Debjani asks, her eyes wide. ‘Are you actually speaking to me?’
Dylan’s lips tighten. ‘Yes,’ he says tersely.
Debjani smiles. ‘Yes, I’m quite enjoying myself. It’s a very nice party.’
‘Yes, lovely party,’ chimes in Donny Noronha suavely. He is sitting next to Debjani, a proprietorial arm around the back of her chair. ‘Er… shouldn’t you circulate, like? You’re the host, after all.’
Dylan just glares at him. Donny Noronha smiles back blandly and points at somebody behind Dylan with one negligent hand.
‘I think those people are looking for you.’
Dylan doesn’t turn around. Instead, he leans in, eyeballs Noronha, and says in a clear, level voice: ‘Daisy Duck.’
Debjani gasps. Anjini looks mystified.
Donny flushes a dull red.
‘You really are a very odd boy,’ he says with dignity. Then he looks at the girls. ‘My dears, your glasses are empty! Let me replenish them, like.’
Saying which, he plucks their glasses out of their hands and scurries away, leaving a grimly satisfied Dylan glowering at the table, in clear possession of the field.
‘That was rude!’ Debjani exclaims.
‘No no,’ says Dylan coolly. ‘He’s used to it.’
Very quietly, Anjini gets up and walks away too.
There is silence, well, except for the band, now performing a soulful rendition of Cutting Crew’s ‘I Just Died in Your Arms Tonight’.
‘Was he the Donny Noronha?’ Debjani asks finally. ‘The one your mother told us about? Heart-breaker, hymen-breaker?’
‘Yeah,’ Dylan replies, smiling faintly. ‘The.’
She giggles.
He grins.
‘So what were the two of you discussing so animatedly, anyway?’
This is Dabbu’s chance to show off just a little.
‘Oh, just the HDW submarine deal scandal,’ she replies airily. ‘And if the government really is as blameless as it’s making itself out to be. And then we talked about the Bofors gun scam.’
He was nodding, his eyes on the dance floor, giving the over-all in-charge ones, like he has drinks to refill and aunties to kiss, but at this his eyes come around to lock into hers. Debjani’s heart gives a weird little bump.
‘Excuse me?’ His eyebrows rise.
She nods, doggedly maintaining eye contact. ‘You heard me.’
‘So you’ve been reading the newspapers,’ he says witheringly. ‘How sweet. But a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Remember that.’
Which is a pretty D for devastating remark, but Debjani is a full-blooded Rajput. No wimpy Mangalorean blood thins her veins.
She raises her chin.
‘You’re such a pseudo,’ she tells him sweetly. ‘I’m pretty, so I must be stupid. Thank god I didn’t marry you.’
Dylan immediately wants to marry her on the spot. Father Charlie and Father Vaz can perform the ceremony – they’re sitting right there, eating prawn-pao and payasam.
He crosses his arms across his chest.
‘So now you know you’re pretty,’ he notes regretfully. ‘There goes your nicest quality.’
‘Only a complete MCP would like a girl because she has no self-confidence,’ Debjani flashes. ‘But I guess that’s a perfect description of you.’
Dylan stares at her uncomprehendingly. She got male chauvinism out of his behaviour? What is this girl? And why can’t he get her out of his head?
‘Look, Dabbu, I don’t want to perform a post-mortem here. What’s past is past. I was foolish enough to let my parents brainwash me. They gabbed on and on about grandchildren and how well they know your family, etc. And you are, as you have just stated, pretty. Quite pretty, actually. It was a lethal combination of emotional blackmail plus a gun to the groin. Today I thank you for saying no to what would clearly have been a hugely incompatible match.’
It is a prepared speech and it sounds like one – any impartial observer would suss that out immediately. But Debjani isn’t impartial.
‘Don’t call me Dabbu!’
‘What? Okay.’ Suddenly, he winces. ‘Damn, the Mangys have got hold of the mic.’
Debjani looks over his shoulder. A large contingent of old Mangalorean uncles have mounted the stage and are now thanking everybody who has flown in from out-of-town for the function. The list is a very, very long one, since Mangys take wedding anniversaries extremely seriously. Then they start talking in slow quavering voices about the dreadful things the Shekhawat boys got up to in their grandmother’s house in Mangalore when they were little. This goes on for so long that the Rajus, out of sheer self-defence, start heckling them rudely on another mic. Which, of course, goads the Mangys to debate the ancient historical question regarding the origin of the Rajputs, right there on the stage, into the microphones.
Rajput,
Tu maha choot,
Tu kahan se aaya re?
‘Get up there before they hit the second verse,’ Juliet Bai hisses into Ethan’s ear. But
Golkund
Meri ma-ki-bhund
Mein wahan se aaya re!
has already been belted out triumphantly before he can clamber onto the stage, strap on a base guitar and hit some mean chords. ‘Sing, Ethan, sing!’ scream the girls in the crowd, immediately diverted. Ethan grins and proceeds to give the people what they want, which is the UB40 version of ‘I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You’.
‘Wise men say!’ exclaims old Donny Noronha, materializing suddenly at Dabbu’s elbow. ‘Would you like to rush in with me, my dear?’
He leans forward, hand outstretched.
Debjani, moving without any thought, puts out her hand – and finds it, not in Donny Noronha’s clammy grip but in an entirely different, cool, firm grasp.
‘Shall we?’
She looks up at Dylan. His eyes are intense, not at all like the eyes of somebody who claims to be entirely indifferent. But that’s probably just the fairy lights, she thinks bitterly. After all, emotional blackmail and a gun to the groin are what got him to propose to me. She tries to pull her hand away. He doesn’t let go.
‘This song’s too slow,’ she mutters.
He holds fast to her hand, tilts his head and smiles. It’s not a very nice smile. ‘So we’ll take it slow.’
He pulls her to him with a sharp tug and soon they are whirling around on the dance floor. One hand grips the small of her back while the other holds fast to her right hand. It’s the closest they’ve ever been physically. Thank god the music is so loud, she thinks. Nobody but I can hear my stupid heartbeat.
‘So how’s the kot-piece?’ Dylan, clearly used to such close proximities, asks lightly. ‘Do you guys still play?’
Why is he making pc? she thinks darkly, not bothering to answer. Like he gives a damn – he only ever came to play because there was a gun to his groin.
‘Are you sulking?’ He sounds amused. ‘You know, most people would consider me the wronged party here.’
Up comes her head. ‘Oh, yeah? Everybody on the Raju circuit thinks you turned me down.’
‘But you’re so famous and all,’ he points out reasonably. ‘How could they think so?’
‘Well they do,’ she says. ‘I’m a girl. You’re a guy. So.’
He tilts his head.
‘Now who’s talking like an MCP?’
‘My father still isn’t speaking to me,’ she says, her eyes almost welling over with tears.
‘Debjani.’ He sounds a little bored. ‘Get over it. Worse things happen in this world every day. I’ve just met a girl whose mother was raped and murdered in the anti-Sikh riots. She saw it happen but her father made her promise never to go to the police about it. Those are real father-daughter issues.’
‘There you go again, giving the big picture ones,’ Debjani says crossly. ‘Three thousand people died in
a riot, so it’s silly to weep over one puny street mongrel! Typical!’
‘Are you calling yourself a street mongrel?’
‘Shut up,’ she snaps, tossing her hair. ‘I hate you.’
It’s that hair, he decides, staring down at her. Angel hair. And those collarbones… and that crunchy little grin. They combine to create an illusion, and that’s all it is – an illusion. In reality, she is both vain and self-centred. His arms tighten around her, drawing her closer.
‘Suppose I kissed you now?’ he says, his voice husky. ‘Would that make them think I was hopelessly in love with you, and it was you who did the dumping?’
‘I guess so,’ she replies with credible nonchalance, even though her cheeks are flaming. ‘It would work even better if I slapped you afterwards.’
‘You might not want to slap me afterwards,’ he murmurs, his spikily lashed eyes glittering.
Debjani gives a hollow laugh.
‘Ha.’
‘Ha or haan?’
She looks around the Jasmine Garden. The dance floor is full of gently twirling couples, the lawn is dotted with people conversing, eating, laughing. Anjini is a few feet away from her, dancing with a smitten uncleji. Just looking at her stiffens Debjani’s spine. She turns her eyes to Dylan.
‘I don’t want to kiss you,’ she tells him politely, like he is a waiter and she’s declining an offer of Rasna orange.
This clear, categorical statement and the look of rebuking scorn that accompanies it make him feel suddenly cheap. He flushes.
‘You still don’t know how to flirt.’
‘Oh, I do,’ she assures him. ‘I’ve learnt. I just don’t want to flirt with you.’
‘You really hate my guts, don’t you. But why? Just because of that one article?’
‘Yes,’ she replies tightly. ‘And also because, though you profess to be all concerned about human tragedy, you’re just a cold professional hack, chasing a big fat story. You don’t have any feelings.’
‘What crap!’
‘Because if you did,’ she continues passionately, ‘you would have told me about the article yourself, you would have explained – you wouldn’t have tried to brush it under the carpet and then tried to bribe me with a big fat bottle of expensive perfume.’
THOSE PRICEY THAKUR GIRLS Page 24
