Dylan stares at her uncomprehendingly.
‘What perfume?’
‘The Anais Anais, obviously,’ she says crossly.
‘Debjani, I didn’t give you any perfume.’
She looks up. ‘What?’
He nods. ‘I wrote you a letter. And put it in your letter box. This androgynous-looking little kid on a tricycle with very short, spiky hair and gold stud earrings…?’
‘Bonu,’ Debjani supplies automatically.
‘Yeah, Bonu then, this kid Bonu saw me do it.’
Debjani looks up at him doubtfully. Behind them, on the bandstand, Ethan winds up the song. The music stops.
‘Then who gave me the perfume?’
‘I have no idea,’ Dylan says, his arms dropping away from around her body, making her realize how chilly the night air has grown. ‘Ask Bonu. What a foul name, by the way. Bonu.’
‘They were expecting just Monu,’ Debjani explains, her mind spinning crazily, trying to internalize what he has just told her. ‘So when they had twins, they said she was a bonus and named her Bonu.’
But Dylan isn’t interested in the story of how-Bonu-was-named-Bonu.
‘So now you’re telling me you never got the letter I wrote you the day before we came over for tea? How do I know you’re not lying?’
‘I’m not lying! I didn’t get it! Why would I lie?’
The lean dimples flash in a rueful smile. ‘Maybe because you’re regretting letting me go, now that I’m so famous and all.’
‘I’m famous too,’ she snaps. ‘Anyway, I don’t believe there ever was such a letter. I think you’re lying. Like you lied about the cat.’
‘I lied about the cat?’
‘Well, I’ve never seen a cat in that sand pile. Ever.’
Dylan stands back and says, ‘Look, I don’t have to prove anything to you. Ask Bonu about it if you like – and if you don’t like, don’t.’
Then, as she stares up at him, all doubt and confusion, he leans in and flicks the tip of her nose with one careless finger.
‘One caveat, though. The sentiments expressed in the letter are a bit dated. Quite dated, actually. Remember that. And now, goodnight. Thank you for the dance.’
11
‘Bonu Singh?’
She is crouching in the verandah, an aluminium paper clamp clipped to her chin, a Natraj pencil clenched between her nose and upper lip, Mrs Mamta Thakur’s floral nightgown wound about her head like a turban.
‘I’m a Sardar,’ she whispers, spraying spit and promptly dropping the moustache-pencil. ‘It’s a disguise, so Samar can’t find me.’
Debjani unclips the paper clamp. ‘You’ll cut your chin with that, silly girl,’ she says, massaging the reddened skin. ‘And why are you hiding from Samar?’
Bony wrinkles her forehead. ‘I teased him about his crush on Eshu. What do you want, Dabbu mausi?’
‘How d’you know I want anything?’ Debjani counters.
‘Arrey, you never talk to me any more. Mummy says it’s because you’ve become famous.’
‘It’s because I’ve become stupid,’ Debjani says, hugging Bonu’s thin body hard. ‘Uff, look at your cheeks. You should put cream – winter’s coming, you’ll get all scaly.’
‘Only if you give me your Nivea cream, from the blue tin. I don’t like Mummy’s Charmis. It’s sticky.’
‘Listen, Bones, you’re right, I do want something. Well, actually, I wanted to ask you something.’
Bonu’s eyes, large and long-lashed under her absurd floral turban, gaze up at Debjani’s face trustingly. ‘What?’
‘Did you see that Dylan bhaiyya – the one I was going to marry – did you see him put a letter in our mailbox the day before he came here with his family?’
Bonu’s eyes skitter away. She starts to play with the nightgown wound around her head. ‘N-nooo,’ she says slowly.
Debjani’s heart plummets with absurd disappointment. ‘You didn’t?’
‘Noooyess.’
‘Noooyess?’
Bonu’s thin fingers pluck at Debjani’s shirt. Her words come out in a rush. ‘Dabbu mausi, that Dylan bhaiyya is a Christian – one of those people who go to church every Sunday and stick their tongues out at the priest.’
‘So what, baba?’ Debjani pats the rapidly unravelling turban.
‘If you marry him, you won’t have a hissa in the house. Because of Hindu Undivided Family Law. And I want you to have a hissa in the house. You’re my favourite mausi!’
‘Who told you that, Bones?’
Bonu yanks down her grandmother’s nightgown till her face and body are completely covered in floral cloth. Her voice drops so low, Debjani has to strain to hear it. ‘Papa. I heard him. On the night all the adults were discussing who you should marry, I fought with the boys and hid in the passage. Papa’s lawyer phoned him and told him – and then Papa called Mummy out and told her.’
Debjani stares at the small veiled figure before her, feeling sick. So that’s why Binni had done such a volte-face in favour of Dylan that night… and I had been so pathetically touched. But she’s my sister, how could she? It’s that bloody Vickyji, she concludes fiercely. Creep. He’s got her completely under his thumb.
Aloud she says, ‘Did you hide the letter?’
The veiled figure nods.
‘Could you give it to me?’
The floral nightgown tumbles off. Bonu’s eyes are all concern. ‘But your hissa, Dabbu mausi!’
‘Never mind my freaking hissa.’ Debjani gives her a little shake. ‘Life is not about hissas. Earn your own money when you grow up, instead of waiting around for your parents to die. Mercenary little ghoul! Now go get my letter – and where did you get that expensive bottle of perfume?’
‘Oh, Steesh got that.’ Bonu, now that she is confessing, seems to be quite happy to make a clean breast of things. ‘For Eshu mausi. He gave it to me to give to her. I put it in the mailbox – because I know you don’t like perfume – and the next day, I just looked sad and told Steesh I dropped it and it broke.’
‘Bonu, you shouldn’t tell lies.’ Debjani looks at her, appalled. ‘It’s not right.’
‘Mummy lies,’ Bonu says blithely. ‘She says it’s okay if you’re doing it for the right reasons.’
‘It’s never righ – oh, never mind, just give me the letter. Where have you hidden it?’
But the little girl is looking stricken.
‘Are you going to tell everybody I hid it?’
Debjani, in a fever of impatience, scoops her up and kisses her on both cheeks. ‘No. And nobody will ever know, I promise. Now where’s my letter? Give it no, Bonu Singh… Please, Bonu Singh, it’s my vewy fwerst lurrrve letter, Bonu!’
Bonu giggles. ‘You’re funny!’ She jumps out of Debjani’s lap and runs from the verandah. Then she scampers back in complete panic. ‘I forgot my disguise! Samar will recognize me. Put my beard on again, quick!’
Darling Debjani,
May I call you that? It’s alliterative, so your father will definitely approve, but then so are dear and dearest, but somehow for me, dearest doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel about you.
Do forgive the fact that this isn’t handwritten – not very romantic, I know, I should be wearing a floppy white shirt and writing with a feather quill if I must write at all – but feathers are messy and floppy shirts sissy and hammering things out on a keyboard is how I express myself best.
My parents ran away and got married when he was twenty-one and she was eighteen. The whole affair was madly spontaneous and barely legal. Their families had two coronaries apiece, of course. My folks didn’t care, though. Apparently they saw each other across a crowded parade ground and just knew this was it.
When I saw you at the gate that first evening, I knew too. I didn’t want to accept it at first, but I knew.
There, isn’t that romantic? Better than a floppy shirt, surely? All my life I’ve dreamed of meeting a girl who is lovely without knowing she is lovely, who i
s fierce and sweet and as straight as a die.
And so I must be straight with you. Because you don’t actually want somebody romantic, do you? You want somebody honest and kind and brave – a very tall order, that, but let me try for honesty at least.
I admit I’ve had a few relationships, which have gone nowhere because that’s precisely where I wanted them to go. My mother would say it’s because I suffered a ‘broken heart’ at seventeen, but I won’t hide behind that excuse. For years now, it’s just suited me to be selfish with women. The only defence I offer is that I’ve never made any false ‘forever’ promises to anyone.
When I was in class eight, I stole ten rupees from another boy’s pencil box and spent it on cigarettes. I once spent an entire summer watching porn film videos. I’ve got pissed drunk a few times – not in the last two years, though.
I guess I can be said to have ‘corrupted’ my brothers… my parents certainly think so.
I’m ruthless, professionally. I’d do most anything to get a story.
And one more thing: I wrote an anonymous column in the IP recently.
Yes, that Roving Eye article. About you. That was me.
What can I say? I’ve had issues with DD’s style of reportage for years, and it got worse when I personally witnessed the immediate aftermath of the riots in Tirathpuri. I’m not very rational on that subject, but I do realize now that I can’t expect people who haven’t seen what I’ve seen to feel as I do. Also, I was mad at my boss for making me write the column without giving me any credit for it, so I used it as an opportunity to make him look bad – as he was one of the PM’s main advisors on the ‘new’ DeshDarpan. So basically, I used the column to score petty points. And ended up mounting a totally personal attack on you.
And so, my apology is two-fold. Firstly, I’m sorry for all the snide, unwarranted things I said in the piece. And secondly, I’m sorry for not coming clean about it afterwards. But how could I have? The moment I saw the real you – and not the doll that DD demands – I started plotting how to make you like me. Telling you I was Roving Eye definitely wouldn’t have helped my cause! Besides, you’re such a star now (even Dev Pawar wants to marry you!), how does one disgruntled print journalist’s criticism even matter, anyway?
That’s it, really. Glad to get it off my chest at last. Lately I’ve been dreaming that you’ve found out all this stuff through some other source and given me my marching orders.
What do you say? Am I forgiven?
If all this is too glib and quick for you, as I suspect it may be, and you need more time to think post these ‘revelations’, do ask your parents to phone mine and let me know. I’m willing to wait as long as it takes. Otherwise – and I hope with all my heart it will be otherwise – I’ll see you in the evening.
All my love,
Always,
Dylan
‘Why didn’t you ever tell me about the perfume?’ Eshwari demands of Satish in school the next day. ‘Why, Steesh?’
He shrugs, looking uncomfortable. ‘What would I have said? Hey-hey, Bihari, I got you a big-ass perfume bottle but your retarded niece broke it? What would be the point?’
‘She’s not retarded,’ Eshwari says crossly. ‘You are.’
They are heading down to the common hall for a meeting of the Interact Club of which Eshwari is president. They are wearing their usual blue uniform, a shade reminiscent of nightsuits or banker’s shirts, him in pleated trousers, her in a short, swingy, box-pleated skirt. Eshwari wears a pin on her dark blue blazer, proclaiming her to be Gandhi House Captain, and the scrunchie that secures her ponytail is bright red, which is against school regulations but does amazing things for her black hair and creamy skin. Satish’s attempt at being sartorial begins and ends with his blazer collar, which is turned up jauntily.
‘Sorry for not telling, but you also never told me that Dillu gifted Dabbu the very same perfume, on the very same day. I would’ve made the connection then, maybe. Anyway, now spill, ya. What did his letter say? What did Dabbu say?’
Eshwari draws a long, deep, heartfelt breath and turns to him. Her eyes are shining under her spiky fringe. ‘It was so romantic, Steesh, you’ve no idea. I think I have a little crush on him too, after reading his letter. And his ass toh I told you, na…’ She exhales gustily.
‘Yes, yes, his ass should be awarded the Bharat Ratna, you’ve told me that before,’ he says testily. ‘And stop banging into people, look where you’re going. So he wrote this romantic masterpiece and what did your sister say?’
‘It wasn’t just romantic,’ Eshwari muses dreamily, and draws another deep breath. ‘It was –’
‘Hello, leave some air for the rest of us,’ Satish tells her hastily, shooting dirty looks at a couple of class eleven boys who are staring mesmerized at how magically Eshwari’s chest is swelling every time she inhales.
Eshwari turns to looks at him. ‘It was honest,’ she says. ‘And like he thought she was, I don’t know, a higher thing than just a girl somehow… It was the sort of stuff I imagine Christians say in confession.’
‘Sounds kinky to me,’ Satish says sapiently. ‘And now you’re lusting after your would-be brother-in-law? You’re sick, Bihari.’
Eshwari glares at him. ‘Stupid. That’s not what I meant. You don’t know anything at all.’
‘Because you’re not telling me. What was Dabbu’s reaction?’
‘Well, she cried. And then she cried some more. And when I left home, Ma and she were blubbering over the letter together and talking about how best to bring it up with BJ.’
‘It’ll sort itself out, don’t worry,’ he tells her as they emerge on the second floor. ‘Dabbu and Dillu sound like they are made for each other. Now when do I get a treat for doing your sister’s setting?’
‘Excuse me?’ Eshwari’s eyes widen. She says, with a toss of her ponytail, ‘All you did was mess things up! If your stupid perfume bottle hadn’t replaced his romantic letter, everything would’ve been fine!’
‘But thanks to me and the retar – I mean, the little kid, there’s all this highly gratifying Romeo-Juliet action happening,’ he points out. ‘Drama, misunderstandings, reconciliations!’ He leans in really close and sniffs her thoroughly. Eshwari feels like she is being inspected for narcotics by a large hairy beast. ‘Whyn’t you wear the perfume though, Bihari? Don’t tell me Dabbu used it all up in three months?’
Eshwari turns a little pink. ‘You shouldn’t have given me that. It’s too expensive.’
He cocks his head to one side, looking absurdly like a German Shepherd that wants to play. ‘But I told you,’ he says, ‘I won it at a hoopla stall. Full fluke. And it isn’t the real thing, anyway, just a fake from Gaffar Market.’
Yeah, right, Eshwari thinks darkly. She had showed it to Anji didi – who knows about this stuff – and she had declared it the real thing, bought from that big shop in South Extension, no less.
Meanwhile, Satish is peering into her face, grinning. ‘Unless you’re suggesting I actually blew, what, a grand on genuine perfume? For you? Wow, I must think you seriously stink.’
Eshwari pushes him away. ‘Don’t talk crap, Steesh. Now get out of my way. I have to go call this meeting to order and you need to go sit in the back and look at porn with your ugly friends.’
The Interact Club is a community service initiative whose manifesto vows to ‘work for the upliftment of the blind, the aged, the orphaned and the sick’. Students participate in large numbers, mostly to swell the application forms they send to foreign universities. There are cleanliness drives, educational outreach programmes in the slums and blood donation camps. The only decent thing about the Interact Club, according to Satish, is that they organize the annual Modern School Diwali Mela, which is really the place to meet hot dames in Delhi.
This quarter’s blood donation camps, Eshwari tells the assembled students, are going to be held close to different places of worship, so as to underline the secular beliefs so dear to the club. The first one ha
s been organized at the Sacred Heart Cathedral at Gol Dak Khana, the second at the Idgah on Rani Jhansi Road and the third at Gurudwara Bangla Sahib on Baba Kharak Singh Marg.
‘I’ll go to the Gurudwara one,’ decides one of Satish’s back-row buddies. ‘We’ll get deadly grub there – hot-hot suji ka halwa and kala channa and puris. The Catholics are damn stingy – they don’t let anybody eat that thin wafer thingie.’
A thin, bespectacled Malayali turns around earnestly to explain the concept of the body and blood of Christ to this ignoramus but Eshwari hastily interrupts, knowing that members, if diverted, are capable of not letting her get a word in till the period is over.
‘Contributions to blood banks have slowed to a trickle because everybody is shit scared of getting AIDS,’ she says, sitting down atop the desk, knowing the sight of her smooth, muscular legs will secure the attention of the rowdiest of the boys. ‘We’ll need to design and print some educational pamphlets.’
‘Let’s put your legs on the posters, Bihari,’ somebody calls out and the entire crowd lets out a cheeky, musical woahhhhhhh.
‘Chup, chutiyon.’ Eshwari frowns around the room. ‘Now somebody will have to go around to all the shops in the neighbourhood requesting permission to put up posters. I need volunteers…’
‘We’ll need auto money,’ somebody says and immediately has to put up with good-natured accusations about embezzlement and cooking of books. School stud and ex-stammerer Jai Kakkar puts up a hand and politely enquires if the esteemed president has considered organizing a sperm donation drive instead.
Eshwari looks at him witheringly.
‘I did think of it,’ she says, black eyes very cool. ‘But then I thought it was better to organize something to which you could actually contribute, Kakkar.’
Another lilting woahhhh bursts out from the crowd. Jai sits down, looking slapped and smitten. The meeting ends. The hall empties and Eshwari is picking up her papers when Satish comes up to her again.
THOSE PRICEY THAKUR GIRLS Page 25
