‘You’re goodish,’ she allows, twirling a lock of his hair between her fingers.
His eyebrows fly up. ‘Ish? ’
‘Ish.’ She grins.
‘I’ll show you ish,’ Dylan says, his voice thick with outrage.
But Debjani pushes him away – not too far, just far enough to get a good look into his eyes.
‘Anji didi’s right, you know,’ she says conversationally. ‘October is a good month. Not too hot, not too cold.’
‘Just like you,’ Dylan murmurs, his cheek against her hair as his hands slide smoothly up her back, beneath her shirt.
‘What are you doing?’
He smiles at her through spiky lashes, his gaze unfocused. She can feel his heart, it’s thudding hard and fast, obviously he still hasn’t got over that dive from the sixth floor.
‘Checking for wings,’ he murmurs as his lips graze her forehead. ‘I know you have wings. Don’t deny it – you hide them under your T-shirt and pretend to be a mere mortal like everybody else.’
Debjani wrinkles up her nose.
‘But actually I’m a chicken?’ she asks breathlessly even as she, very accommodatingly, lets him make an extremely thorough search.
Dylan has her pushed up against the wall, but at this he draws back, allowing her shirt to slide down again, much to her disappointment.
‘You really don’t know how to flirt.’
‘I know,’ she agrees fervently. ‘Thank god we’re beyond the flirting stage!’
Dylan stares down at her, a queer smile upon his lips, a what-the-hell, burn-the-boats light in his eyes.
‘So will you be my Raquel?’ he asks. ‘And my wife? And my kot-piece partner for the rest of my life?’
There is a pause. A very long pause. So long, in fact, that he starts to feel rather uneasy.
Then she tilts her head.
‘Is this proposal being made under the influence of alcohol?’
‘No,’ he replies steadily, kissing her fingers. ‘It’s being made under the influence of Dabbu.’
This draws an appreciative grin. But she quickly turns solemn again.
‘Well, you’re no Balkishen Bau…’ she says, considering.
Then her arms go around him tight. She kisses his cheek, a kiss so full of hope and love and trust that it brings the sudden sting of tears to his eyes.
‘So don’t mind if, just for kot-piece, I pick another partner.’
A very cowed Ashok chacha, with six stitches in his cheek and his stomach bandaged up, stands by and watches resignedly as Chachiji kicks over the cup full of genhu with her manicured foot and enters her Hailey Court flat, glowing like a new bride.
‘Thank you, bhaisaab,’ she tells Justice Laxmi Narayan as she puts a tika for him after the puja. ‘You have kept my nose from being cut.’
‘Yes yes,’ the Judge says, looking rather cornered, and not wanting to talk about the cutting up of any body parts. ‘Ahem! Mamtaji, if you are done, can we please go home?’
And so, after admiring the marble flooring, the modular kitchen and the stainless steel Diamond sink, the L.N. Thakurs return to Number 16. The Judge and Mrs Mamta retire to their room, where the Judge tries to take a nap, but is prevented from doing so because his wife is busy jangling open various Godrej cupboards, rootling through her caché of jewellery, watches, saris and perfume bottles.
‘We’ll need to do so much shopping!’ she says. ‘Thankfully I’ve already bought her wedding sari and we have enough pretty new salwar kameezes, but what will we buy all the honeymoon clothes with? They’ll go to Goa, she’ll need a new swimming costume, sandals, nightgown, nightie, underclothes – so many things! How will we manage?’
‘Easy, Mamtaji,’ he says. ‘We’ll economize by serving only mutton at the reception. Like we did at Anjini’s wedding.’
Mrs Mamta sits on the bed with a thump. ‘But these people are Christians. They’ll want chicken and fish. Maybe even pork!’
‘Then forget fancy underclothes,’ the Judge says, reasonably enough. ‘She’s already caught the boy, he can’t back out when he sees her plain cotton chaddis.’
At which aggravating remark Mrs Mamta bangs her Godrej almirahs shut and turns to glare at him, her hands on her hips. ‘Maybe if you hadn’t run up such a huge phone bill at Gambhir Stores, we would have enough money for her trousseau.’
‘Ph-phone bill?’ the Judge stammers weakly, looking undeniably guilty. ‘What phone bill?’
‘You know what phone bill,’ Mrs Mamta says awfully. ‘I asked young Mr Gambhir and he told me everything. I can’t believe you could be such a lying, sneaking, cheating, two-faced hypocrite, LN!’
‘I’m sorry,’ the Judge says, red-faced and ashamed. ‘I couldn’t help myself. Especially after she had the baby. I had to get in touch again – I had to.’
Silence.
Then Mrs Mamta giggles. Just like her daughters.
‘Does this mean we can invite them to the wedding, LN?’
‘Of course,’ he responds eagerly, relieved that she isn’t angry, after all. ‘Chandu, the Estonian and little Hendrik Lippik! That will solve our fancy underwear problem too! Chandu can choose it. And the Estonian can pay for it. Haha.’
Happier than she has been in years, Mrs Mamta kisses him on the forehead, leaves him to his books and goes off to sit with her daughters.
‘Doesn’t Chubs looks pretty?’ Anjini asks with a proprietary air as she drapes Eshu’s jade, green georgette sari over her tiny red choli.
‘Yes,’ Mrs Mamta sighs in satisfaction. ‘She’ll be Miss Modern too, wait and see – the third in the family.’
Jai Kakkar arrives to pick Eshu up half an hour later, very handsome in a formal shirt and tie. He is carrying a small posy of red carnations, which goes perfectly with her sari.
‘You look lovely,’ he declares, his eyes alight with admiration.
Ten minutes later, the doorbell rings again. Samar and Bonu answer it.
‘Hi, kids.’ It is Satish, reeking of aftershave. His shirt is crisply ironed, his upper lip and jaw have been scraped naked so scrupulously that angry little dots stand out on his chin. ‘Is everything okay with Chachiji and all? That was quite an impressive thump. I saw it from my window.’
‘She’s fine,’ Bonu tells him. ‘Dabbu mausi’s getting married.’
‘Cool!’ Satish grins. ‘Congratulations. And… where’s your Eshu mausi?’
‘She’s not my mausi,’ Samar clarifies immediately. ‘She’s no blood relation.’
Bonu sniggers.
Satish doesn’t notice. His eyes are searching the space behind them. ‘So, where is she?’
‘She left,’ Samar informs him, not without some satisfaction. ‘Jai Kakkar took her.’
Satish swallows. His eyes shut, just for a moment, and when he opens them again, he suddenly looks years older.
‘Oh, of course!’ He nods vigorously. ‘I knew that! I thought I’d just check in case he was late. Because he’s a little… undependable, you know?’
They nod.
There is a pause.
‘You look nice,’ Bonu tells him kindly.
‘Thanks,’ Satish smiles. ‘Well! I’d better run or I’ll miss all the fun!’ He does a corny little disco move, pointing one finger into the air. ‘Woo-hoo! G’nite, kiddos.’
And whistling softly, he turns around and bobs away.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to
Suneet Tandon and Rini Simon, for bearing with my many many questions on what it was like being a newsreader in the eighties.
Mr Bhaskar Ghose, whose Doordarshan Days was a fascinating and informative read.
Google, for all the dope on the Anti-Defamation Bill, 1988. Satish Sridhar, for letting me cut-paste his name, surname and persona.
Samar Singh Shekhawat, for loaning his names to two boys in the book.
Mansi Jain, for the tedha naam Pushkar.
Nika, Nandu, Minni didi and Manu, for allowing me to swirl them
in a mixie and produce a smoothie called Debjani.
Tara, for being such a Bihari.
First readers Niret Alva, Niharika Alva and Shalini Beri, for all their patient reading and critiquing. And Alok Lal, for providing the closure on Chandu.
Anupama Ramaswamy, for the fab cover. Sudeep Bhattacharya, for shooting the cover pic. Kavita Joshi, for putting me on to Nakul Sawhney, who gave me access to both his cat and his flat.
My cover girl – she-who-shall-not-be-named.
My cover cat – Chuski.
Neelini Sarkar – perfectionist editor – who conducted many experiments to check if water mixed with Dettol really does look like susu.
Karthika V.K., who always provides fantastic direction and insight.
My three gorgeous and fabulous big sisters, to whom this book is dedicated.
My mum and her sisters, who were quite the original ‘pricey Thakur girls’.
My nanaji, Thakur Dalchand Singh.
And, of course, the Lord Jesus Christ for teaching me both faith and patience in these last two years – and for keeping my family healed and happy.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ANUJA CHAUHAN wrote ads for colas, chips and chocolates for seventeen years before deciding to do something healthier for a living. She now writes novels, movie screenplays, news articles and her children’s Hindi essays. Her bestselling rom-coms The Zoya Factor and Battle for Bittora have been optioned by major Bollywood studios. She lives in Gurgaon with her husband Niret Alva, two helpers who bang the doors a lot, a Lhasa Apso who thinks he is a German Shepherd and three adolescents who give her attitude.
Also by Anuja Chauhan
The Zoya Factor
Battle for Bittora
COMING SOON
The House That BJ Built
Anuja Chauhan
The last thing much-sought-after Bollywood director Samar Vir Singh wants to do is to go back to Hailey Road and get embroiled in a messy ancestral property dispute involving the various factions of his stepmother’s family. He hasn’t spoken to any of the Thakurs for years – and that suited him just fine. But now the clan wants to sell, and as Samar is the eldest, everybody is insisting he travel to Delhi and talk sense into his irritating step-cousin Bonu, who is running a seedy tailoring unit from inside the two-hundred-crore property and who clearly seems to think that nobody but she is entitled to a hissa in the house…
First published in 2013 by
HarperCollins Publishers India
Copyright © Anuja Chauhan 2013
ISBN: 978-93-5029-602-8
Epub Edition © JANUARY 2013 ISBN: 9789350299685
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Anuja Chauhan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction and all characters, places and incidents described in this book are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under The Copyright Act, 1957. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers India.
Cover design Anupama Ramaswamy
Cover photographs Sudip Bhattacharya
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THOSE PRICEY THAKUR GIRLS Page 35
