‘Well, that’s unfortunate,’ said Mrs Mehtani. ‘Anyway, he will come back sooner or later. Will catch him then.’
‘I could inform you when he does.’
‘Oh, that’s not necessary, dear. I have told the watchman to buzz me on my intercom the moment he sees him walk in.’
‘Okay. Great, then.’
‘Chalo, you take care. And come over for tea sometime, no?’
‘I will. See you.’
The moment she was inside her flat, Anupama dialled Charlie’s number, only to discover that it was switched off. Perfect.
She weighed her options, pacing to and fro across the living room as she pondered over what her next step should be. Was she over-reacting? Perhaps it was just a harmless little misdeed, for which he would be fined and let off with a warning. After all, it’s not like he had directly harmed anyone. Deep within her heart though, she knew just how vain and ineffectual that hope was. This was the same housing society that had installed grills in every window of every block after Mrs Aggarwal’s daughter was caught sneaking out at night. In the case of Charlie, it was going to be even worse, since he didn’t even have the backing of being a family man to moderate the magnitude of his transgression. Social arrangements at Atharva Hari were like those deep-sea ecological systems you saw on nature channels. Vividly serene and eye-pleasing from afar, but the closer you got, the murkier the reality turned out to be. In a hostile environment of domestically rooted sharks and killer whales, drifters like Charlie were but mere baby squid, whose only mode of survival was their ability to camouflage and blend into their surroundings. All it took was one error in judgment, and they would get mercilessly devoured and excreted out of the system like they had never existed.
She had to do something. It wasn’t just the fear of implication that galvanized her to act now, but a touch of compassion for the poor boy. Anupama felt a bit of relief at the fact that her paranoia now had a philanthropic aspect to it as well.
She thought of waiting for his phone to switch back on, but that was risky and time-consuming. What if he just decided to charge it after getting home? Grim thoughts and morbid speculations raced across her mind as she visualized a tearful Charlie buckling under pressure and confessing, among other things, his rather bemusing encounter with her on the terrace that night.
She desperately dialled his number again, only to have the hated recorded message played out for her again.
Like a familiar ailment, tidal waves of panic began to engulf her. Her pacing picked up in speed as beads of sweat broke out on her forehead. It was a good thing her children were out; otherwise they would have assumed she was having another nervous breakdown. What could she do?
She stopped abruptly. A vague memory of him giving his card to her at the marathon flashed through her mind, followed by a blank when she tried hard to recollect whether she had kept his card or not. Praying for her diligence to have come through for her, Anupama picked up her bag and plunged into it, wading past the layers of cosmetic leftovers, bits of diet chana, ATM receipts, a pamphlet from somewhere, a few coupons from elsewhere and semi-decomposed currency notes, until at the very bottom of the pile – voila! She fished out the rather crumpled card and smoothed it out on the table. The work timings were listed as between 10.00 a.m. to 7.30 p.m., so at least she had enough time to reach him.
Without a second thought, she grabbed her house keys and her purse. Cruel are the tricks fate plays upon us, she mused wryly. Her original intent had been to avoid meeting Charlie for a few days, especially after that Facebook fiasco, but now there was no choice. She didn’t want to dramatize things, but if her frenzied chain of thought was anything to go by, the future of two lives was at stake here, and the terrifying part was that everything now depended on the course of action by a guy whose sense of social propriety was just about as high as his tolerance of closed spaces.
11
Up until this moment, Anupama had been under the impression that the general hair colour for any healthy Indian youth below the age of thirty was, well, black. Now, however, as she sat in the waiting room of Charlie’s salon amidst a row of young girls with auburn, blonde, brown and mahogany streaks gleaming through their fancy hairdos, she couldn’t help but marvel at just how far behind the times she actually was. Even the receptionist sported what appeared to be magenta immigrants warring against the dominant caramel community of her pixie cut. Add to that the piercing on her lower lip and her gothic make-up, and the girl could have served as an ideal ambassador for singles everywhere as per Mrs Govindikar’s pictorial encyclopaedia.
Fed up of feeling like a racoon in a muster of peacocks, Anupama picked up one of the magazines from the rack and opened it, only to be greeted by more pictures of ethereal goddesses with gleaming skins and impossible hairstyles. She flipped past them, seeking a worthwhile article to pass the time, and was greeted in the end by a long, thought-provoking piece titled: ‘The Urban Woman’s Guide to Surviving Menopause.’ In spite of the rather grim reference to her forthcoming physiological phase (as if it were an epidemic contracted from a third-world country), she had to admit she was tempted to go through it for the sake of future reference. However, the moment she spotted the terms ‘bleed’, ‘mucous’ and ‘dryness’, her interest vaporized in a flash, and she plopped the magazine back into the rack. Some things were worth waiting for without spoilers.
‘Who was it you wanted to see again?’ the receptionist called out to her.
‘Charlie.’
‘Right. He’ll be with you shortly. Is this your first visit?’
‘Actually, I am not here for a haircut. I just need to tell him something.’
‘We have a monsoon discount going on.’
‘Thank you, but I am happy with my hair.’
The receptionist gave her a pitying smile and returned to her work. Anupama surreptitiously and self-consciously checked for any flyaway strands in her hair.
Several minutes passed before Charlie appeared, dressed in a black shirt and jeans with a black apron. He had trimmed his stubble down to a goatee today, revealing the tiny dimple on his left cheek, which seemed to smile along with him as he greeted the waiting customers, who fluttered their lashes at him and beamed delightedly. It was like a light switch had been flipped inside each of their animated faces. Something told her he didn’t have to struggle to ensure the loyalty of his customers. The receptionist directed his attention to Anupama, and the moment he spotted her, his jaw dropped.
‘Mrs Arora?’
‘Hello, Charlie.’
His face tensed. ‘What have I done now?’
‘So, you came all this way just to tell me that?’ he asked.
They were seated in the staff changing room. The smell of moisturizers, hair tonics and eleventh-hour deodorants hung heavy in the air, suffocating her slightly, but this was the best private space Charlie could manage at such short notice.
‘You don’t think it’s a matter of worry?’
‘It’s just a lock. I’ll put in a new one if it’s that big a deal.’
‘It’s not about the lock. The society takes these things very seriously. Plus, you’re a bachelor.’
‘Wait, that’s an issue too?’
‘That is the main issue.’
‘Really? Any other problem areas I should know about? Coloured eyes? Chest hair? Non-veg diet?’
‘Charlie—’
‘Look, don’t get me wrong,’ he backtracked. ‘I really appreciate your concern and all. It’s just … I don’t get this whole deal, you know.’
‘You don’t have to get the deal. Just prepare a strong alibi and stick to your story. Don’t forget, I am in it with you now.’
Charlie grinned, his dimple appearing again tantalizingly as Anupama struggled not to focus on it. ‘Yeah, that was very sweet of you. Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. So, you will do something about it?’
‘I will do something about it.’ He nodded.
She nodded b
ack, and then, to underline the conclusion of their discussion, she gathered her bag.
‘Well, I should be leaving then,’ she said, rising.
‘Seriously?’ he asked, surprised.
‘Yes. Why?’
‘I don’t know. At least, let me buy you lunch or something.’
‘No, no, that’s not necessary—’
‘I know it’s not, I just want to. I have this one last appointment before my lunch break. Then, we can go out and grab a bite. Or did you have any other plans?’
She had planned to go home, take a shower, down a few shots of cough syrup, check out JD’s latest male offerings, and then curl up into a ball on her living room carpet until the kids got home. But then, she could always postpone that to the weekdays. Plus, the thought of sitting in a cramped auto for that whole journey home didn’t seem like a very appealing idea to her right now, especially if it was on an empty stomach. Her hesitation was all the encouragement he needed.
He gave a short clap. ‘Perfect! It’s settled then.’
‘You sure it won’t be a problem?’
‘Please, anything for friends … We are friends now, right?’
She shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. Friends. Why did the thought seem weird to her?
As they stepped out, Anupama was about to move back into the waiting room when Charlie stopped her.
‘Come inside,’ he said, pointing at the hairdressing section.
‘I don’t want a haircut.’
‘I know. I just want to show you something.’
Upon entering, Anupama realized the something was rather a someone – namely, the only other absentee from the society meeting today – Mrs Chatterjee. Her hair had little tin foils plastered all over, her eyes glued to the magazine she was reading. Anupama’s first instinct was to back away and sneak out, but Charlie held her back.
‘Are you mad? No one should see us together!’ she hissed.
‘Relax. She’s not like the others.’
Before Anupama could protest any further, Mrs Chatterjee’s eyes fell on her, and she broke into a wide smile. To Anupama’s surprise, she didn’t seem embarrassed or discomfited in the least.
‘Hi, Mrs Arora!’
Reluctantly, Anupama walked over, calculating all the possible ill-consequences of this slip, and cursing Charlie for his idiotic short-sightedness.
‘Hello Divya, you didn’t come to the general meeting today?’
Mrs Chatterjee rolled her eyes. ‘There are better ways to spend a Sunday morning, as you can see.’ She flashed her manicured nails. ‘Besides, Alka has made her sentiments towards my presence abundantly clear anyway. The last two times that I tried to have a say, I might as well have been a wall. And God forbid any of those other goats should go against madam’s boycott of me.’
Anupama realized it was the first time that she had heard anyone call Mrs Govindikar by her first name, and along with it came the dim realization that, technically, she was one of the ‘goats’ as well.
‘Are you here for a haircut too? Make sure you get Charlie. He’s a genius!’ said Mrs Chatterjee.
‘He does seem to be in demand.’
She nodded fervently, her foils bouncing symmetrically along her head. ‘Obviously. Haven’t you seen Mrs Patil? The woman looks five years younger and four kilos lighter.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, from the face, at least. I’m told she is even considering participating in Monsoon Goddess this year. Not that she won’t have competition.’
She patted her hair and giggled. Anupama smiled warmly, amused yet saddened by the odds of Mrs Patil even making it to the shortlist if a bombshell like Mrs Chatterjee were to participate. The irony of a beauty pageant like the Monsoon Goddess – which was held towards the end of the monsoons every year – was that it was designed to be a friendly local initiative aimed at boosting the morale and self-esteem of all the married ladies in the area by showing them that allure wasn’t merely a premarital attribute. Unfortunately, however, it ended up becoming a blood-fest of egos, vanities and insecurities cutting across all ages and income groups. It didn’t matter how old or young, or thin or fat, or light-skinned or dark, or rich or poor, or tall or short, you were. The moment you entered the competition, you would inevitably develop the self-confidence of a cauliflower that had been shredded, squeezed and left to rot outside in the sun. The pressure and lure of stepping out of your comfort zone and into the limelight was phenomenal, and the physical and emotional stakes only seemed to get higher each year, with several casualties being reported. Last year, for instance, Mrs Awasthi had almost ended up passing out right in the middle of her talent round performance, the cause later being attributed (in whispers, of course) to the extreme diet regimen she had been following two weeks prior to the competition to lose three inches around her waist (boiled moong dal and lemon water only with half a banana per day).
‘Why don’t you participate too?’ asked Mrs Chatterjee casually.
Anupama laughed, only to realize a moment later that she wasn’t joking. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘What? You’ve got a nice face, and a figure that would put women half your age to shame. I say go for it!’
‘It’s for married ladies, Divya.’
‘So?’
‘So, technically—’
‘Oh, come on, Mrs Arora. You really think anyone’s going to object on those grounds?’
Anupama stayed mum, uncertain of what to say. Mrs Chatterjee placed her manicured hand on her arm.
‘You don’t have to be what they think you are,’ she said gently. ‘At the end of the day, no one really gives a damn. Trust me.’
Anupama glanced up at her, surprised. The look on her face was solemn, knowing. She realized that this was the first time the two of them were actually having a real conversation, having only bumped into each other at society gatherings before, and she wondered why. Had she really allowed herself to get influenced by the same rumour mill she despised? Or had she just been plain afraid? A ‘goat’, so to speak.
‘Ready?’
She turned to see Charlie beaming.
‘Ready for what?’ she asked.
‘You’ll see,’ he said, barely able to contain his excitement.
Five minutes later, Anupama found herself, sipping a watermelon-mint-cooler juice, seated in one of those fancy hi-tech recliners that massaged all the important acupressure points in the body through a series of subtle, rhythmic vibrations. It made the tumbler quiver a bit, but that was a minor inconvenience compared to the state of pure physical bliss she was in right now, especially with those huge stereo headphones playing relaxing tunes which she could select from the playlist displayed on the LCD screen by the armrest. And the best part was that it was all free, as Charlie had managed to negotiate a first-time demo for her with the powers-that-be, using his clout as one of the in-demand, master stylists in the house. It was good to know people in high places.
Anupama opened her eyes. Against the gentle church music flowing in through her headphones, she watched Charlie chatting with Mrs Chatterjee as he shampooed her hair. Her eyes were closed, and she nodded every now and then with a monosyllabic reply, but the expression on her face reflected Anupama’s zen state of mind right now – calm, relaxed and wholly at peace. She didn’t even feel like she was in a salon anymore. It was more of a spiritual sanctuary, where life had its own pace and all material worries and concerns ceased to have any value.
Floating atop the clouds of this serene buzz, Anupama lazily let her eyes wander around, absorbing the ambience. It was one of those simple yet chic arrangements where everything was done up in white and subtle shades of grey, with sleek overhanging light fixtures and asymmetric mirrors for that added touch of panache. The clouds had broken up briefly outside to release a weak beam of sunshine that filtered into the parlour through the glass walls facing the street, making the white walls gleam even brighter.
Her eyes returned to Charlie. The glar
ing whiteness surrounding them contrasted starkly with his tanned skin, thick black hair and black uniform, making him look like a dark angel of temptation, smuggled by Lucifer into heaven to lure the weaker souls back into the entrapments of desire and other worldly sins. He seemed eminently suitable for this role, especially with those exotic eyes, that effortlessly charming smile, those sinewy arms of his exposed by the folded-back sleeves – strong, almost brutal – offset only by the delicacy of his long, slender fingers that resembled an artist’s, fingers that were now covered with foam and dripping wet as they—
With a jolt, Anupama popped back to her senses, her chain of thought splintering into shrapnel of guilt and disbelief.
Where had that come from? Had they mixed something in her drink?
She hastily changed the music to a less ethereal track and closed her eyes, trying hard not to think of her slip of conscience. There was a limit to getting carried away.
She didn’t even notice when she had dozed off, until a slight nudge on her arm made her jerk upright to see Charlie standing in front of her. He gently took the headphones off her and smiled. ‘Had a good time?’
‘Yes, wow,’ she said groggily, struggling to get up. It was like her muscles had turned to jelly.
Charlie helped her up. His palms felt warm and ultra-soft, probably from all those lotions and what-nots that were routinely used on his clientele.
As she got to her feet, her eyes caught a glimpse of Mrs Chatterjee. Her jaw dropped. It was like the woman had been reborn. Her once long and thick mane had been razor-cut into a gorgeous asymmetric bob with ombre highlights, soft medium-length curls cascading down the sides of her heart-shaped face so delicately one would think they were melting off it. Add to that her dusky skin tone and sharp cheekbones, and you had one hell of a head-turner. Mrs Chatterjee’s feelings seemed to mirror her own. Her eyes literally sparkled as she tilted her face to and fro slowly in front of the mirror, admiring herself from every possible angle. She glanced back at Charlie. She didn’t say a word, but the awestruck smile that lit up her features was better than any verbal compliment. Charlie nodded with the satisfied pride of an artist who has just completed his masterpiece, or a surgeon who has just bestowed the gift of life upon his patient. The moment was so intense and personal between them that Anupama felt like she was intruding just by being there.
Charlie Next Door Page 9
