by Polly McGee
Preity nodded as if to say that there was no greater guarantee than that. She took Lola’s arm and led her behind the crumbling façade into a narrow arcade and up a flight of stairs that seemed to defy engineering and architecture. They pushed open a door and entered a small, dark café, which wouldn’t have been out of place in a Darlinghurst laneway, Lola mused. It was cool and eclectic, a strange fusion of Euro-India. The place was empty. Behind the counter sat an ancient espresso machine, a handsome Italian guy and an equally beautiful Indian girl.
‘Lino, Nisha, kaisee tum?’
Preity air kissed each of them on both cheeks.
‘These guys saved my life with their coffee when I hit Delhi,’ she said to Lola.
Lola and Preity took a seat and were served up lattes and a light, sweet pastry that was a creation of somewhere between Rome and New Delhi. Nisha came and joined them. She and Preity had done some modelling in Mumbai together before Nisha went to Europe to work, met Lino and came back to bring the joy of coffee and crostini to the subcontinent. Now Nisha worked as a freelance stylist and makeup artist when she wasn’t hanging at the café.
The girls gossiped in Hinglish about fashion and the scene. Lola quietly sipped her latte, marvelling at how much she’d missed coffee. She felt the surreal sense of having been suspended from her fate for a moment. She suddenly realised that Nisha was asking her a question.
‘Have you had mehndi?’
Lola shook her head.
‘It’s Diwali. You have to have some, especially if you’re leaving.’
Nisha went behind the counter and came back with some cone-shaped plastic bags. She snipped off the end of one and took Lola’s hand, then started painting a fine pattern along Lola’s fingers and onto her palm. Lola had seen women with the hennaed patterns over their hands and arms when she travelled on the train. Although she was fascinated by the intricacies of the design, she was not sure she had time to let the snaking mud curls on her hands dry.
‘How long will this take?’ she asked.
The girls looked at each other and back at Lola. ‘Not long.’
Nisha was fast and skilled. She finished and admired her handiwork. ‘Don’t move your hands now, they have to dry.’ She regarded Lola’s face. ‘Do you mind if I try out something on you? I’m doing a photoshoot with a western model next week. Her complexion is just like yours.’
Lola nodded, already immobilised by the henna application and the warmth of female company.
Nisha grabbed a brush and cosmetic bag out of her voluminous handbag and went to work on Lola’s face, the soft tickling of brushes over her eyes and cheeks putting her into a trance. Nisha lopped, braided, twisted and pinned Lola’s hair, finishing her off with a diamante bindi. Lola’s surreal morning had just taken a whole new turn. Nisha snapped some photos on her phone and seemed very pleased with the outcome.
‘Perfect. Grazi for helping me out, Lola-ji.’
Nisha fished a small hairdryer out of her bag and gave the henna a blast, then brushed it off, leaving a beautiful trail up Lola’s wrists. Lola, finally able to move her arms, checked the time on her phone. It was almost eleven am. Shit, time to go – who knows how long it would take to get to the police station from here?
‘Oh, God. I’m late, I have to get … I’m, um, going somewhere.’
Preity, Nisha and Lino waved away her attempts to pay for the coffee as she rushed out the door.
Raj was where she left him. He gave a low whistle of appreciation when he saw her. ‘Sooooooooooo beautiful!’
Lola climbed into the back of the rickshaw.
‘Where to now?’ He gunned the motor weakly.
‘Civil Lines police station,’ Lola said.
‘Are you going to report your beauty as a crime to single guys like me, Aussie?’ Raj gave Lola a saucy look over the top of his sunglasses.
***
She arrived with minutes to spare. Lola paid Raj, folding a couple of extra notes into his palm. It reminded her of the first day at the airport ATM. This time she hadn’t used small currency.
‘Happy Diwali,’ she said.
‘Madam – I wait for you?’
‘No, thanks, Raj. Not this time.’
Lola grabbed her backpack and lugged it to the entrance of the Civil Lines police station. She wasn’t quite sure what to expect. She had imagined it would be noisy and bustling with criminals and lawyers and victims, a lot of shouting and the general chaos that seemed part and parcel of the Indian bureaucracy she had experienced, with a bit more drama thrown in.
Inside, the walls were a dull sand colour, like the police uniforms. It all blended together. The officer at the desk was unhurried. They were obviously on a skeleton staff because of the holidays, and he had drawn the short straw. Or perhaps he hadn’t paid enough to get a long one when the rosters were being arranged. In front of him was an open stainless-steel lunchbox containing the remains of a nondescript yellow vegetable slurry, a small piece of chapati sat on the counter next to a metal mug of tea. He was leafing through a local newspaper, the handwritten sign on the counter read, At Lunch.
Lola stood patiently, waiting for him to acknowledge her. After a polite period of time had elapsed, she cleared her throat gently. No response. She tried again.
‘Excuse me.’
The officer pointed at the sign without glancing up.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
He pointed at the sign again, and painstakingly slowly said, ‘At. Lunch.’
Lola was becoming very irritated. ‘Excuse me, but I’m here to get married.’
The officer finally lifted his head to meet her gaze, slightly raising an eyebrow.
Lola pressed on while she had his attention. ‘At midday. I’m here to get married at midday. And it’s midday.’
The officer folded his paper and dabbed at his generous greying moustache with a handkerchief he pulled like a magician from deep within the pocket of his uniform. He put away his lunch. He examined his watch, and as the big and little hand struck twelve pm, he took the sign and dropped it in a drawer.
‘Yes, madam?’ he said.
‘I’m here to get married.’
‘Groom’s name?’
‘Ramdas.’
The officer rifled through a pile of documents that appeared to have no particular order. He was muttering letters of the alphabet when he finally found what he was looking for.
‘Man not here yet, come,’ he said.
The officer led Lola and her backpack through a sturdy, almost regal door, down a corridor and past some cells. She wondered if she was going to be arrested, if Niz and Amit’s scam had been revealed and she would spend her first Diwali and wedding night in prison. The officer stopped in front of a closed door. He unlocked it and ushered Lola in. There was a table, a couple of chairs and a pen.
‘Wait here.’ He left, shutting the door behind him.
Lola sat. She felt as if she were waiting for an execution, for a bolt of lightning to strike her down, for some kind of reckoning. The door was only an imagined barrier to her and the outside world. She could just get up and walk through it. Lola’s breathing became shallow, anxiety peaking as she thought about her decision. This was crazy. Gajrup was probably drunk somewhere and not even coming. Lola impulsively jumped up and grabbed her bag. Saved from her own stupidity. Raj might even still be outside in the cab.
The door opened abruptly and the portly officer returned. He was followed by a handsome man in a well-cut suit and black turban, and a stylish younger guy who looked vaguely familiar. He put out his hand.
‘You must be Lola. I’m Geet, and this is Akash, my partner.’
Akash gave Lola a firm handshake and a kind smile.
‘We’re the witnesses for the wedding,’ Geet said.
Behind Akash and Geet was the groom, dressed in his wedding suit. He had a traditional sehra on his head, the curtain of fragrant flowers covering his face with a festive mystery.
The groom-to-be was twisting
his hands in a St Vitus dance, his feet shuffling nervously. Geet put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Lola was paralysed, her escape route cut off. She stared at the ground, hoping it would swallow her.
The officer gestured the awkward couple towards the front of the room. Geet and Akash stood to one side, every inch the happy gay family. Lola heard voices coming down the corridor. The officer looked up and saluted as the chief of police entered in full uniform, along with Poona and Chatura.
Lola thought she would die of shame. ‘Poona, how did you …’ she squeaked, her voice failing.
Poona walked over and gave her a loving hug. ‘Geet called us and told us everything, my dear.’
Chatura nodded supportively.
‘You should’ve said something; you know we wouldn’t have missed your wedding,’ Poona chided.
Lola’s lip trembled.
‘Luckily I saw my dear friend Arun at yesterday’s unpleasantness, and he agreed to handle the ceremony, just as a favour for me.’
The chief of police half smiled uncomfortably. ‘Shall we? I have another function to get to.’
Lola stood stiffly, staring straight ahead. The chief hastily outlined why they were there, and asked for any objections. Lola saw Geet subtly grab Akash’s hand and give it a squeeze. She eyeballed the door, waiting for someone else to come through, to rescue her, like in the movies.
The door remained closed.
‘Documents?’
The officer from the front desk produced the documents. The chief scrutinised them to make sure that everything was in order. He stamped them loudly.
‘Identification?’
Gajrup pulled a yellow envelope from his pocket and handed over a passport and birth certificate. Lola fumbled for her passport, tucked in the front pocket of her backpack. The chief looked at them both and nodded.
‘Ring?’
Lola hadn’t even thought about a ring. The groom reached into the envelope, his hand visibly shaking, and pulled out a gold band with a large heart-shaped ruby with diamonds on either side, and a plain gold band for him. They were beautiful. Lola wished they were cheap and farcical, like she felt. She held out her shaking hand and he slipped the ring onto her finger. She could barely touch his hand, keeping her eyes to the floor as she pushed the band over his lumpy knuckle. The chief turned to them, looked at the documents again and gave a disinterested signature. He checked his watch, nodded to Poona and Chatura, and made a hasty exit. It was done. The groom lifted the flowered headdress, his face streaked with tears.
‘I am Bajrang Ramdas, but you can call me Baj … or husband.’
Chapter Thirty
Lord Rama Returns
Baj took Lola’s hand. He looked at the intricate mehndi the girls had sneakily pulled off for the wedding, and how the ring he had bought fitted perfectly against Lola’s hand. There were happy endings to be had, even if sometimes they took some scheming and sleepless nights.
On Akash’s advice, Geet had made a distress call to Poona telling her everything. Chatura had met Gajrup at the airport, taking him straight to Sant Parmanand for some supervised detox and rehab. After Chatura and Poona had offered to make Baj a partner in the hotel business so they could go to London for a year, Baj had sought their counsel on his love for Lola and confusion at the secret wedding to Gajrup.
Between them they had come up with the perfect Bollywood bait and switch, with the fake real wedding reversed to be a real fake wedding thanks to the chief of police who had called his counterparts in Australia and reported the scam, making sure on Poona’s insistence that Lola wasn’t implicated. Akash had bought Geet and himself two first-class tickets to Australia and planned a romantic honeymoon of his own.
***
Sita gave a last enthusiastic wave to Poona and Chatura as they disappeared through departures on their way to London. Sita checked her watch, plenty of time to make it back to Hastinapuri Estate for Lola and Baj’s not-wedding party. She shook her head at the way life worked out. A pariah dog, a lecherous civil servant, a bad actor, a suicidal housewife, a global con, a good Samaritan, a hopeless romantic, a gay romance, a megalomaniac monkey, a massive dose of coincidences, and a happy ending. And people thought Bollywood films were fiction.
Sita had been caught in the middle of it all, idling at the bottom of the career ladder, then boom! How many right places at the right time can a girl be? Not ignoring the potent reach of Poona’s influence. Perhaps she should start believing in some of that non-scientific spiritual stuff. Sita headed towards the short-stay parking bay at New Delhi airport with a creeping smugness. No more metro. No more taxi drivers with their endless detours. As part of her contract to anchor the new current-affairs and sports program, the network had provided her a driver. And now she could even afford to rent her own apartment. No more teenage bedroom.
On a newsstand near the entrance to the airport, a copy of Newsweek India wrapped in plastic was pegged to the display. Sita was on the cover in full glorious colour, with the headline, ‘Who Let the Dogs Out?’ Sita stopped as she reached the doors to the crazy, wonderful, unpredictable outside world and fist-pumped the air, danced on the spot and squealed out loud with happiness. A passing aunty gave her a gruff look. The young ladies of today could learn a thing or two about how to behave in public, the look said.
Sita signalled the black SUV with the network logo plastered along the side. The driver got out and opened the rear door. He said hello to her, and then glanced over her shoulder and nodded a greeting.
‘S’cuse me, mate, don’t suppose I can hitch a ride to the office?’
Sita swung round. It was Kuldeep, carrying Newsweek and wheeling a pair of large suitcases behind him. The driver loaded them into the car. Sita’s mouth and body stayed suspended with shock.
‘What, no hug?’ said Deep.
‘What are you doing here?’ Sita finally found her voice after Deep had crushed her into his chest in a familiar bear hug.
‘I got a call asking me if I wanted to anchor sports on a new current-affairs show back home.’ Deep put on his best Australian accent, ‘Said they had some new sheila at the helm, said she was pretty good – for a sheila.’
***
In the courtyard of Hastinapuri Estate a long table groaned with platters of sweets, piles of snacks and an array of gifts. The sun was just moving down in the sky, creating an electric pink-and-navy horizon against the black silhouette of stately buildings. A diesel streak of jet fuel left a cloud ribbon in the sky as a plane flew high overhead. Baj looked up and waved.
‘Have a nice trip,’ he said.
‘How do you know it’s them?’ asked Lola.
‘I don’t, but I hope they have a nice trip,’ Baj replied.
Lola laughed and was swept into a gentle caress from Baj. Her heart and stomach lurched like she was in love.
‘Bajrang Ramdas,’ Lola said, shaking her head, ‘you really changed your surname just to pretend to marry me?’
Baj nodded. ‘Even I couldn’t pronounce my own surname actually, so it was a gift to our future children.’
Lola gave Baj’s arm a playful slap.
‘Okay, okay, for now, a gift to Rama,’ he said.
***
Rama looked from the balcony down into the courtyard. Music played loudly, firecrackers kept their own random tempo and the smell of food tormented him as it wafted up on the night air. Rama pushed a ball about with his nose and whined softly, wishing he could be transported into the melee. He thought he heard his name being called and pushed his head as far as he could between the firmly fastened rails of the balcony. The party swirled around beneath him, but no one saw the forlorn furry golden face high above. Well, almost no one.
Overhead, Yanki crept along the edge of the balcony. She waited until she saw Rama lie down in a defeated gesture and close his eyes, then she pounced. Game on! Before he knew what hit him, she was swinging around the balcony rail. Rama barked with surprise and delight at the return of his little monkey p
laymate, before she disappeared from sight.
Rama yelped with disappointment until Yanki reappeared with some spoils from the banquet table, thieving a steady supply until they were both ready to burst. Rama rolled over, contented with his full belly and good company. Yanki delicately licked her hands clean as she rested against him like a puppy cushion. The two animals watched from the balcony as Lola gave Baj the birthday kiss he had been dreaming of, and well-timed fireworks exploded across the New Delhi skyline.
Glossary of Indian Words
achaar – pickle
Agni – Goddess of Fire
ajwan – earthy spice
akkan just missed – narrowly missing something
aloo – potato
ayyo poche – expression of loss meaning ‘all gone’
bachana – dear
backar chodu – goat fucker
badmash kutta – bad dog
bahut achar – very good
banderchod – monkey fucker
barbar – behind
belan – rolling pin
Bhabi-ji – formal term for aunty
Bhagwan aapki aatma ko shanti de – God will give peace to your soul
bhai – brothers
bhaji – fried snack
Bhangra – a type of music
bhasar – slang for everything messed up
bhoga – offering to God of food
BhonsRi-Waalaa! – you fucker
bhuja – fried street-food snack
bilkul – whatever/nothing else to say
bombalatty (fatty) – fat gentleman
bringal – eggplant
burfi – sweet
chaat – snack food
Chacha-ji – formal uncle
chaddi dost – Hinglish slang meaning ‘bum chum’
chakka – road blockade
chalisa – hymn to Lord Hanuman
chamcha – sycophantic individual
changa paaji – amazing
channa – dried mung bean
chumbak – magnet/object of attraction
daana – the practice of giving
daaru – cheap street alcohol
dabbah-wallah – lunchbox delivery men
