I summoned the rest of my family. Suresh was in a late parliamentary sub-committee meeting, and Kush’s phone was switched off. I called Ghafoor and sent him off to buy ten kilos of sweets in half-kilo boxes. ‘Twenty boxes of mithai,’ I explained, ‘in half-kilo boxes of mixed pista, kaju and badam barfi.’
‘We should be buying laddoos, mom,’ Luv said, ‘I don’t much like pistachio barfi.’
‘Shadi ka laddoo,’ I told him. ‘Marriage is like a laddoo. You have to taste it before you can understand it.’ An absurd euphoria had overtaken me. Sweets were distributed to all the staff at 18 Dara Shikoh Marg. To the row of vacant-eyed chaprasis who sat outside the house—Mange Ram, Bhure Lal and Dinesh Jadhav. To the typist, PA, PS, the drivers, security guards, one and a half malis, to the dhobi and his family, Ghafoor and his clan, the sweeperess and the cook and the helper.
Kush returned too, asking about his kurtas and if I had remembered to pack his Nike shoes.
‘Your twin brother is getting married,’ I said, ‘and Paromita will soon take charge of his life. It’s time you got married too, son. I have a line-up of candidates for you.’
‘All women are the same,’ he replied, before bursting into an energetic and enthusiastic bhangra, and getting Luv and Paromita to dance in step with him. He lit up the leftover crackers from last Diwali, and they were all going ‘Balle Balle’ as I clicked the picture on my mobile and saved the moment for eternity. A family moment.
When at last Suresh arrived I greeted him in theatrical congratulatory mode—covering my head with my sari pallav, like a Rajmata, and delicately popping a large piece of pista burfi into his astonished mouth.
‘Congratulations! Our Luv has proposed to Paromita—and she has accepted!’ I said, twisting the sequence a bit. The truth has to be colour coordinated when it comes to sons and husbands.
Suresh choked and his face went purple. ‘That’s wonderful,’ he said. ‘Have you spoken to her parents?’
‘Geeta isn’t answering my calls,’ I replied.
‘Give me her number,’ he said. ‘I should speak to her.’ But Geeta wasn’t picking up her phone, still.
Suresh called for his PA. ‘Get me the number of Mrs Geeta Devi, Minister for Coal, Mining and Industrial Production in Chhattisgarh,’ he said. In less than seven minutes, the PA was holding the cordless and smoothly addressing the PA on the other end. ‘I am calling from New Delhi,’ he said. ‘Mr Suresh Kaushal, the honourable Minister himself, wishes to speak to Geeta Devi ji, Saar.’
The PA handed the phone to Suresh. ‘Geeta ji, ek khush khabari hai,’ Suresh said, in his lawyer’s voice. ‘We haven’t met for many years—but we were all friends of Paro, me, my wife Priya, and your husband Lenin. And now our children—your daughter Paromita and our older son Luv—have decided to get married. By God’s grace.’
He gave it a precise, eloquent dramatic pause, before switching over to an asking-for-votes voice. ‘We trust—we know—they have your blessings. When will you be in Delhi next, Geeta ji? We should fix a date for the wedding soon. Of course it must be when Parliament is in session.’
She didn’t ask to speak to me. Suresh said she was planning to be in Delhi soon, to discuss the marriage, and I left it at that.
‘There’s a lot of money in Eastern UP, Chhattisgarh and Jharkhand,’ Kush remarked thoughtfully. ‘Poor states but rich in resources. There’s a lot of action there . . .’ Then he went off to pack his suitcase for the SEZ site visit.
As for Lenin, he had simply disappeared from the radar. Everyone, including Geeta, her staff, and even Paromita, seemed vague about his whereabouts. I’d given up on locating him; I’d tried my best and failed. It seemed odd not to have spoken to our future daughter-in-law’s father, especially when he was our oldest friend. Knowing Lenin, he would surface in good time, and we would share our joy and celebrate together then.
ALL KINDS OF STRESS. POLITICAL TENSIONS AND PERSONAL CONFUSION. ‘The Left is blackmailing the Nation,’ Suresh declares, with monotonous predictability, over breakfast, lunch and dinner. He’s looking gloomy these days and tense and his eyebrows, never his best feature anyway, are all knotted up. The distinguished Cabinet Minister for Agriculture is giving him grief as well, encroaching on his portfolio and being rude about it in the process.
Paromita’s mother, Geeta Devi, is expected in Delhi over the weekend, but we have only managed an inaudible attempted conversation with Lenin. He’s in Chhattisgarh, fasting for the release of Dr Binayak Sen, whom the government had branded a Maoist and put in jail. I spent half the morning trying to inform Lenin of the engagement, but the line would crackle or go dead every time our conversation reached the crucial point. Finally I gave up and sent him an SMS.
‘Our older twin Luv and your daughter Paromita decided to marry. All delighted. Love, Priya.’
Another round of frustrating, inaudible calls from his mobile, and a half-message that read ‘Delig’.
Geeta Devi arrived in a cavalcade of white Ambassador cars with blue and red pilot lights whirling on the top. The security had alerted me about her arrival, as instructed, and Kush and I were in the porch to receive her as she dismounted from her official car, with assistants and minions from the other vehicles scurrying to open the door for her. It was over two decades since I had last seen her, and she had weathered the years well, she seemed to have somehow grown taller, even after I had surreptitiously assessed the height of her heels. It wasn’t her slightly archaic bouffant either—she just stood tall, in every sense.
Geeta gave me a regal nod with a hint of a smile. She was wearing a tassar handloom sari with a deep green border, and a set of flawless pearls choked against her throat. She bent down to embrace me, and simultaneously lifted a stern eyebrow at one of her attendants. Suddenly I was surrounded by sixteen baskets of fruit, all covered up in orange cellophane paper, and no less than forty kilo-boxes of sweets. I looked around me in a wave of sudden panic—at the bananas, pineapples, guavas, custard-apples and the piled up mithai-boxes. Geeta regarded me impassively. ‘Badhai ho, Priya ji,’ she said, or rather, intoned. ‘And where is Suresh Bhai?’ This was said with rather more animation.
Kush bent down low and touched her feet and she gave him a gracious aashirvad.
‘This is Kush. It’s his twin brother Luv who is marrying Paromita,’ I explained.
‘Luv and Kush—what blessed names! We will have Ram-Rajya in our family now,’ she said, only half jokingly.
How times change, how life changes, how people change. I could never have imagined the Geeta of yore, the subjugated small-town bride of my friend and rakhi brother Lenin, would transmute into this power-savvy politico. Of course she had a determined chin even then, but the cast of a jaw is not enough to propel someone into the political stratosphere. Her father had been an ex-chief minister, I recalled. But it had been a long journey, a bloody battle, any which way you looked at it.
I led her into the living room. Suresh was waiting for us. ‘Where’s Luv?’ I asked worriedly. ‘And Paromita? Wherever are the kids?’
‘I told them that I wanted to see you alone,’ Geeta said, with the firm, effortless authority she seemed to have acquired. ‘There are many things young people don’t need to know about. Beta Kush, why don’t you go join your brother and bhabhi for a while?’
That should have alerted me, but of course it didn’t. Ramdhan brought in a tray with Darjeeling tea, laddoos and freshly fried pakodas. Geeta whipped out an oblong velvet box from her large Shantiniketan leather handbag as he exited.
‘For you, Priya didi,’ she said, bending down to notionally touch my feet, then depositing her gift in my lap, along with a dried coconut.
I opened it apprehensively. A diamond necklace glittered against the deep blue velvet, finely-crafted swirls of light clustering into a breathtaking garland.
‘I can’t possibly accept this!’ I protested, but she had already extracted another smaller velvet case from her handbag, and opened it with a sharp click. A
pair of cufflinks twinkled next to Suresh’s cup of tea. I was awestruck by their size and quality, and, to my embarrassment, an audible, appreciative gasp escaped me.
Geeta adjusted her own modest pearl ear-studs and threw me a winsome smile. ‘I am giving you the most precious gift of my only daughter,’ she said softly, ‘these diamond-shaimonds are nothing before that.’
It was time for Suresh to take over. ‘We belong to one-and-the same family now, Geeta ji,’ he said heartily. ‘Blood is always thicker than water, even if we belong to opposing political parties! Congress-BJP-BJO-LJD—what is the difference, I say? Only alphabets. After all, in the end we are all working together towards the task of nation building. Except the Left parties—they are all too busy blackmailing the nation!’
Geeta heard him out with an appreciative smile. ‘That’s absolutely true, Suresh Bhaisaab!’ she exclaimed emphatically. ‘You are completely right. Parties—ideologies—kya farak padta hai? In the end we are all the same. Country before self, I always say . . .’
A sly, cautious look crept into her face. ‘And then we must remember, one family, two parties is always the winning formula. A foot in both boats works in all seasons.’
‘Absolutely!’ Suresh endorsed. ‘We are one happy family now. Family ties are the backbone of our nation. Even our other son, Kush—you met him—has joined politics. For the task of nation building. Our two families are now one, with a common manifesto. It is time we discussed the marriage date with all details. When is your husband, our friend Lenin—I mean, Avinendra—when is he going to be here? Or we can come to Chhattisgarh, of course, whenever you say, to discuss.’
I watched Geeta’s face change colour. It grew mottled and dark before my eyes. Her breathing changed too. She was no longer in control, I could see that. ‘Oh, our dear Lenin ji,’ she said, attempting to sound matter-of-fact. ‘My dear husband is on a fast-unto-death for Dr Binayak Sen’s release. And I honour his point of view.’ A pious tone entered her voice. ‘After all, we are a democracy.’
‘Yes, yes, yes—the Argumentative Indian,’ Suresh said, hastily and a little inconsequentially.
Geeta Devi seemed to have recovered from her rage. Blotches began to clear. ‘But I have spoken to my husband about this,’ she said, evenly. ‘I have spoken to my husband, and he agrees that our Paromita must be married before the end of the year. No delays and absolutely no postponements. Our family Guru, a famous astrologer from Gorakhpur, has specifically advised us on that. No postponement.’
She was playing nervously with her ring now, a large block of sapphire set in silver, obviously prescribed by the abovementioned astrologer. ‘Everybody in UP, MP and Chhattisgarh goes to our Guru ji for advice,’ she continued. ‘Politicians, Industrialists, Film Stars.’
‘No postponements,’ I seconded. ‘We want Luv and Paromita to be married as soon as possible. But where are they?’
And the young couple, who had been waiting in Luv’s bedroom, arrived as though on cue, looking suspiciously flushed. What had they been up to? They appeared so deliriously in love that all the obscure shadows of our conversation, the awkward edges between us, lifted before their simple joy.
Kush seemed really impressed by Geeta Devi. ‘I am your political disciple,’ he declared. ‘Your chela will learn at your feet. You shall be my political guru.’ You had to give it to him—he knows how to grovel. It’s an essential skill in party politcs.
Later, I put away the diamonds safely in the locker of my steel cupboard. ‘I shall keep these for Paromita,’ I resolved. But I knew that somewhere their glitter had seduced me, and that Geeta had won an important advantage in an undefined battle.
Winter is creeping in and the nights are getting colder. It’s in November that Delhi transforms. Clear skies, the garden in bloom and the social season in full swing. I’ve had my silk saris ironed and dry-cleaned, and aired my shawls, all the pashminas and jamavars and jamdanis I’ve collected over the years.
It’s unbelievable how things proceed at such a slow and stifling pace, and then suddenly they take a jump and everything is turned upside down and on its head. Life has changed forever. Soon, I shall hand the baton over to my daughter-in-law. Somehow, the thought makes me feel not older, but younger. The fifties are the new forties and all that. It’s to be a new phase in my life, I’ve decided that and I’m ready for it.
Daya came to measure me for a blouse. It is to be in the latest fashion, cut low, with a saucy pussy-cat bow at the back. I’m determined to change my style, somehow—if only I can find it!
Poonam called again. She was utterly distraught. Her chihuahua, Lexus, has been bitten by a street dog and developed respiratory problems from the shock.
‘Have you taken him to the vet?’ I asked.
‘The vet came to Lexus,’ she replied, her tone changing. ‘My poor little prince has been admitted to the Canine Elite Medical Centre in Mehrauli. I tell you, Priya . . . these street dogs should all be shot dead. Bang! Bang! Bang!’
‘Bow wow wow!’ I replied. Street dogs had the right to live, didn’t they?
‘What was that?’ Poonam asked suspiciously.
‘Nothing’ I responded. ‘Nothing at all. Just a bad line.’
Suresh met Manoviraj Sethia yesterday, at a lunch hosted by the World Economic Forum. ‘He hugged me,’ Suresh reported, ‘that Sethia fellow hugged me so hard that I thought my ribs would crack! Then he gave me a chummi on my cheek and said “Let the Sethia and Kaushal clans unite. You have two sons and I have two daughters. You give me one son and I give you one daughter and then we can be one family!”’
‘What did you say to that?’ I asked, in a cautious, official sort of voice.
‘I said Kush and Suki should meet up again,’ Suresh replied. ‘I am going to have a discussion about it with Kush—he is coming with me to Bangalore this weekend. I will discuss the pros and cons with him, man to man. Don’t worry, Priya darling.’ Then he winked at me and did a thumbs up!
Something has happened to Suresh. Yesterday, he gave me an enormous bunch of silver-sprayed red roses. I looked at them with suspicion. All the women’s magazines have red-alert warnings about cover-ups and guilt gifts. Then I realized that the flowers had been presented to him at an official function; a tell-tale card— ‘To the Hon’ble Minister’—was hidden in the wilting foliage. Today, Suresh presented me with an expensive embroidered pashmina shawl. ‘I feel closer to you, Priya, than I ever have before,’ he said, ‘and with Luv soon to be married, and then Kush, we will be left with just each other.’
I wrapped the shawl around me. It felt soft and luxurious, like an embrace. I’m looking forward to wearing it this winter.
The red roses began to droop overnight. That’s the problem with these hybrid Tata roses and perhaps with late romance as well. The silver spray couldn’t have helped either. I tried to revive them, with a fizzy Disprin pill, but it didn’t work.
THE RED ROSES SHOULD HAVE WARNED ME, AND THE EXPENSIVE SHAWL. Well, the women’s magazines are quite right about guilt gifts. Suresh has been having an affair. This new development has come as a total shock, though I should have known it all along. Or perhaps I did know, from that phone call to the hotel bedroom, but I wouldn’t admit it to myself. I was simply in denial.
We had gone for dinner to the Ashoka hotel, where The National Association of Tinned Fruits and Canneries gave me a huge gift-wrapped ‘presentation’ hamper. We walked out in step, the distinguished politician and his dutiful wife, and Suresh gave me a hug, right there on the porch in front of everybody. ‘Lets stop for a coffee on our way home, Priya,’ he said.
The coffee shop at the Ashoka is really run down and decrepit, and full of Russian hookers. Or so I’m told. ‘Let’s go to the Oberoi,’ I suggested. ‘It’s classier.’
In the car, Suresh was unsually reflective. ‘There’s something I have been wanting to discuss with you for a long time, Priya,’ he said, with the practised sincerity that has cloaked him ever since he turned full-
time politician.
Alarm bells were already sounding in my head. ‘We’ve been neglecting each other, Suresh,’ I said. ‘A quiet cup of coffee together is just the thing.’
So there we were, in the elegant lobby of the hotel. Suresh marched in with the slow, deliberate strut of a grade one VIP, and I trailed behind him in reflected glory as he was accosted by the movers and shakers of the capital. This continued in the coffee shop, until we were at last left alone with a cappuccino for me and a latte for Suresh and an over-obsequious waiter listening in to every clink of our coffee spoons.
‘I want your advice,’ Suresh began, ‘and your cooperation as well, Priya. I have been consulting this astrologer—through some well wishers’ (he blushed slightly at this point) ‘and a group of friends who have formed a discussion group.’
I was suddenly furious. I had been quiet too long. ‘A discussion or group to consult an astrologer?’ I exclaimed. ‘Not Nnutasha again? No cows in my name—don’t waste your time, buddy.’
Was I crossing the Laxman Rekha? I had never called him ‘buddy’ before. But here I was, about to become a mother-in-law soon. Time for me to assert myself. And for him to grow up.
Suresh reproached me gently, even cautiously. ‘What’s happened to you, Priya? You have changed. You have become so aggressive lately!’
‘There is something the matter with you, Mr Suresh Kaushal, not with me,’ I replied, as calmly as I could. ‘You who have always been so rational. An intelligent lawyer, a thinking man—a true intellectual—and here you are, downgrading yourself before my eyes, succumbing to superstition. Can the spelling of your name change anything? Do you really believe that?’
‘Nnutasha is simply a member of this group,’ Suresh replied, appealing rather than arguing his case. ‘There are some businessmen and lawyers and some media persons who meet once a month, on the first Monday of the month. They seek harmony—harmony between litigants and lawyers, lawyers and judges, bureaucrats and industrialists, politicians and the media. It’s a noble cause . . .’
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