Polite Society

by Mahesh Rao

  “And now look,” he said, gesturing at the gulmohar-lined Khurana drive. “I have to come here on a secondhand scooter I bought from a butcher.”

  Renu tried to be sympathetic, but her interest in Persian sprang from a desire to read enchanting verses steeped in romance. She had not really reckoned with the despair of an embittered émigré.

  “They used to bow before us and lie on the ground. And then they chased us out like stinking rats,” he told her.

  Renu couldn’t help but feel that this would have sounded a little more palatable in Persian.

  * * *

  —

  WHILE ANIA LOVED her bua’s presence in the house, finding in her someone even more indulgent than her father, she was stricken by what she saw as the tragedy of Renu’s life. A firm believer in the elemental nature of soul mates, Ania felt that it was never too late.

  “I’ve set up a discreet profile for you online, and I’ll monitor the responses,” she had told her recently. “Don’t worry, I haven’t used your real name. And there’s no photo. I’m just looking at what’s out there. You don’t have to do a thing until I put together a short list. You have no idea, bua, but there are tons of creeps out there. Even in your age bracket.”

  Renu didn’t take Ania at all seriously and supposed she would tire of this new pastime as soon as something more diverting came along. In any case, Renu had assumed a long while ago that she would remain single for the rest of her life. She allowed herself no measure of hope: it was too wounding.

  While Ania trawled dating websites, squealing or groaning at the expectations of solvent men in their fifties, Renu continued to leaf through wine auction catalogs, even though Dileep allowed her no part in the acquisitions for their cellars.

  While Ania’s websites yielded nothing, events soon proceeded in an unexpected manner in that most unlikely of locales: the waiting rooms of the city’s leading oncologist. Delhi’s smart set would not let anyone other than Dr. Bhatia anywhere near their tumors, and the parking area of his specialty hospital was choked with Bentleys and Jaguars. Ania was an occasional visitor too. She considered public service commitments important to her personal growth and would drop in at Dr. Bhatia’s hospital whenever she had a commitment-free weekday that took her in that direction. He was, after all, her father’s close friend and had assured her that his patients were among the most desolate and blighted creatures in the National Capital Region. It seemed natural that Ania should visit and spread a little cheer in the wards and waiting areas, distributing handmade get-well-soon cards to bewildered patients and chatting with distraught relatives. No one who favored their privacy was likely to object when they discovered that she was Dileep Khurana’s daughter.

  On one of her missions, Ania was delighted to meet a trim man with a face like a genial frog, who managed a buoyant air in those most funereal surroundings. Colonel Suraj Singh Rathore, formerly of the Garhwal Rifles, had an aunt who was grimly hanging on to what was left of her life in a south-facing room on the top floor.

  “It must be so terrible for you, all this waiting,” Ania said as a waiter brought their coffees in the hospital canteen.

  “Yes, it’s about time. Sad to say, but the poor lady should just go. It’s much worse for her children, of course.”

  “Naturally, naturally.”

  “Just thinking of the fights they’ll have over their inheritance is causing them all to break out in hives.”

  Ania discovered over the next hour in the canteen that he was widowed, with no children, and owned a few bungalows scattered around the Kullu and Kangra Valleys of Himachal Pradesh. He had also been shot in the knee during routine training.

  “In India, dear girl,” he said with a loud chuckle, “the enemy is very much closer than you suppose.”

  Ever since Ania could remember, she had played a game with female friends, cousins, anyone of her age who might be around, called “that’s your husband.” Their gazes would alight on the most uncouth boy, the vilest man, the male most likely to bring forth a great snort of laughter, a shriek equal parts delight and disgust. Leering men with sweat patches under their arms, pimply louts, smelly layabouts with bad teeth: the grosser, the better.

  “That’s so your husband.”

  But occasionally the game would be flipped, and one of the girls would gesture to a shining specimen and say with a sigh, “You know what, he really is my husband.”

  In spite of the colonel’s looks, Ania was bewitched by him and felt that he really was a husband, specifically, one who would be ideal for her bua. On her way home, as the driver sped down the expressway, a plan began to fall into place. There would be no problem inviting the colonel to her home—she had already discovered at least half a dozen mutual family friends. The difficulty would be her dear, wretched bua, who seemed determined to spend her days like some sort of long-suffering abbess, albeit one with a colorist trained by David Mallett in Paris.

  A drinks evening was arranged, followed swiftly by a dinner, but matters were not progressing to Ania’s satisfaction. The colonel and Renu would need a little push.

  Ania discussed the problem with her new friend, Dimple, as they returned from their obstacle course training one weekend.

  “Arre, it’s simple, why don’t they go for a picnic in Lodi Gardens?” suggested Dimple.

  “Are you crazy? A picnic in a public place?” asked Ania. “But I like the idea of al fresco. Maybe we could have a little quiet something in the gazebo here, or I could get them to open up the private garden at the Tapi museum. Maybe Jérôme will be able to cater. Not a bad thought, Dee.”

  Dimple almost glowed with pleasure. She had met Ania only a few months earlier at a PR event and was still unaccustomed to the idea that she could be privy to plans involving the Khurana family. She could remember discovering the existence of Ania Khurana on a gossip website a few years earlier in the gloom of her tiny bedroom in her hilltop hometown. To think that they were now friends still seemed an occurrence of great wonder.

  In due course, a little table was set up under the jacaranda tree behind the Tapi museum, and lanterns were hung in its branches. Renu barely touched her salmon, and at the moment when the colonel’s knee grazed hers, the little garden seemed to turn vast and soundless. She didn’t think he looked like a frog at all. A few teas and one lunch later, the colonel proposed.

  Dileep was astonished by this turn of events. Years ago he had suffered bouts of minor irritation at the thought that Renu would be a permanent fixture in the house. But he had learned to appreciate how she always deferred to him, and eventually it became impossible to imagine her living anywhere else. He came to view Renu like the rosewood furniture that he had inherited from his grandmother: handsome pieces with sturdy legs that represented a precious link to the past.

  And now Renu was leaving to become the wife of a well-liked and charming ex-army officer, a new status that seemed to delight her. The other day he had actually heard her humming. He couldn’t help but feel a little overlooked, although he tried hard not to show it. Renu’s departure was just another manifestation of the monstrous tick of time.

  They all had their reasons to desire a small wedding: the colonel because he hated any kind of fuss, Renu because she thought drawing attention to herself in this way at her age would be unseemly, Dileep because he was not sure how he felt about these developments, and Ania because enormous Indian weddings were gross.

  But a small wedding would have been impossible in Delhi—news would get out, and in no time there would be widespread agitation for the right to participate in a Khurana wedding, no matter how antiquated the bride. So they decided to have a quick ceremony in that most unfashionable of foreign locations: London. Everyone knew that the Russians had ruined the place; it was unlikely that it would be overrun by friends and relatives.

  The colonel’s visa was fast-tracked after a call to a contact at the Bri
tish High Commission, and they gave the Kensington and Chelsea Register Office notice of their intention to marry. Dileep and Ania would fly in for the ceremony but had been careful to impress upon the new couple that they would be leaving the day after. There would be calla lilies, there would be tears, but Ania was determined that there would also be a grant of privacy and discretion.

  Renu and the colonel stayed at the Khuranas’ company flat on a little lane off Fulham Road, opposite a shop that sold fountain pens. On their second afternoon they unlocked the gate to the residents’ garden in the square but were dismayed to see a sign that said that dogs were prohibited. There seemed little point in being in a park with no dogs, so they took a quick, sullen tour of the paths and left, wet leaves sticking to their boots.

  The idea of having any kind of itinerary quickly lost its appeal, and the discussions about museums and matinees petered out. They also soon discovered that a large number of their acquaintances were still unaware of London’s outmoded status and, as usual, had come to vacation on Bond Street. Instead of ducking into shops to avoid the Mehras and the Chhabras, Renu and the colonel spent their days mostly in the warmth of the upper deck seats of various buses, gazing out at the quiet streets of Pimlico, making out the Royal Courts of Justice through the drizzle, watching people struggle with their umbrellas on a blustery King’s Road. In the window of Peter Jones, there was a wedding dress that looked as though it was made of cobwebs. The colonel gave Renu’s hand a little squeeze. This anonymity felt like a freedom that would not be available to them again. So they kept changing buses and returning to the upper deck to look at London in the rain.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IN DELHI, THE winter smog had descended—though in restaurants and clubs there persisted the delusional insistence that it was only fog. People continued to sit on patios and lawns, their eyes stinging and temples throbbing.

  In Mehar Chand Market, along one ledge of a café’s terrace, giant chrysanthemums and dahlias, planted in ceramic urns in different shades of blue, jostled for attention.

  At a large table, a business meeting was in progress:

  “We are looking for a range that will have a sophisticated, corporate vibe. But it will be worn by people who aren’t very sophisticated, so you have to bear that in mind.”

  “I’m thinking a palette of grays with a pop of magenta and maybe yellow.”

  “Done.”

  Ania sat down at the next table, having set aside most of the morning for some work on her novel. Her main character was a less beautiful and more philosophical version of herself. She nursed a dark secret, as did most of the other characters. These were all to be eventually revealed in the book-lined office of a psychiatrist, the novel’s narrator. Before long Ania was deep in contemplation, weighing up the benefits of different venues for her book launch.

  Her tisane arrived in an impractical pot with a choice of tiny cups to match the drinker’s mood. Ania picked “playful.”

  Just as she returned to the mysteries to be revealed, she spotted a man in a navy jacket fiddling with the clasp on his case. She recognized that same jacket, worn day after day; the satchel with a broken zipper; the fraying above the shirt pocket: she was convinced it was all an affectation, a way of indicating to the world that their owner concerned himself only with matters of sublime worth and not mere flummeries. Ania and Dev had practically grown up in each other’s houses. The two families had spent innumerable childhood holidays together, Dev exhorting his brothers and Ania to look at the scenery while they all ignored him and squabbled over a video game. She now felt that she could almost predict his every gesture. She snapped her notebook shut and called him over.

  He approached her table and gave her a stiff peck on both cheeks.

  “You,” he said.

  “You could at least pretend to be pleased to see me.”

  “You know that it’s always a delight.”

  He turned her cup slightly.

  “‘Playful.’ I see,” he said.

  She brushed his hand away.

  “Could we please not have some kind of commentary on my character,” she said. “We all know how astute and clever you are.”

  “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t dare attempt anything so complex,” he said.

  He turned the cup back to its original position. She noticed the down on his wrist and the network of veins on his forehand. His nails looked as though he still bit them.

  “Where have you been hiding? I haven’t seen you for ages,” he said.

  “We’re all exhausted and lying low.”

  “And how is married life treating Renu? I heard the wedding went well.”

  “Oh, it was a beautifully intimate ceremony and she’s gorgeously happy. It’s the most gratifying thing to see.”

  “You must miss her though.”

  “Yes, but I’m not even sure I fully believe she’s gone. Just this morning I was on my way to her room to ask her something. Then I remembered. But I still call her all the time.”

  “Is that wise? Shouldn’t you be giving the newlyweds a little space?”

  “Please. Poor bua would be completely lost without me. I mean, how do you think this marriage even happened?”

  “Well, she met colonel sahib, and I suppose one thing led to another. I’m not sure how you’re responsible for the whole thing.”

  “Without me, they wouldn’t have met. Actually.”

  “You can’t say that for certain.”

  “Of course I can. Bua hadn’t left the house in about a hundred years. I was the one who introduced and encouraged them and organized all those teas and pushed her and comforted her and told her it would all be wonderful. If it wasn’t for me, the poor thing would still be up there watching MasterChef.”

  “So would you say you were an agent of destiny?”

  “You know your sarcasm does nothing for me. I’m not sure why you can’t just admit that they came together because of my efforts and be happy for them.”

  She took a delicate sip of her tea and added, “But I’m sure you have your reasons.”

  “I am happy for them. But even happier for you. Congratulations,” he said. “I’m sure there is a place assured for you in the glorious hereafter. Now, I’d better head back to work.”

  “Have fun.”

  “That seems most unlikely. Another afternoon of banging my head against university bureaucracy.”

  “But don’t they just do whatever you say? You being one of their brightest stars, I mean.”

  “Very amusing. You’ve never tried to get funding for a lecture series from an academic institution, have you?”

  “It’s on my bucket list.”

  Dev smiled and shook his head. Ania caught the resignation in the gesture.

  “Wait, tell me, what lecture series?” she said.

  “I’ve been planning a series of lectures on important archeological discoveries that we’ve made recently. If we don’t make an effort to drum up public interest and pride in this kind of work, we’ll lose the battle against institutional apathy. All those venal assholes in charge.”

  “I’ve never heard you say ‘asshole’ before.”

  “You should come to work with me one day.”

  “So about these archeological discoveries, how are you going to get people interested?”

  “I’m going to talk to them.”

  Dev’s voice was louder now. He had straightened up, and he seemed more alert than she’d ever seen him. It reminded her of the times when Sigmund spotted a squirrel in the garden.

  Ania wasn’t the only person who was taking a keen interest in Dev’s alertness. An attractive woman at the next table was eyeing him with an indulgent smile on her face but looked away when Ania glanced at her.

  She supposed women did often find an allure in Dev’s brand of shambolic intensity. He was tall
and occupied space rather imposingly when he was in full flow. His gray-flecked tangle of hair softened his face; there was a light in his eyes that seemed to come from deep within.

  “Did I tell you about the find in Maharashtra?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course,” said Ania, not remembering.

  “Didn’t you think it was exciting?”

  “Oh, completely.”

  “That’s the kind of buzz I’m talking about. If people knew, they’d be so eager to help us. Just think about it: if our preliminary conclusions are correct, we have found the remains of an ancient Buddhist monastery that no one knew about. It could tell us all sorts of things about the spread of Buddhism, trade routes, the tail end of the Gupta dynasty.”

  He was leaning forward, shoulders tensed, as though surrounded by the ghosts of the Gupta emperors. She felt an immediate ripple of sympathy: partly a desire to help him with a project that he considered vital but also compassion for the fact that these were the matters that governed his inner life.

  “Look, I’ll call some people. Let’s see if we can find some private sponsors for your lecture thing,” she said.

  “Who will you call?”

  “Does it matter? You wouldn’t know them even if I told you. You don’t know anyone. At every party you stand in a corner, being sarcastic, talking to the same four people. Even your sarcasm is too subtle for Delhi.”

  “Kamya said the same thing.”

  “Kamya?”

  “Kamya Singh-Kaul.”

  “You know her?”

  “Yes, she’s back in town for a bit and happened to witness my terrible attempts at small talk. Maybe I should ask her to help. She seems to know everyone too.”

  Ania looked for signs of mischief in his face, any hints of a deliberate reference to the frustratingly ubiquitous Kamya Singh-Kaul. But she saw only a clear-eyed earnestness.

  “You can ask her if you want to, but there’s truly no need,” she said.