Polite Society

by Mahesh Rao

  Dimple came through the door and rushed to give Ania a hug.

  “Do I look terrible? I’ve had four hours of sleep,” she said.

  She explained she was exhausted by the demands of one of her new start-up clients, even though she truly believed in their unique product, a newly designed fabric with cutting-edge anti-stain technology.

  “So it’s a bib,” said Ania.

  “It’s not a bib,” said Dimple. “It’s a personal stain guard. It’s especially useful for Indian food, which is full of turmeric and chili powder and other especially staining ingredients.”

  “It’s a bib.”

  “It’s not a bib. This is a sophisticated product for adults. It is what is known as utilitarian chic. I’ll get you a sample so you can see. I promise, you’ll start wearing it at once. Please don’t tell me you don’t spill dal or coffee or wine sometimes. And actually, what’s that on your scarf now?”

  “That’s not dal. It’s a fleur-de-lis motif.”

  “The point is that this is a very common problem in India, and our client is providing a low-cost, environmentally friendly solution.”

  Ania lowered her head and bit her lip.

  “Oh God, why the hell has she turned up here?” said Ania.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t turn around.”

  “But who?”

  “Act casual, smile.”

  “But who?”

  “I said, don’t turn around.”

  Ania stirred the dregs of her coffee and then examined the light trace of froth on her spoon.

  At the same moment a tall woman, her hair in a long, tight braid, her outfit a collection of beautifully mismatched prints, left the café, walking past them on the other side of the glass. Ania waited a couple of seconds and then turned to watch her cross the road. The braid swung with every step.

  “Who was that?” asked Dimple.

  “You don’t know her. Kamya Singh-Kaul.”

  “But why are you avoiding her?”

  “It’s sort of hard to explain.”

  Ania turned again to have another look at Kamya, but she was out of sight. Crossing the road toward them, however, was another unwelcome sight.

  “Isn’t that Ankit?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes, it is.”

  “Why is the whole world in this bloody café today? Wait, did you tell him we would be here?”

  “I didn’t invite him. I just mentioned that I was meeting you here after work.”

  “But why are you even in touch?”

  There was no time for a response as Ankit had come in and, not knowing what else to do, shook hands with Dimple and then Ania.

  “What’s up, dudes?” he asked.

  The greeting sounded forced and exaggeratedly jovial. Ania almost winced.

  He seemed so pleased to see Dimple that he gave her a sideways hug as she beamed at him. Ania almost winced again.

  His hair rose with a bouffant zeal that was not unfamiliar among the young men of North Delhi—but the deep furrows beneath his eyes made him look older. His nails were bitten right down. He ordered a Coke and finished it in three or four great gulps as he leaped from topic to topic like a lemur. Almost every other sentence was a non sequitur. It was exhausting. But she also had to admit he had a guileless charm, which was disarming. She glanced at Dimple, who seemed to have forgotten about her poor night of sleep and was squirming in her seat with delight.

  Ania looked across the street again, in case Kamya was still loitering in the area. The early-evening bustle had closed in on her, and all Ania could see was the crush of traffic broken up by throngs of pedestrians weaving in and out of the chaos. Headlights glared, neon pulsed above shop signs. The shang-a-lang-langs of a doo-wop track had started up in the café. Ankit was still talking, apparently all too aware of his intoxicating effect on Dimple.

  Ania could see that matters were spinning out of control and that it was time to take charge again. Another scheme clicked into action.

  “I’m really sorry, but I’m going to ask for the bill. I have to be somewhere,” said Ania.

  Dimple gave her a little shrug, pasting onto her face an apology about Ankit’s sudden appearance, which Ania knew was completely insincere.

  “I’m having a small party at our farmhouse on Saturday. Just a very casual thing; a friend of mine is visiting from Lisbon and he’s going to DJ. Dimple’s coming; you should too. If you’re free,” said Ania to Ankit as she stood up.

  Dimple stared at Ania, as Ankit looked stunned and then delighted.

  “I’ll text you guys all the details,” said Ania.

  She turned to wave to them from the street and saw that their heads were bowed toward each other. It would take a little more effort, but she was confident that Dimple would see sense. It was Ania’s job to point out that ambitious girls did not fall in love with garment shop owners from Lajpat Nagar. When Dimple came to the farmhouse with Ankit, she would discover that this was Delhi’s most undeniable truth.

  CHAPTER NINE

  IT TOOK WELL over two hours to reach the Khurana farmhouse from Dimple’s home. Ankit and Dimple had been forced to negotiate a broken-down gas truck, a series of dug-up roads, and a demonstration demanding a resolution to the city’s power crisis. As they finally arrived at the approach road to the farmhouse, they could see a few photographers leaning against their motorbikes, ever alert to events there. Flashes blazed as they waited to go through the gates and give their names to the security team. Dimple sucked her cheeks in a little and looked pensively at the dashboard.

  Once they were on the other side of the vast perimeter walls, the neem-lined road seemed endless. Feathery lights wound around the tree trunks and twinkled from the hedges on either side. The headlights raked over forks in the road leading to separate annexes and outbuildings. They dipped down a slope, and as they climbed again, they could hear the pounding of the music under the stars.

  The house emerged into view on the crest of the hill, its immense boxlike symmetry startling in that remote landscape. Lights shone behind a precise geometry of glass panes, punctuated by timber and granite, the roof sweeping across the whole structure in an elegant, shimmering curve. Ankit brought the car to a crawl.

  “Yaar, no way,” he said.

  “Come on, it’ll be fine,” said Dimple with a reassurance she did not feel.

  From the parking area, they climbed the steps to the house, anxiously seeking Ania. Along the paths, staff in golf carts delivered ice and cocktails to the various groups gathered in gazebos around the property. A man waded through a pond looking for something as a woman shrieked with laughter at its edge.

  “I thought it was you,” said Ania, coming up behind them. “Welcome. Someone has to get you some drinks ASAP. Let’s go around the other way; these useless acrobats were such a mistake.”

  When a visiting nouveau cirque troupe from Vietnam became available at short notice, Ania thought booking them would be an interesting way to jolly up proceedings. But as they flipped and flew and hurled their wooden props across the main lawns, they were mainly ignored by the guests. Ania nudged a waiter toward Ankit. Then she took Dimple by the hand and led her to the other side of the lawn, where people sprawled on divans under grapevine chandeliers.

  “You have to meet some of my Bombay friends who are here,” she said. “I’ve mentioned them to you loads of times. There’s Kamaira and Mridul, who are both jewelry designers, and Alleenna, who thinks she’s an influencer—poor thing, literally no one cares what she does, but when you get to know her, she’s really very sweet and warm.”

  “Let’s go back for Ankit, he was here just now,” said Dimple.

  “He’ll find us when he wants, I’m sure.”

  “But he doesn’t know anyone here.”

  “That’s why I invited him. So he can make new friend
s. Will you relax? I’ll go and find him in a second.”

  They passed young men in shirts damp with sweat, a woman who was already holding her gold high heels in her hand. The music was louder here, and the lights strobed across the garden, turning petals silver, hurling pink flares across the ferns and vines.

  Ania deposited Dimple among a group of aspiring documentary makers and then headed back to the house. On her way, she found Ankit and introduced him to a bunch of hard drinkers, overgrown schoolboys whom she invited to parties because occasionally her female friends liked to have sex with one of them. As she approached, she could see that they had all had plenty to drink already, whooping and egging on one another.

  She spotted Dev moments later and linked arms with him. It was something she did to put him at ease, but she was never sure if it had the desired effect.

  “So you’ve deigned to leave the city and come out to the sticks. Thrilling, really,” said Ania, leading him away from the thundering music.

  “I like to see how the other half live,” he said, his voice wry.

  “Do you know people? Would you like me to take you around and introduce you?”

  “I have a drink; I’ll be fine. And this is wonderful. I’m treating it as a bit of an anthropological study. But I probably won’t stay long. Flying out to a conference tomorrow.”

  “Which reminds me, your lecture series thing is coming along very well. I have a great feeling about the Mehras stumping up all the cash.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, I mean, I had to change the gist of the project because all that stuff you sent me was useless. No one would have gone for it.”

  “What do you mean, ‘change the gist’?”

  “I’m really sorry, Dev, but these people aren’t like you and me. They are just not going to get super-excited about a lost monastery in God-knows-where. So I googled some archeological whatnot and sent them a different pitch.”

  “Pitch? What kind of pitch?”

  “So, please don’t overreact, try to stay calm, but you know, all those seals and symbols that have not been deciphered from Harappa and Mohenjo Daro? Well, all that stuff is fascinating. And I thought it would be a great angle, so I told the Mehras that you’ve almost cracked the code and are on the cusp of translating the Indus valley script.”

  “You did what?”

  He suddenly stopped walking and looked at her in utter bafflement.

  “I’m sorry but would you please be reasonable? I’m trying to help you. Look, you know all about archeology, but I know about Delhi society, and what excites them most is anything that says first-time-in-India. The moment I told them that no one had deciphered the inscriptions before, and you’ve now managed the first truly significant deciphering, they were hooked. Now they’re desperate to be associated with the world-famous decipherer and sponsor the talks across the country. Trust me, the Mehras won’t care what you actually say at the lectures, they’ll just want their name all over the invitations,” she said.

  Dev was about to ask her if they could discuss the matter in the house when they were interrupted.

  “Oh my God, you totally look like someone I know,” a girl in a spangly headband said to Dev.

  Dev’s look of confusion persisted.

  “Keep walking, Scheherazade,” said her male companion.

  “I have no idea who she is, but she was totally hitting on you. We’ll talk about all this later,” said Ania, heading off toward the bar.

  “I don’t think she was,” said Dev softly, even though he knew Ania was already out of earshot.

  She headed to the bar area, where Ankit stood alone, one hand gripping the back of a barstool. She took his arm and led him to one side.

  “A double scotch,” she said to the bartender.

  Ankit’s gait already had a little wobble; his eyes narrowed as he tried to focus on what Ania was saying to him. The price tag of his new trousers still hung off one of its belt loops.

  “Look, this party’s really flagging. There’s just no atmosphere. You’ll have to help me get things going again,” she said.

  He looked at her uncomprehendingly.

  “Dimple’s told me you’re an amazing dancer. Could you, you know, raise the temperature, give us a little show?”

  “Me?”

  “Oh, come on, it’s just for a bunch of friends. And don’t pretend to be shy or anything. I already know you too well for that.”

  She gave him a nudge.

  “Just tell me what you want the DJ to play, and I’ll sort it out.”

  “I’m not a good dancer. I don’t know why she told you that.”

  “Will you stop with all this modesty? Look, it’ll impress the hell out of her. Just go out there and do your thing.”

  She slid his glass toward him and clinked her own against it.

  “Come on, if you won’t do it for me, do it for her. Drink up and let’s go.”

  He downed his drink and widened his eyes. He had never looked more eager to please. They approached the large terrace, the speakers booming into the night. In front of them were long limbs and dark heads and beautiful faces, all caught in a net of light.

  Ania led him through the crowd, smiling at friends as she passed them.

  “Stay here, have fun,” she said in the middle of the floor. “I’ll be right back.”

  She said to someone who offered her a sip of his drink, “That guy, you’ve got to make sure he shows you his moves.”

  Turning around to take a last look at Ankit, she disappeared through the mass of bodies.

  He stood still. The heat closed in around him, and he wiped his forehead with his arm. A man backed into him and gave an apologetic kind of shrug. Ankit began to wave his arms in time to the beat and took a few steps. The floor was sticky with residue.

  “Hey,” said a voice next to him.

  He rolled his shoulders and staggered to one side. A woman moved away from him. He tried to say something to her but then stopped mid-sentence. People in the distance had their arms in the air. He swung his arms too.

  A small space was beginning to form around him.

  “Sexy,” shouted a male voice near the wall. “Take your shirt off.”

  A few women near him collapsed into giggles. The cry was taken up around the terrace with enthusiasm.

  “Take. Your. Shirt. Off.”

  Ankit looked confused at first; and then, hesitant. He staggered once again and continued to swing his arms, now more energetically, in response to the crowd’s chant.

  “Shirt. Off. Shirt. Off.”

  Comprehension flashed over his face, and he began to respond to the crowd, pointing at them and pointing at himself. He had pleased them in some way. They wanted more.

  “Off. Off. Off.”

  He pulled the tails of his shirt free of his trousers and a roar swept around the terrace. The bass thudded. He began to undo the shirt buttons, staggering again as he tried to keep his feet moving. More people had gathered on the terrace. A champagne cork sailed over the timber railings and landed on the grass.

  Dimple walked up the pathway, its pebbles glowing silver in the moonlight. The house was lit up, like a ship sweeping through the night. The shouts of the crowd became more distinct as she climbed the stairs to the terrace. A couple stumbled on the top step and shook with laughter. Behind her, twists of light hung down from the trees.

  She stood at the edge of the group on the terrace and looked over their shoulders at the spectacle in their midst. When the bare-chested figure spun around, she felt a horrible lurching, as though she had been swung too high and had lost her grip. Ankit was staggering over the flagstones, trying to undo his belt, a smile struggling to stay on his face. He veered to the left, finally managed to pull his belt off, and then stared at it in surprise. The group roared. He flung the belt over the terrace w
all and began to cheer too, delighted at their reaction.

  Ania came up to Dimple.

  “Here you are,” she said.

  “Oh my God, what’s he doing?” asked Dimple.

  “Is that Ankit?”

  “Yes, but what’s he doing?”

  “I have no idea,” said Ania. “Is this some sort of party trick of his?”

  “Of course not. I’m really sorry; I’m so embarrassed.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Let me go and pull him to one side.”

  Ania stopped her.

  “No, don’t. He might resist, and it’ll cause a scene. And it will all be horrible, in front of everyone.”

  “Someone’s got to stop him. Look at him.”

  “He’ll just get tired. Look, people are getting bored and turning away already.”

  “Oh God, he’s so drunk. I’ve never seen him like this. I’m really very sorry, Ania. I don’t know what to say.”

  “It’s fine, really. Maybe he gets like this all the time. How would you even know? You haven’t been with him that long. Just forget about it.”

  “Off, off, off,” yelled the crowd.

  Ankit began to fumble with the fly and button on his trousers. He lifted his head, as though he needed assistance. The look was on his face again, the eagerness to please, and then a gratitude that he had been welcomed and favored and applauded and accepted. He began to wriggle out of his trousers, struggling to push them down past his thighs. His white boxer shorts gleamed in the flashing lights.

  Dimple turned away.

  “I’ve got to stop him,” she said, her voice wavering.

  In that moment, there was a loud groan of disappointment from the crowd. Dimple turned to see Dev with his arm around Ankit’s shoulders, leading him away from the music, toward the stone bench at the edge of the terrace. She moved through the crowd and stood in silence as Dev helped Ankit settle on the bench.

  “You just need to get him home,” said Dev.

  “He drove us here in his car,” said Dimple.