by Mahesh Rao
“Are you ready to leave? My driver’s here. We can drop you off, and he can see about his car tomorrow,” said Dev.
She nodded. “I’ll get his shirt,” she said.
“Come on, you can walk,” said Dev to Ankit, helping him up.
Dimple followed them as they labored down the steps and along the pathway. She reached for Ankit once or twice, as though she felt able to help, and then fell back again. Their steps crunched over the pebbles, the sound echoing as they moved toward the parking area, farther away from the music. Ania came rushing down the steps a few minutes later, holding her empty glass.
Dev and the driver helped Ankit into the backseat of the car, pushing his legs clear of the door. Dimple climbed in next to him, without a word.
“If you think he’s going to be sick or anything just say, and we’ll stop,” said Dev.
He straightened up and turned to look at Ania. He said nothing for a few moments and then climbed into the front seat.
She put her glass down on the hood of a car. No one said anything to her. The two front doors slammed, and the car pulled away. She watched its taillights disappear around the bend in the road. Laughter and a thumping bass continued to fill the night air behind her. In a couple of hours the music would stop, and the silence would lie close for a while, upon the chrysanthemum buds in the flower beds, spreading over the terraces and gardens, settling above the crests and slopes of the grounds. It would be broken soon after dawn by the rustle of hares in the undergrowth and the long wails of peacocks. But for now the noise thundered as Ania remained standing alone in the driveway, still staring into the darkness.
CHAPTER TEN
THE GAHLOTS’ FOUR-STORY house, with its great stone façade, had a number of entrances and staircases—and visitors were normally escorted to the correct room by a uniformed member of staff. Ania, of course, knew exactly where she was going. The top floor had been converted into an apartment for Dev, the rest of the family feeling that he should be free to populate it with journals and fellow academics without any embarrassment.
She stood in the doorway, her arms folded. It was a mission of repentance, and so she had dressed entirely in black, from her crepe wrap dress to the leather cuff around her wrist. As she looked into the room, she thought grimly that if she had been able to procure a hat with a long veil, she would probably have worn that too.
“I came to say I’m sorry about last night. Thank you, it was really good of you to take them home,” she said.
“You can come in, you know,” said Dev.
“I mean, it wasn’t that bad, what happened. Some people just can’t handle their drink,” she said, taking a few steps into the room.
She watched him as he picked up the newspapers strewn across the sofa and looked for somewhere to put them. He walked to the bookcase and then the dining table and finally dumped them on the credenza.
“Next time, we’ll need to make sure he sticks to fruit juice,” she said.
“There’s going to be a next time?”
“I don’t know.”
“Please stop, Ania. I saw you plying him with booze. I think we both know what you were trying to do.”
“What was I trying to do?”
Dev did not reply. The whir of a lawn mower drifted through the open windows, rising and falling as it moved up and down the garden. The clock in the hallway began to strike. They stood across from each other until the twelfth chime sounded. And then Ania sat down on the sofa.
“If you’re not careful you’re going to turn into one of those vicious old bags who sit in people’s drawing rooms with their dark glasses on, taking note of every bit of gossip. Maybe you need a new interest in life,” he said.
The lawn mower fell silent. Prickles surged across her skin.
The look on Dev’s face was unfamiliar, almost hostile. A mist seemed to pass before her eyes, and she scrambled to regain the thread of their conversation.
“I get that you’re almost a decade older than me, but do you have to patronize me as if you’re the village elder?”
“What’s patronizing about telling you that you’ve got everything going for you but you’re still wasting your time on all this socialite nonsense? May I ask what happened to the book you’re working on?”
Ania stood up.
“I came here to say I was sorry, not to be subjected to a personal attack.”
“Will you calm down? I’m just asking about your book, because if you’re serious about writing it, shouldn’t you be, well, writing it?”
“If you must know, I’ve got a place at a writing residency in Italy. An extremely well-regarded one. They’ve seen samples of my work.”
She preferred to leave out the influence of Clarence Lam’s effusive letter.
“That’s great to hear, congratulations,” he said.
He moved as though intending to give her a hug, but it turned into a few enthusiastic pats on her back.
“That’s all I had to say. I’m leaving now,” she said.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be harsh and I didn’t mean to lecture you. Please, let me take you out to lunch to make it up to you. I just need to send an e-mail and then we can go.”
“If you insist.”
“I do.”
He looked down at her wrist.
“Your thingie is loose. It might fall off.”
He took her hand and, for someone who paid such little attention to his own grooming, reknotted the cuff’s ties with great care.
“That’s better now,” he said.
She looked at her wrist. It almost brought a lump to her throat.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said.
Ania walked around the room, adjusting a hydrangea that threatened to tumble out of its vase, folding the jumble of newspapers. Unwanted items from the rest of the house were often sent up to Dev’s floor, as it was assumed that he would not care or perhaps even notice: a coffee table fashioned from an old cartwheel, a bust of some morose ancestor, and in the corner, a battered upright piano. Books and journals were piled on most of the surfaces, including the floor. But the walls were bare: no shelves and no paintings. Dev seemed to live a life in opposition to everyone else.
She felt a sense of unease, as though there was some vital task she had forgotten. Her mind was foggy, her dignity injured by her own actions of the previous night. She needed, more than anything, to rake over the conversation she had just had with Dev.
A breeze brought with it the smell of freshly cut grass. There was a time, she suddenly remembered, years ago, when she had lain in the long grass and listened to Dev’s voice, unable to make out all the words but content to stare at the passing clouds as he spoke. He had been reading out loud; she was sure it had been something funny, maybe comic dialogue from a book or jokes from a magazine. A tennis match had been in progress somewhere behind her, and she could hear the pock, pock of the rackets against the ball, cries of “out” and “your serve,” the occasional cheer, but mainly Dev’s low voice wrapping itself around the knoll on which she lay.
It was the same summer that she had asked Dev whether he remembered anything about her mother. The scandalous circumstances of her death meant that Ania received only nervous and evasive replies on the occasions when she brought up the matter. She had wondered whether Dev would be any different.
A graveness had pooled in his eyes.
He had said, “I remember her laughing and always smelling of the same perfume. It was so subtle but distinct. There was a time when I got into a fight at school and somehow ended up at your place. She took me upstairs and told me about all the fights she had got into at school. I didn’t believe her, but I remember standing with her at the bedroom window, both of us laughing at the wild stories she told me.”
He had said no more. And neither of them had spoken of her mother again.
She put the folded newspapers on the coffee table and began to look through the other bits of debris: vinyl records, pages torn from note pads, fliers for university events. Also lying there, in plain sight, was a copy of Kamya Singh-Kaul’s book. It winked in its glossy jacket, a row of silver skyscrapers catching the light. He seemed to have given it a degree of prominence—it was not shoved into the recess of some obscure bookcase, the natural home for copies of unappealing books pressed into one’s hands by acquaintances. Ania’s own novel, which she had introduced into conversations with such confidence a few months ago, now felt like a burden that oozed reproach, a secret failure accompanied by a rush of anxiety and hopelessness every time she thought about it. Dev’s questions had reminded her that she often felt a deeper apprehension that she had left unexplored.
She picked up Kamya’s book and felt an unpleasant contraction in her chest as she read the cavalcade of breathless quotes from distinguished authors. Her author photograph—dark lips, cheekbones, all with the glaze of a museum piece—was exactly what Ania would have expected. She turned to the back of the book, looking for the acknowledgments page, eager to see exactly what combination of nepotism, flattery, and abuse of position had resulted in the book’s outstanding success. His name leaped out at her as though it had been scrawled with a marker pen.
“To my dearest Dev Gahlot, for all the love and inspiration across four continents.”
There were probably dozens of Dev Gahlots who could have drifted into Kamya’s life to provide inspiration and love. Ania flipped to the front pages and found the signature: “To Dev, thank you for the big ears and the little ones. With love, forever, KSK.” Horrified at what she might find, Ania turned the pages looking for the dedication.
“For GN,” it read.
While it was a relief that Dev’s name was absent, Ania wondered whether the initials could refer to some revolting little nickname for him. She returned the book to its place and walked to the other side of the room, as though moving away from its toxicity.
She was astonished that Dev had chosen to form some sort of close bond with Kamya. They shared private jokes about ears. They had pursued each other across four continents. She had never credited him with much intuition, but she was surprised by the extent of his misjudgment.
Ania believed herself to be an impartial and dispassionate judge of character, certainly fairer than the majority of people in her set. She had befriended all kinds of people and felt she had displayed a distinctly generous spirit. But Kamya had always defeated her. She presented a glassy indifference to anything Ania had to offer, whether an invitation to dinner or an acidic retort. She volunteered nothing, disclosed nothing. Attempts to draw her out or share a confidence were futile. People were “sweet” or “nice,” places were “great,” and a few times she had used the word “simpatico.” Her gaze was cool and hard. As others spoke, her eyes would dart from the keepsakes on the mantelpiece to the fringe of a Persian rug to the prints on the wall, as though she were a bailiff compiling an inventory.
She also had an infuriating habit of stating the obvious. Ania was at a loss to understand how a person who apparently wrote the most incandescent prose and displayed searing insights into the human condition could catalog the most banal observations in that low monotone. The state of the traffic, the time of day, the end of the rain, previously noted and then dismissed by everyone else, were all pronounced upon with new authority.
And to add to all these considerations, there was Kamya’s unbearably tiresome long braid, which emerged from her crown like a glossy declaration that its owner was straining to return to her roots and attain the purity and authenticity of a simpler time. It swayed and swung, or lay glossily over her shoulder, or was on occasion coiled on her head like some sort of primitive coronet. Sometimes Ania felt that it was the braid, more than anything, that she detested.
And now Ania was faced with the discovery that her old friend was perhaps in love with this creature. Poor, sweet Dev. Even if any of this was true, she felt sure that he had been manipulated and misled. She pictured his puzzled face, the lines on his forehead creased into an innocent appeal. A few years ago they had danced at a wedding, and he had moved as though he was trying to shake a randy dog off his leg. She had tried to help him, taking his hand, trying to get him to match the rhythm of her arms and hips. He had looked at her in utter helplessness.
She supposed she could simply ask him; she had never hesitated before. But how was she to phrase such a question? Do you like her, Dev? Are you into her, Dev? Is there something going on between you, Dev? What’s the matter, Dev? Are you just sleeping with her, Dev? Ania felt an odd physical reaction, a snag, a sharp jerk somewhere within.
She was quiet during the drive to the restaurant and continued to be subdued as she slid into an ivory-colored banquette and opened the menu, barely registering its contents. Dev sat opposite her, enthusiastically reading out the names of the dishes he fancied—“duck with, what’s this, caramelized apple ravioli, well, it’s always hard to resist a duck”—and listened to a waiter announce the specials with great attention. A pianist played lunchtime jazz standards, his foot a little overenthusiastic with the pedals. A vertical garden rose up the wall opposite them, starbursts of silvery alyssum splashing through the ferns and trailing moss.
The restaurant manager hurried over to greet them and to ensure that the table was to their satisfaction. Complimentary tastings were sent over, frothy concoctions in little glasses or agglomerations perched on porcelain spoons, all of which Dev consumed unthinkingly.
When her salad arrived, Ania slid the endive around her plate.
“So have you read Kamya’s book?” she asked.
“Yes, it’s wonderful. What did you think?”
“Oh, I haven’t read it.”
“I should lend it to you. In fact, it was right there, on my coffee table.”
“Oh, what a shame, I never saw it.”
“It’s set in Manhattan over the course of twenty-four hours. I think you’d like it. She has a strikingly detached tone when she writes about exile and the despair of belonging everywhere and yet nowhere. It takes the sentimentality out of it and turns it into something very nuanced and polished. Crystalline. That’s a good word for her work. Crystalline.”
Ania scrutinized Dev as he spoke about Kamya. His eyes were bright; his hand gestures animated. He even forgot to ask for more bread. She felt thoroughly deflated.
“Do you think she actually wrote the book herself?” she asked.
“Stop being so absurd. We’re hardly talking about a bit of maths homework that she could have copied from a friend. You’re being catty now.”
“Honestly, I’m not. I just find it surprising that she’s able to absorb and convey these insights so well. I’ve always found her uncommunicative and wholly absent. There’s a real emotional disconnection, do you know what I mean?”
“Well, she’s certainly reserved and private. And never talks about her work in public. Maybe that gives the impression of disconnect. But she’s incredibly astute and sensitive and so wonderfully precise with her language.”
The intensity of Ania’s envy was new, blinding, hateful. She had never envied anyone before; there had been little reason. This new resentment was especially dismaying since it concerned an accomplishment that Ania was slowly beginning to suspect might always evade her. But her thoughts instantly turned to the possibility that it might not, and the antagonism blazed anew.
She was relieved that Dev seemed oblivious to her feelings.
A woman in a brocade sari waved at Ania from the doorway and blew her a kiss. Ania nodded at her with the briefest of smiles before looking away. The woman continued to stare in their direction but eventually trudged behind the restaurant hostess toward her own table.
“Thank God, I thought she would come over. You can never go anywhere in this stupid town
without seeing some moron you want to avoid. And who dresses like that for lunch? Anyway, what were we talking about? Oh yes, I had no idea you know Kamya so well,” she said.
“Not really surprising, is it? We’ve always moved around with the same people. In Delhi. And New York. And then she was in London at the same time as me. I’d say she’s a fairly close friend. She can be brilliantly wry when you get behind the reserve. I remember when we found ourselves at the same hotel in Rio a few years ago. She had come with a boyfriend, but then they split up right there, on the way to Ipanema Beach, the day they arrived. He took a flight back home, and she decided to stay on. She was very funny about the whole thing,” he said.
“You’ve known her on virtually every continent. Dev, do you think this might be some sort of disguised walnut? I can’t bear them,” she said, holding up her fork.
“I’d swear on my life that it’s a walnut.”
“Anyway.”
“Anyway. You should read Kamya’s book.”
“After everything you’ve said, I’m so looking forward to it.”
“Are you being catty again?”
“Here, have my walnut.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SOME OF THE talk was exaggerated, but the exact truth was known in many parts of Lutyens’ Delhi, the few square miles of broad avenues, pristine gardens, and forbidding gates where so much of the country’s power was concentrated. Properties purchased by the dozen; astonishing transfers made to offshore accounts; cash metamorphosing into bullion and then back into cash; vast portfolios of bonds, equities, options, and futures. In this charmed world, the Khuranas knew that an invitation was equally valuable currency.
Planning a party was a delicate operation. Dileep, ordinarily so preoccupied with his private obsessions, brought his full attention to the matter at hand, his assessments quick and sharp. Renu was often ignored on important matters; but here, with her fine memory and intimate knowledge of Delhi family trees, she came into her own. Even Ania, in spite of her youth, was considered essential to the process. Fine politicking, it was assumed, ran in the blood.