‘Rajkumar! Rajkumar!’ the voice of a random child interrupted his reverie. Manav looked down to see a five-year-old schoolgirl tugging at his kurta and looking at him with large, expectant eyes. ‘You know English?’ she asked him in Hindi.
‘Why, yes,’ replied Manav in English. ‘Yes, I do. Why do you ask?’
The girl stared back at him in blank trusting awe so Manav repeated himself in Hindi.
‘I also want to learn English but there’s nobody here who can teach me,’ said the little girl.
Even Manav’s plastic heart was blown to smithereens by the painful sincerity in the child’s voice. ‘I will teach you English,’ he said. ‘I will make sure that you and your friends and your family can easily learn English,’ he promised without the vaguest plan of action like a true blue politician.
‘My bhaiya knows a little English,’ continued the girl. ‘But all the English books are so difficult to read.’
That’s when Manav remembered Rhea recommending the writer D-Bag’s books. ‘If you don’t know English, this is what you should start with,’ she had said. She had added, ‘No, I’m just kidding, this is the book you should be reading if you want to feel like you know English,’ but Manav had got distracted by the colour of her gorgeous georgette salwar kameez by then and had only heard her recommending the books.
‘I know just the book to give your brother.’ Manav smiled and ruffled the little girl’s neatly plaited hair. ‘Don’t worry, in three years, I am going to make sure that every one of you can read an English book.’
‘You are my hero,’ sang the little girl to the tune of an 80’s classic.
And for the next three years, this was going to be Manav’s sub-project. Stalk, smite and lure his true queen back into his arms and onto her rightful throne and make sure his village—and who knows, maybe even every child in every slum in his country—could read an English book. Even if it was the same one.
21
Short Version: It’s been three months and our heroine is livin’ la vida loca in London and mingling with the high and mighty.
Rhea couldn’t believe how her life had changed almost overnight. She was in London. Living the good life—parties, friends, clubs, flings. Nobody to ask any questions. And all this while in a fake marriage with her best friend! It was incredible how well this whole stalker situation had worked out for her and she couldn’t help thanking Manav for it every day. In her head of course. The slightest sign of caving in would create a full-scale disaster. That said, she couldn’t have come up with a better plan herself. Her parents had been mildly scandalized by her dreams of singing at bars in New York and had always attempted to deter her from that path—gently, of course. But look how this worked out. Sometimes, all that parents needed to stop micromanaging their kids, was a real problem.
Rhea stood in front of the mirror inspecting every square inch of her body in her new designer outfit that would have made all the boys in college back home develop a mild fever. Well, at least the ones that Rhea hung out with. It was also distinctly anti-mommy in approval status on the home front. But this was London. And she was married and still free. It was time to show her Indian Girl Repression a night on the town.
‘Whoa,’ said an unsuspecting Ro who had walked in with an innocent mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows. ‘Who is coming to this party? Hugh Hefner?’
‘Shut up,’ Rhea giggled even though she didn’t really know who HH was. ‘You remember Amy? She happens to know Alisha who happens to know Kristen who is going to this costume party …’
‘Oh, costume party,’ said Ro. Suddenly, it all made sense. ‘So you’re Kim Kardashian.’
‘Wow. How did you make that connection?’ Rhea teased posing suggestively for imaginary cameras. ‘You know, apparently a lot of celebrities are going to be there. And I mean genuine celebrities—not paid-for party hoppers. So look out for selfies with Elton John, Prince Harry and who knows … maybe Hugh Hefner too.’
Ro rolled his eyes. ‘He’s 90, darling. Stick to the princes; after all, you do have a lot of experience in that zone.’
Rhea laughed her mesmerizing-chiming-of-bells laugh and Ro had to play along and pretend to be completely mesmerized. Turned out, Rhea’s spell only worked in India. So he agreed when she told him she’d be back early next morning. Ro didn’t mind her doing anything she wanted as long as she was safe, and since he had no idea where this party was or who was going, he was quite comfortable.
‘Fine, but be a good wifey,’ he said, waggling a finger at her.
‘I’ll try, Husband.’ She fake-kissed him and flew out of the house as her ride arrived.
The party however was more than anything Rhea could have ever conjured up in her wildest fantasies. For starters, under dim lights and what seemed like a thirteen-hour lounge mix, there were two other Kim Kardashians. And one of them might have actually been the real deal. And this applied to the whole crew. Two Bjorks, five Prince Harrys, one Russel Brand—probably the real one but who cared, two Andy Murrays hand in hand in super short shorts, four stoned Harry Potters—it was a complete mash-up of different levels of debauchery. Rhea though was reeling in Cloistered Indian Girl At A Wild London Party fever so she couldn’t care less. She was told there were quite a few VIPs in attendance so she went over to the bar to quickly get a couple of shots in her system so she could strike up conversations with all five Prince Harrys till she identified the real one.
‘Come with me.’ Amy knocked the glass off her hand and dragged her to the first floor. The music seemed the same here but it actually wasn’t.
‘What are you doing?’ Rhea screamed, and snatched the bottle from the Jeeves-esque bartender.
‘You will not believe the kind of people that are here!’ Amy squealed.
‘Oh my God,’ gasped Rhea. ‘Is that really …’ She was looking in the direction of a man who bore an uncanny resemblance to at least two famous people who surely wouldn’t want to be seen together. Surely that had to be a mistake. Why would the President of the United States come to a party dressed like a bad imitation of his sworn enemy?
‘Barack Osama?’ Amy completed her sentence. ‘Yes, that’s what I heard. I wasn’t too sure, but see those guys over there dressed like they’re in Homeland? Yeah, they are actual CIA officers.’
‘Shut up! How do you know?’ asked a wide-eyed Rhea.
‘Because they answer every question with ‘can neither confirm nor deny.’
‘So let’s go confirm it,’ Rhea said, taking confident strides in the curious man’s direction as her first and only shot of tequila started to kick in.
‘Stop!’ Amy screamed as loudly as she could whisper. But it was too late. A gregarious Rhea was already grilling what seemed like a really short CIA agent.
‘Are you a CIA agent or are you a guest? Oh wait, that’s something you can’t confirm nor deny right?’ she said, exploding into a crazy-person laugh as the man stared across the room with the distinct look of someone who was used to wondering why his boss periodically felt the need to get the pulse of young people. ‘Is that Obama Bin Laden?’ She asked, distinctly pushing the buttons of the Suit who was now starting to twitch and look longingly at the bottle of tequila in Rhea’s hand. She wasn’t done though. ‘I’m sorry. I realize we should not say Bin Laden. Let me rephrase. Is that not Mr Barack Osama?’
As she let one of her charming-in-India peals of laughter cut across the hall, six more equally short agent types surrounded her, snatched the bottle of tequila, and from the confines of their eerie blue jackets pulled out shot glasses into which they started pouring drinks. ‘He does that when he wants to be alone,’ said a sleepy-looking agent. ‘Yeah, after all, who wants to talk to an Osama!’ laughed a somewhat dopey-looking one. ‘Well, I hate answering all these stupid questions,’ grumbled the third. As she trained her attention on the fourth who was grumpily wiping his glasses, Amy called out to her. ‘Hey,’ Amy said as she scanned the whole party. ‘If that is the President of the Un
ited States, who the hell is that?’ She was pointing to the left where a large crowd had gathered and was clearly going crazy. And there were regular-sized bouncers trying to get the mob under control. There was no way that the President was out at a party and someone else had that! ‘I’m sure it’s a smoke screen. The guy we just saw is not the President. That’s the smoke screen and this is the real thing,’ Amy said. ‘It’s the only thing that makes sense!’ Just then, the bouncers cleared a magical path through the crazy mob and out stepped The Biebs.
‘Whoa,’ Rhea said as the beliebers spilled into the rest of the party. ‘That just happened.’
‘I told you this was going to be good,’ Amy laughed.
‘But I still want to talk to the possible fake President,’ Rhea sulked. She was unaccustomed to being yanked away from someone she wanted to charm. She was in fact quite sure that if the President just got to know her, he would want to charm her back too.
‘Oh, come on.’ Amy tugged her arm and pulled her into another room as Rhea shot one last wistful glance at Barack Osama and his motley crew of agents.
It was around 11 am when Rhea woke up with the mother of all hangovers. She tried to raise herself up from the couch she seemed to be on and make sense of her surroundings but the room was spinning too fast. She dedicec to mxi up hre words for fun and open one eye at a time for the next fifteen minutes. There was no way she was going to make it to the loo. She could tell she was still at the house she was at the previous night going by the number of strangers who lay almost unconscious by her side. At that point Rhea had a panic attack and quickly checked to see if her clothes had come off but they were intact. She was still a Kardashian. She reached out and grabbed the bottle of water that was on the bedside table and guzzled the whole thing. The possibility of being roofied was always a great wake-up call.
‘Crap,’ she said as disjointed fragments of the night came back in bouts. There was tiddlywinks, a series of missed shots, a lot of laughter, talk of basketball and … Barack Obama! Wait. This couldn’t be right. Did she actually shoot the breeze with the President of the United States and his seven short men? Or was it the other guy whose name must not be mentioned? No, this couldn’t have happened. ‘No no no-no nono …’ she sang out loud. She had had way too much to drink and now she was hallucinating. Another flash of memory: she was pouring her heart out about her life, her dreams and how nicely the stalker situation had worked out. How she wanted to sing at dive bars in New York City. The President had laughed heartily and told her that it wouldn’t be a problem. He had even offered her relationship advice and written a number down on a piece of tissue paper lying around and slid it in her purse. ‘I’m glad we met, Rhea. You can call me anytime,’ he had said. Rhea threw her head back to laugh but stopped herself because it made the fan and chandelier spin gyroscopically. This was the maddest night ever. Ever. How could she have possibly conjured up such a hilarious account of the night? Maybe none of it was true. Maybe there had never been an Obama Bin Laden at the party. Or a Prince Harry. Or the Biebs. Maybe someone had spiked her drink with mind-altering substances and now she was waking up in The Hangover 4—the movie no one dared make. And yet, she couldn’t help going for her purse and checking for that piece of paper. Just in case. And there it was—a number scribbled with the note ‘Call me, maybe—BO’. Just then she had another flash of a man walking around naked with a bucket on his head telling everyone he bumped into to ‘Call me Chetan.’
‘Fuuuuuuuuuck,’ she said, holding her head, feeling like the aliens that inspired Lady Gaga’s wardrobes.
22
Short Version: The hero is working on a diabolical masterplan and the heroine has a new BFF—Obama Bin Laden.
Rhea couldn’t wait to get back home and tell Ro all about her night of tequila shots with dwarf agents, tiddlywinks and the President of the United States. But it turned out that Ro had trouble believing her. Can you imagine? Your fake-wife-best-friend goes out dressed like Kim Kardashian to a highly exclusive party, is unreachable all night and shows up the next afternoon looking single-handedly like the sequel to Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, claims she met Barack Obama in an Osama costume and that she hit it off with him to the point that she got relationship advice from the most powerful man on the planet. What’s so unbelievable about that?
‘Buzz kill,’ Rhea said rolling her eyes as Ro told her for the umpteenth time how disappointed he was in her for taking advantage of the fact that he let her do whatever she wanted. ‘What do you mean “let you do”? Do you really think this marriage thing is real? And even if it was, how does that make you the boss of me?’ London was definitely bringing out Rhea’s not-so-pretty side. Even her now-less-mesmerizing laugh was distinctly less mesmerizing.
‘I’m just saying that I’m answerable to your parents and I am still your best friend and I care about you,’ he grabbed her shoulders and gave them a good shake. ‘Do you get that? What’s gotten into you? You’re not yourself!’
‘Well, nothing. I was excited and wanted to tell you all about my night with BO but since you can’t bring yourself to believe that a President might actually want to hang out with someone like me, well what do I tell you?’ Rhea was bummed. Her life had changed literally overnight and there was no one to celebrate with. Why couldn’t Ro of all people believe this? Didn’t he know that she had that effect on people? So what if it was the President? She was Rhea Somany. Enough said.
By now, Ro was convinced that she had been drugged and just wanted to wrap her up in a blanket and give her some tea.
Rhea spent the whole day in bed while Ro and his mom coddled her and asked if she wanted to make a trip to Delhi to see her family or if they could invite them over; all of which sounded like threats to Rhea who was enjoying her new freedom a little too much. Also, she couldn’t wait for them to leave her side so she could actually call that number and put her mind to rest once and for all. Maybe the whole thing was a prank after all. A cruel, drug-induced prank and maybe Ro was right. But something inside her knew better. Of course she could be BFFs with a world leader. She was worth it.
Meanwhile in the village: The pot-bellied MLA who clearly wasn’t as moved as Manav was by the lack of quality education and toilets at the village school, decided to bury him in paperwork to shut him up. Actually, this was the evil queen’s idea. ‘Keep him busy,’ she had said. ‘He needs to feel like he’s making a significant contribution.’ She decided that the best way to keep Manav away from Rhea was to keep him busy with a greater cause. But something was bothering her lately about her son. While he seemed to be working diligently, he also hadn’t said a word about Rhea in weeks. It struck her as mildly suspicious. Was he cutting her out of the plan? What was he up to?
‘Ma, I’m fine,’ Manav said exasperatedly as his mother enquired once again about how he was dealing with the Rhea situation. ‘I told you—I need to focus on the village. I can’t just say I’m a prince; I actually have to be one. Let me earn this. Let me do something for the kingdom. And when Rhea comes back, she’ll see me for who I am. She’ll see that she made a mistake. And she will want to be with me.’
‘And didn’t you say she got married and left for London?’ his mother checked one final time. She knew that her son wasn’t delusional of all things. He wouldn’t just sit back and wait for a few years for her to magically return.
‘Yes. But it wasn’t real, Ma. I saw it! The whole thing was just so … orchestrated! She’ll come back. I know she will. She belongs with me. I just need to make sure that I give her the chance to say she’s sorry.’ The evil queen’s heart melted at this. This was real. He really wasn’t up to anything. He actually wanted to give that flaky bitch a chance. Her sweet, sweet son. He’d just have to learn the hard way that his heart has only ever belonged to one person—his mother.
Manav grabbed his phone and left the palace the minute his mother was out of sight.
‘Yes, this is Manav. What’s the update?’ he said to a mysterious voice at th
e other end.
Of course he was up to something.
Later that night, Rhea finally got a minute to call the number on the paper. It rang in a weird manner for a while and just as she was about to give up, a strangely familiar voice said hello.
‘Oh my God,’ said Rhea. ‘It’s really you.’
The voice at the other end chuckled. ‘Yes, you kept saying that all of last night. I was hoping you’d call, Rhea. I had so much fun last night. It’s been so long since I said anything without my staff editing every line.’
Rhea’s heart blew up like a helium balloon and took off to the sky. ‘Me too,’ she said. ‘Uhh, I mean … not the speech-editing part.’ She laughed her magic laugh and the President fell under her spell. Rhea felt herself coming back to life. Her laugh hadn’t worked on anyone in quite a while.
‘Well,’ he said after a few seconds, ‘I have to go attend to the refugee crisis now. But I want you to know that if you need anything or if you ever want to talk about basketball or boys, I’m here, okay?’
Rhea smiled. ‘How come those scary security guys are okay with this? I can’t believe they let you give me your number.’
‘Are you kidding?’ said the President. ‘They don’t know. Nobody knows. And nobody can know. You get that, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she said, her heart racing. She was basically Olivia Pope.
23
Short Version: Three years later. The heroine wakes up from a strange dream. It just so happens that dream interpretation is one of the President’s many talents.
Nothing much happened in the next few years. Well, nothing of significance to this story, that is. Rhea was busy living every second to the fullest on her new BFF’s advice. ‘You’re young, Rhea. YOLO!’ the President had said during one of their many tête-à-têtes. And Rhea had done just that—she had split her time equally between music, boyfriends with colourful psychological issues and a social life that put her behind bars a couple of times. But considering who her BFF was, just a call and his men would always arrive with bail money—yes, you cynics, the leader of the most powerful army likes to keep it clean. Don’t believe everything you see. Through each disaster, through every heartbreak, the President was there—a strong, reliable voice at the other end of the line, always ready with comfort and sage advice. It had been an exciting time in Rhea’s life but now things were beginning to simmer down. For starters, she felt a sudden need for stability that made her want to rethink her current life choices. The stoner boyfriend, the Dutch experientialist, the lesbian couple who wanted a third just to mix things up, the policeman who signed her bail plea—it’s not that Rhea wanted these people in her life. But as she continued to live her life free of the judging eyes of her family—well, shit happened. The President remained unfazed through it all. ‘It’s like the first time you pick an ice cream. You usually pick the brightest colour. And you want all the possible toppings. But then you realize that the flashy ones really aren’t all they are cracked up to be. You start developing this thing called taste. It takes a while but you do find your favourite, don’t you? Why should it be any different with relationships? You’ll know when you’ve found The One.’
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