by Anju Gattani
“Dinner tonight,” he said.
“Who with?” she asked.
“Who do you think?”
“I don’t play guessing games.”
“It’s a dinner for two. Me and you. Makes two.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.” She had no intention of going anywhere with him. She still wasn’t sure what had happened on Diwali night.
He entered his open closet, pulled out a shiny red package tied with a red and black bow and gave it to her. “Here, this should help decide.”
Was this a truce?
Sheetal peeled a corner of the Sellotape, uncomfortable with the press of his stare. She opened the wrapper and lifted out a red band of smocked fabric supposed to fit around her bust and a black, spandex micro-mini skirt. What was this prostitute outfit? A joke? “Where’s the rest? The top has no sleeves, no strings, no—”
“No strings attached.” He snatched the red garment and stretched it across her chest. “Perfect fit.”
“But—”
“I was expecting this from you.” He turned and reentered the closet. “So, I came prepared. Here.” He handed her a black and red sparkly shawl, just broad enough to cover her shoulders. “Once you’re in the car, it’s off. Ditto?”
Sheetal shook her head, outraged. She refused to go anywhere in this slut outfit.
“I thought you wanted to pay me back for what you did.” He pinched his T-shirt.
“I—”
“Done. I’ll see you nine sharp, tonight.”
“But—”
“Don’t spoil the moment, baby.” He leaned toward her and a scent of mint engulfed her. “It’s your one-way ticket. Take it or leave it.”
***
That evening, Sheetal pulled garments off hangers and shelves for two hours and changed from one outfit into another to see if she could substitute the slut-wear for something more decent. But a top either covered too much, had broad shoulder straps or wasn’t glitzy enough and her skirts were either knee-length, ankle-length or flared like an A. By eight-fifteen, it appeared a bomb had gone off in her closet. Frustrated and fed up, Sheetal looked at the piles of clothes. Arvind would never force her into anything like this or pressure her to go against her will. But Rakesh clearly had no sense of decency.
At eight-thirty, Sheetal grabbed the smocked tube-top and skirt and sighed.
***
At precisely nine p.m., the walls of the mansion vibrated and a roar pierced the air. Sheetal strapped on her black stilettoes, threw the shawl about her shoulders, rushed out, took the stairs two at a time, and almost lost her footing. She ran across the hallway and threw open the mahogany door. Exhaust fumes stole her breath.
Parked in the porte-cochere, the Diablo thundered on full throttle with Rakesh in the driver’s seat.
“I’m here,” she yelled.
Rakesh’s attention remained fixed on the dashboard, his body sunk deep in the seat’s leather contours, like a pilot in a cockpit. He adjusted a pair of black sunglasses perched on his slick, gelled hair, his white linen suit complementing the car’s tan interior and black chassis. It was obvious he couldn’t hear her.
Sheetal rushed down the carpeted stairs and the Lamborghini’s passenger door swiveled upright at ninety-degrees. “I’m here. Turn off the engine.” She crossed her arms.
“Just testing the power of this beauty.” Rakesh pressed a button and heavy metal music blasted through the speakers.
Half a dozen servants gathered in the doorway, no doubt confused by the commotion. Sheetal quickly slid into the passenger seat, embarrassed by her attire.
“What a fireball! Like you.” He ran a hand along Sheetal’s thigh.
She pushed his hand away and tightened the shawl around her shoulders. “Let’s go.”
Rakesh gripped the gear shift and pressed the accelerator. The Lamborghini roared and the tachometer arrow shot to nine thousand RPMs. Rakesh gestured to the shawl. “Off with it.”
Sheetal looked at the servants. Heat spread along her shoulders as Janvi and Laal Bahadur joined the audience. She turned back to Raskesh. “Please, next time. I promise. I’ll take it off later.”
Rakesh depressed the accelerator. The tachometer jumped to nine thousand, five hundred RPMs and the roar of the engine caused the servants to scurry inside.
Sheetal squeezed her thighs, desperate to hide her fear, but Rakesh gestured. She yanked off the shawl and was instantly thrown backward. Wind rushed through her hair, the security guard’s booth whizzed past, and a sliver of concrete blurred in the headlights.
Twenty minutes later, Rakesh pulled up outside Graffiti, the most affluent dance club in Raigun. Sheetal had heard about the place from friends but had never been to any nightclub because Mama and Papa believed dance clubs resulted in vices like smoking, drinking, drugs, and affairs.
After the Lamborghini’s doors swiveled up and Rakesh slid out, a long queue of people whistled. He tossed the car keys to a valet and led Sheetal by the hand toward the glass door. They passed palm trees that lined the sidewalk and swayed in the breeze. Red and blue neon lights blinked in alternating sequences above the club’s glass door entrance. On either side of the door, water flowed from overhead outlets, trickled through side channels that paralleled the door and gushed below a see-through floor.
The wait outside was an easy half-hour, but they were escorted down a dimly lit corridor. Two ushers opened a pair of frosted glass doors and fog rolled toward Sheetal. She coughed and swept the air with a hand as a three-story dance club loomed into view.
A circular, central sunken floor was packed with dancers who gyrated amidst white fog and flashing lights. On the second and third floors, visible through the railings of circular balconies, more dancers formed shadows in the drifting fog.
Spears of white light were followed by a clap of thunder, which caused the crowd to cheer and whistle.
The drum’s bass beat intensified, and Sheetal gripped Rakesh’s arm. Everything about this place was so infectious, so absorbing, she didn’t know where to look.
He squeezed her fingers. “It’s the hot spot in Raigun. Been here?”
“No.”
He led her to a VIP lounge, cordoned off with chrome posts connected by red velvet ropes. He waved to the crowd there. Several hands shot up to return his wave.
Sheetal crossed to a sofa and sat, convinced this was why he didn’t come home at night. How many other clubs did he hang out at? With whom? She waited for Rakesh to take a seat, but he entered the ocean of dancing bodies on the main dance floor. She tried to follow his progress but could barely see through the semi-darkness blasted intermittently with colored lights. Then a silhouette, someone about Rakesh’s size, resurfaced on the far side of the arena. Rakesh swung an arm around someone with shoulder-length hair. They hugged and kissed. Was Rakesh seeing another—
A blast of fog obscured her vision. Sheetal struggled for a better view but couldn’t make out much. The music pounded, people pumped fists, jumped, raised drinks in a toast, and gyrated with frenzy. Sheetal covered herself with the shawl and crossed her arms, wishing she were home.
Rakesh emerged from the human ocean and sat on her left. “Hey, sorry about that.”
“Where did you go?”
He shook his head and pointed to his ear.
Sheetal cupped his ear with her hand and leaned close. “Who was she?” she yelled above the din, barely able to hear herself.
“Who?” He tapped a cigarette from its case and lit the end.
“That woman.” She pointed to the other side of the dance floor. “Who was she? That other woman?”
“What woman?” He took a drag, puffed, and stuck his pinky in the air. “I went to take a leak.”
Sheetal tightened her jaw. She had seen him—seen them—kiss. The blast of heavy metal music intensified. She inched closer to Rakesh. “You seem to know a lot of people here.”
“I don’t, really. But they all k
now me. I own the place.”
Her heart skipped a beat. Of course, he did. He wasn’t just a CEO. Rakesh owned practically a third of Raigun, and Graffiti probably represented loose change in his pocket.
A server brought a tray with two glasses, and Rakesh thrust a cola in Sheetal’s hand. Then he raised his square tumbler, brimming with a honey-colored liquid and cubes of ice, in a toast. “Bottom’s up!”
Sheetal sniffed the cola and placed her glass on the table. It smelled of bitter, rotten lemons. “I’m not thirsty.”
“It’s all the smoke here. Take a sip. Try it.”
Try on skimpy clothes. Try alcoholic drinks. Try to fit in. What next?
“Don’t worry, it’s a virgin. Like you. Now, hurry up.”
Did that mean they hadn’t made love on Diwali?
She looked from the glass to Rakesh and back. Now wasn’t a good time to ask. But if she didn’t ask now, when? If she refused to drink, he was bound to get angry. If he could make a scene at the Damani’s, there was no telling what he was capable of here.
“What’re you all pickled about? Just drink the fucking Coke.”
Sheetal picked up the glass, closed her eyes and gulped down half. Her throat burned.
Rakesh grabbed her elbow, levered her off the couch, and started away. She struggled to keep up with him.
The ocean of dancers parted before them and then closed, blocking retreat. Arms and elbows jabbed her back and sides as people inched for space. Sheetal tensed, but was reeled into the safety of Rakesh’s body as the heat of liquor, sweat and smoke closed in around them. She slid her arms around Rakesh’s taut waist and could no longer feel the floor. She tipped her head back, shook her loose hair, and Rakesh brushed his thumb against her navel in small, gentle strokes, sending an electric charge through her body. Sheetal raised her arms and spun on her toes. Weightless. Wild. Happy. Free.
Then the DJ spun a new release and the crowd cheered as the musical beat pulsed and raced through her veins.
She was on fire. She was fire.
Chapter Twent-Two
Reflections
On Saturday morning, Sheetal decided to paint something as a parting gift for the Dhanrajs. A scene of the Dhanraj lake seemed most appropriate. She squeezed several colors onto the palette, dipped her brush in turpentine and then paint and brushed long strokes along the bottom third of the canvas. The scent of mint filled the air and she paused. Rakesh.
He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her back against his chest, causing the brush to fall and clatter on the floor.
Because married couples rarely expressed affection for one another in public, Sheetal twisted to release herself from Rakesh’s embrace should any family member walk in. What would they say? That she was too western, too forward, too indecent, and couldn’t keep her hands off Rakesh?
He tightened his hold. “Another painting so soon? My, my, you are a busy little bee. Even on a weekend.”
“Shouldn’t you be at the cricket club or something? Hanging out with friends? At the gym? Strange you should be here on a Saturday.”
“Sassy, eh?” He released her.
Sheetal picked up the fallen brush, and when she straightened and turned, he was frowning at her work.
“Too much blue there.” He pointed to the bottom right of the canvas. “The tone, color. It’s…all wrong.”
“You don’t even know what I’m painting and already an art critic?”
He walked around to the back of the easel and folded his arms along the canvas’s edge. “I know about perception. And yours is wrong.”
“What do you mean, wrong?”
“Believe what you see. Not what you think you see.”
“What does perception have to do with— ”
“You paint what you see. Correct?”
“Everyone does.”
“Not everyone.” His expression hardened. “You paint what all of us see. Big deal! But Pierre-Auguste Renoir. You should study that man’s work.”
Sheetal had learned about Renoir in college, a French painter associated with the late 1800s Impressionist movement. Renowned for celebrating beauty and feminine sensuality in his art, his still-life paintings, portraits and scenes of people dancing were world famous. He was also renowned for painting women in the nude, especially when bathing. “I have studied—”
“Don’t talk when I talk.” Rakesh ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair. “That man had style. His work teases your eye with deep, vibrant colors and—”
“He’s dead,” Sheetal cut him off.
“Ah!” Rakesh paced the studio. “He may be dead, but his work lives on. What impression will your paintings leave behind? Will people remember you or your work after you’re gone?”
Did he know she planned to leave him?
Rakesh stopped at the painting of the fantasy flowers angled against a wall.
“Even this still-life thing here doesn’t work. You’ve got to be more real than this. Like Renoir.”
Sheetal crossed her arms. So that’s it. He came to insult.
“Renoir’s bathers were…beautiful. But personally, for my taste, I think the women’s hips were a little too large. Imagine trying to share a queen size mattress with one.” He cocked his head back and laughed. “But the ‘Dance at Bougival’–I saw that in a museum in Boston, you know. And I woke up this morning with that thought.”
Sheetal rolled her eyes. Of course, he woke up with that thought. Didn’t everyone wake up thinking of Renoir?
“What is your opinion about last night?” He crept toward her.
Sheetal squirmed, uncomfortable with the narrowing distance. “It was interesting.”
“So, you find my company interesting?” He breathed down her back, his voice husky and deep.
Trapped between the canvas and Rakesh, Sheetal inched left. “So, how come you know so much about painting?”
“A semester of art appreciation in Harvard. I quickly learned that people paint when they have nothing better to do. Or when they’re not capable of doing much.”
How dare he? Is that all she was to him? A waste of time?
“So, what’s this supposed to be, anyway?”
“How does it matter? It’s all a waste of time to you.”
“How about me then?”
What did he mean?
“Paint me.”
“You just said painting was a waste of time.”
“Precisely,” he grinned. “I have an entire Saturday afternoon to kill before a game of racquetball with the guys. “I challenge your talent, Madame.”
“I don’t need a challenge.” Or any more insults.
“Prove it to yourself, if not me.” He crossed his arms. “We’ll meet here at three sharp.”
She wasn’t meeting him anywhere.
“Well?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s no reason for me to say yes.”
“You just did.”
“The answer is no.”
“You know you’re going to do it. All in the perception.” He tapped the right side of his head. “One word. Two meanings.”
“No means no.” Sheetal stared at the dark blue waters of the lake. Was it really too blue? Did it lack depth? She took several steps back for a distance view. Were the tone and colors too strong? Too bright? She shifted weight from one foot to another, annoyed at having listened to him.
“Three sharp.” He headed for the door and turned. “Wasn’t it Max Ernst who said Picasso was a genius and no one could touch him?”
Who cared what Max Ernst had said or whether Picasso was a genius? She swirled a brush in the jar of turpentine, wishing he’d leave.
“Let’s see how much of a genius you are, and if you can capture me with your brush.”
Sheetal wiped the bristles clean with a rag. “I said no.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I don’
t want you to, either. But I have to find out if you know every inch of me the way I know every curve of you.” Then he left.
***
At five past three, Rakesh strode into the studio carrying a sports bag. Sheetal was still working on the painting of the Dhanraj lake when Rakesh sat on a chair beside the standing lamp and tilted his face toward the light. The beam illuminated the right side of his face.
Knowing what a narcissist Rakesh was, the sooner she got this over with, the better. She switched the lake canvas for a sheet of drawing paper, then adjusted the easel so that Rakesh’s face appeared parallel to the left edge of the drawing board and the size of his head at this distance was roughly the size she intended to sketch on the clipped paper. Sheetal looked from Rakesh to the board and mentally mapped the contours of his features on the sheet. Then she located charcoal and sketched an outline of his face.
“Will this take long?” he asked. “Will my face even fit on that?”
“Keep still.” She completed the head and neck outlines, used curved lines to divide the face into quadrants, and marked eyebrow lines. She marked the position of the nose and was about to mark the lips when he fidgeted.
“Done?” he asked.
“I’m only just starting.”
“Well, get on with it.” He tapped the stool’s edge and shifted.
“I can, if you stop fidgeting.” She carefully erased her guidelines.
“How much longer?”
“I don’t know.”
“I need a break.”
“It’s only been fifteen minutes,” she said.
“You’re killing me.” He pouted like a spoiled child.
Something wasn’t right.
Sheetal crossed to Rakesh and changed the angle of the overhead lamp so the light struck him at a forty-five-degree angle. Then she tore the paper away, clipped a new sheet to the easel and mapped out his cheeks, pencil-thin lips, the curves of his ear lobes, and the vertical bridge of his nose. She stepped back to examine her work. It wasn’t even close. She closed her eyes. ‘Believe what you see. Not what you think you see.’ She replaced the sheet with another.
Rakesh jumped to his feet. “Don’t tell me you’re starting over!”