by Monabi Mitra
‘Oh, all right. But I’m still not sure that we should.’ And in a moment of unwitting prophecy, added, ‘Perhaps Tara’s coming to this party will lead to all kinds of complications and upsets.’
‘Don’t be silly, Nikki. I hope you’re inviting Parry Prakash and Co.?’ The conversation then moved on to other topics and Tara was forgotten.
Tara, Nisha and Robi had arrived at 9 p.m., suitably late, only to find that no one else had arrived. Tara and Nisha entered and Robi was wheeled in behind them by Buro. Robi was wearing an expensive shirt and a perfume that smelt agreeably spicy. Tara noticed a subtle change come over him as he entered the room. Gone were the sagging shoulders and the nagging, dissatisfied look. His eyes darted gleefully all around and he greeted Nikki with a swaggering, flirtatious air.
‘Robi darling, how are you? You smell delicious. Umm, I could eat you up.’ Nikki bent over and planted a kiss on him.
‘Fit as a fiddle.’
‘And you, Tara? Welcome to my humble parlour.’ Nikki Kumar swept her hand modestly over the drawing room.
Nisha had flung herself on to a sofa, her large ornate handbag tossed carelessly aside. She fiddled with the silver necklace at her throat and looked up at the ceiling. Buro helped Robi over and arranged him beside Nisha.
‘Put the wheelchair away,’ said Nisha to Buro in a low voice. ‘There, in the corner.’
‘It feels good to be back in your house, Nikki. Feels good to smell the wine and the women. I suppose they’ll be here shortly.’ Robi was in high spirits.
Tara looked around for a place to sit.
‘Come here, Tara.’ Nisha beckoned Buro and a round basket chair was drawn up beside Robi. ‘Yes, sit beside me, Tara. I’ll introduce you to all our friends. They all adore me. You’ll see how popular I am.’ Robi laughed again.
Nikki Kumar came up with glasses. Robi made a face at his lime and soda and sighed. ‘Can I have one shot, a small one, Nisha?’
‘No.’
Nisha looked down at her drink and took a languid sip.
‘What’ll you have, Tara darling?’
Tara wondered what to say.
‘Wine? Cognac? A Bloody Mary?’
‘Coke, I think. She can try the wine later on.’
‘How do you know she wouldn’t like a proper drink, Nisha?’ Nikki scolded lightly, smiling all the while.
‘Would you, Tara dear?’ Nisha paused.
‘No,’ said Tara shortly. Why had she ever come?
Guests began drifting into the room in little batches of ones and twos at about ten. Till then, Nikki Kumar tried to entertain Tara. And where was she working now, she asked Tara. How interesting! The Leeds Press, perhaps, or was it the OUP? No, something smaller, a local publishing house. And where was her office? Beyond Dharamtala? Wasn’t that where the old Anglo-Indian tailors lived, the ones who could still sew duster coats and gingham aprons? It was obvious to Tara that Nikki Kumar’s world ended at the dingy roads that skirted the old English and Anglo-Indian havens with their Chinese beauty parlours and second-hand piano shops. Beyond, lay the frontiers of unspeakable Bengali squalor to which the inhabitants of her world rarely journeyed. With such bitter thoughts, Tara passed the time.
When the ten o’clock rush began, Nikki Kumar became very busy, handing out glasses of wine and chicken drumsticks wrapped in silver foil. Tara was absurdly hungry but noticed that others were not, accepting only the first of the kebab sticks their hostess pressed upon them. Nisha floated along from guest to guest breaking effortlessly into groups.
‘Hi Gaurav, hi Zeeshan, hi Puja!’ The room was buzzing. A shrill voice rose above the clamour.
‘Hi Bunty Baby! What’ve you been doing? You’re looking fantastic!’ It was Robi. Bunty Baby, a young man of indeterminate age and nationality, approached Robi.
‘What a surprise! Haven’t seen you for quite some time!’ His hair was arranged in the fashionable spikes of the day and he looked at Robi with some inner amusement. Quite a few young women detached themselves from their groups to greet him.
‘Where’s Nisha?’ asked Bunty.
‘I’m here.’
Nisha put her face up to be kissed. Under the kohl, her eyes glowed and her skin was luminous, with glitter sparkling tantalizingly on her cheeks. Bunty put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it a little as he pecked at her cheek.
‘She’s getting better and better with age,’ said Robi. ‘Isn’t she, Bunty?’
‘And you haven’t changed at all, Robi,’ replied Bunty, still looking at Nisha.
‘Bunty’s getting younger,’ said one of the young women around him. The others tittered.
‘But I’m still the same,’ said Nikki Kumar, unexpectedly joining them. She had a glass of whisky in her hand and was swaying a little.
Tara, still sitting beside Robi, watched the exchange with interest. She hadn’t ever seen Bunty at Robi’s house and wondered how old he was. Nisha usually went for older men. Bunty must be providing variety, she concluded. At this moment, a well-toned, wolfish woman bore down on Tara.
‘Hello,’ she said in a loud, husky voice. ‘Are you the newspaper lady?’ She wore a grey silk sari with sequinned parrots and a closely-cut sleeveless blouse.
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Tara humbly and then added in a banal way, ‘I’m not part of any newspaper.’
The woman looked Tara up and down, shifting her gaze, rapidly estimating value and social worth. Tara shifted uneasily, and quite unnecessarily took two rapid sips from her glass. Remembering party protocol, she said, ‘My name is Tara.’
‘I’m Anjali. What do you do, Tara?’
‘I, well I, I do a few things here and there. A bit of teaching and so on.’
‘Really! How interesting! Where is your school? I suppose it is a school, isn’t it … oh, hi Vicks! Long time no see.’ Anjali turned away in mid-sentence.
‘Come with me, Tara. Come and meet some of my friends. My chanting-group ones. We have chanting sessions every week.’ Nisha had seen Tara’s forlorn expression and decided it was time to pay her some attention.
‘Yes, take her with you; she must be bored to death babysitting me.’ Robi, demonstrating physiotherapy movements to a man with a goatee and a serious expression, stopped to say his part. ‘Even nurses need to be aired now and then.’
‘He usually gets like this in the middle of a party,’ said Nisha. ‘First the weepy invalid, then gradually, as he warms up, the old sarcastic returns.’
For a while Tara tried to be a part of the amiable buzzing around her, but somehow the little knots of people remained difficult to penetrate. Nikki Kumar flapped in and out, looking, in her white trousers and maroon raw silk blouse like an old hen in borrowed feathers.
A little old lady with cropped hair dyed black and white in zebra stripes sat meditatively in a corner. Tara noticed a vacant place on the sofa beside her and moved resolutely towards it. ‘May I sit here, please?’ Tara wasn’t quite sure what to expect in answer. The old lady tilted her head just once. Tara was left wondering: Did she mean yes or no? The lady said nothing, merely went on looking at the guests. Tara hesitated for a moment and then sat down while the old lady carried on as if Tara didn’t exist. Should I, wondered Tara, dare to start a conversation with her? She looked down cautiously, pretending to arrange her sari and trying to size up her companion. Shoes, she remembered Anju telling her, were the best indication of personality. Tara stole a look at the old lady’s shoes, a delicate affair in silver with a one-inch heel and then at her own low-heeled pair. Plain and unexciting. Just like me, she added to herself. She decided to abandon another potentially unfulfilling attempt at party chatter. Exhaustion was now creeping up her tired ankles, up through her aching knees and elbows, right up to her neck and shoulders. Why ever did I come, she thought again.
A group of three men sitting on a sofa near Tara was steadily working its way through a series of large drinks. One had a shaven head and a small diamond in his left ear and a pair of go
ggles that made him look exactly like a certain Bollywood villain. Another was short, bald and bespectacled with an oily, ingratiating smile. The third was tall and well built with curling lips that gave an arrogant sneer to whatever expression his features composed themselves into. A heavily built man in his fifties, wearing a somewhat incongruous combination of white shoes, white suit set off by a maroon tie, appeared in the doorway. The man with the oily smile jumped up and ran across the room to greet him.
‘What the hell is he doing here anyway, Mr Prakash?’ said the man with the sneer.
‘Haven’t you heard, Mr Kumar? Nikki’s very close to him. Good for the husband’s business, or so I’ve heard.’ The gentleman with the earring winked.
‘I don’t mean Dr Geo Sen.’ Toofan Kumar indicated the new arrival in white. ‘We all know about him. I mean this bloody oaf here.’ He rolled his eyes at the oily, bald man now clasping Geo Sen’s hands in a glad handshake.
‘I would have thought Nikki had more sense in her than to invite that annoying Mr De. Nasty social climber. Hello, hello, excuse me,’ Toofan Kumar bellowed at a passing waiter. ‘Get me a refill. And more kebabs. Chicken, not paneer.’
In time, the conversation turned to politics.
‘Crime is increasing, Mr Kumar. What are your men doing about it?’
‘In a city with a population of about a hundred lakhs, you call two burglaries and four suicides crime? Come on, Mr Prakash!’
‘But the police need to have an effective intelligence system; you must admit you’re failing there.’
‘Your ideas are being fed by the morning newspapers.’
Nikki Kumar walked up, balancing a cigarette and two glasses. ‘Failure? Who’s discussing failures and sad things at my party? Oh dear Toofan, talk about something else. Here you are, Parry!’
She nimbly exchanged Mr Prakash’s near-empty glass with the one in her hand.
‘Where’s the music, Nikki? We all feel the need for some dancing now.’
‘Now?’
Nikki looked at her watch in horror.
‘At eleven! The night is young, Parry darling. Plenty more excitement to follow!’
Tara decided to move. She looked around for another secluded perch. There was a comfortable-looking nook in the hall that led off the main drawing room. This hall was the entrance to the dining room and would be later converted into a dance floor. As of now, it was empty save for two men earnestly discussing something in low tones. Tara strolled towards the corner. As she paused to make way for a couple, she looked up. The woman was wearing a red chiffon sari that hung in perfect folds over her symmetrical figure. There was an arresting beauty about the face that seemed familiar till Tara remembered she had seen it on television. ‘Shona Chowdhury,’ her mother’s voice rang in her head, ‘the most beautiful and the most talented woman in the industry. Did you see her play Bankim’s heroine last week? It was as if he had written the character with her in mind.’ Behind her followed a man as tall as the woman and as striking but in a completely different way. Shona Chowdhury looked like a marble statue that had come to life and acquired a human sheen. The man who walked behind her was handsome but with the comfortable good looks of the real world. In a few years he would be putting on weight and the hair at the back of his head would be thinning. Now, he had dark hair cut very short and walked with his hands behind his back which accentuated his lean, well-chiselled frame. A slight frown and pursed lips indicated that he was not looking forward to the evening at all. His grey eyes had an unfathomable expression in them as they swept round the room.
As Tara made her way to an empty chair, she noticed that the new arrivals had caused a titter of excitement in the room. Nikki Kumar, flushed with whisky and success, hurried over to the door. ‘Hello hello! I was afraid you’d forget. Do come in. Welcome, Mr Chatterjee. I was afraid you wouldn’t come even if you were able to! Shona has told me about how shy you are.’
Men and women walked up to the new couple. The marble goddess returned all compliments and questions with a dignified smile and an occasional word. Once, Shona Chowdhury turned around to introduce her partner and Tara, from her vantage point in the corner, noticed how the actress paused for an instant as she looked up at his face. She adores him, thought Tara, and suddenly felt a rush of envy. She found it impossible to take her eyes off him. He seemed distant from everyone in the room and Tara could feel a kinship with him. She longed to be introduced. Would Nisha give her a chance? But she realized that Nisha herself hadn’t been introduced to him at all. Shona Chowdhury had simply smiled and said a few words and walked away.
The two men sitting near Tara had stopped whispering and were looking with undisguised curiosity at the new couple.
‘Ah, this is the woman Satish wanted to sign up for his new movie. Sexy chick, huh? Who’s behind her?’
‘Some policewallah she’s engaged to. Bikram Chatterjee. Not IPS, I think.’
‘Inspector or something? That’s strange. She could have anyone she wanted.’
‘I wonder how Toofan sa’ab is taking it. To socialize with an underling and that, too, a good-looking one! He wants to be the only police chap with beautiful girls.’
Tara looked at Toofan Kumar. The man was heroically trying to avoid noticing the stir of excitement caused by his subordinate.
Just then Nisha caught sight of Tara and walked over to her. ‘So you’re here. Robi’s been looking all over for you.’
Tara couldn’t resist the question. ‘Nisha, who’s the man in black behind me?’
Nisha looked over her shoulder. ‘Toofan Kumar, from the police. Good you drew my attention to him. I’d better have a word with him. Keep him in good humour and all that.’
‘And the other man, the one with the beautiful girl. Isn’t he also a policeman?’
Nisha looked searchingly at Tara. ‘Yes, he is, but of a lower rank. What makes you so interested?’
Tara blushed. ‘Just like that!’
Nisha took a sip from the ever-present glass in her hand. ‘Haven’t you met any young guys here? You can’t sit mooching in a corner and expect to be spoken to!’
‘This isn’t a pub or a disco that I can pick men up,’ said Tara edgily.
‘But you can make a beginning.’
Nisha brushed her hands over Tara’s sari and shifted the pallu lower on her chest. Then, smiling, she moved over to the group behind her.
Toofan Kumar, elated at Nisha’s attention and the diversion it afforded him, got up to wish her. Tara looked back with interest at Toofan Kumar. A young cousin had spent the last two years cramming for the Civil Services exam, and he was full of information regarding the Indian Police Service. He’d told her of the rank divide and how the twain never met, at least not on an equal social footing. And to circumvent a potentially embarrassing situation for him, Toofan Kumar pulled out his cell phone and began a conversation, putting on an air of deep distraction. So, Shona Chowdhury took the first step. She walked to Toofan Kumar and waited for him to finish. Toofan took his time, finished his call and looked up. Then, pretending to be pleasantly surprised, he rose and made a deep namaste. ‘So good to see you again, ma’am! How are you?’
Behind Shona stood Bikram Chatterjee. The expression on his face was unfathomable. He stiffened his arms and clicked his heels. The room was as noisy as ever but Tara could sense people shifting position for a better look at the scene.
‘I hope you are enjoying yourself. Would you like a refill of whatever you’re having?’
Tara turned around with a start. An old man stood at her elbow. He was wearing a shirt with brilliant red poinsettias printed on it. A gnarled hand clutched a mahogany cane with a silver eagle head. His white hair was brushed back to reveal a wide brow from under which twinkled a shrewd pair of eyes. He looked like the kind of person who would not bother with pretension. He was old but looked fit and carried a powerful sense of presence. The old man sat down by her side and leaned forward to look at her glass. ‘Wine, is it, or cham
pagne?’
‘Just a soda,’ said Tara apologetically.
‘Really! That’s brave.’ The old man looked kind. ‘Not many around here would be plucky enough to do that. Ah, but perhaps it’s a new trend that you’re setting. Like vegetarianism and yoga.’
Tara laughed. ‘No, it’s just that I’ve been brought up humbly middle class. Girls didn’t touch alcohol in my mother’s world.’
The old man exclaimed. He’d seen Shona and her fiancé. He fumbled for his cane and half rose from his seat. As if by coincidence, Bikram Chatterjee’s gaze swept across the room to where they were sitting. He strode across to the inner room. He reached their chairs and Tara stood up in confusion. Automatically, without thinking, she smoothed her hair and immediately regretted the gaucherie of her action.
‘Bikram, Bikram. I hoped you would come.’ There was real joy on the old man’s face. He rose unsteadily and straightened slowly, waving aside the proffered hand. ‘No, no, there is life in me yet.’ He stretched out his arms and embraced the young man. As he did so, Tara noticed the gnarled hands with the blue veins which contrasted sharply with the pale skin.
‘I was looking around for you, too. Shona told me you might be here.’ As Bikram spoke, Tara noticed how his smile had lit up his whole face, giving him an innocent, boyish look. She looked at him closely. A man of perhaps thirty or thirty-five. A long straight nose and a delicate chin, uncommon amongst flat-nosed, usually be-whiskered, Bengalis. A pair of incredible eyes. Shona Chowdhury evidently knew how to choose.
Tara gathered her bag and prepared to go. Another haven gone! Would they never serve dinner, or was eating an unsophisticated and unnecessary thing to do? In any case, she could easily slip out. No one, she thought ruefully, would miss her.