Socialite Evenings

by Shobhaa De

  Anjali was amazingly cool on the way back and made no reference to the scene. Abe, in any case, had all but passed out. And even though Anjali seemed not to notice, I was worried about getting home in one piece with him at the wheel. How could she be so in control, I kept thinking. How come she didn’t jump on him and demand explanations, like other wives did? Or at least wives in movies and books (I couldn’t imagine Mother asking Father to explain himself over anything).

  The truth about the distance she kept from me on the drive back surfaced a couple of days later. It turned out the reason wasn’t Abe at all. “I wasn’t shocked by Abe’s behavior. I am used to that. I was shocked by yours,” she said to me as we sat in her living room.

  “MINE? What did I do?”

  “I saw the way you laughed in the water when your shirt went up. You weren’t in the least bit shy. Maybe you wanted to expose your body to him. Maybe you didn’t realize it, but you were trying to seduce him. How could you do that, when you knew how attractive I found him. Besides, you were my guest. I had taken you along. I think you behaved like a bitch. I hadn’t expected that from you,” she said.

  It was my turn to feel outraged. What the hell did she mean? I looked back on the incident and exonerated myself completely. Was I supposed to behave like her sidekick? Handmaiden? Poor cousin? What if I had enjoyed the experience? Besides, she’d never mentioned to me that she found him attractive. Neither had she staked her exclusive claim. And anyway, as it turned out, he hadn’t been interested in her at all—so what was she whipping me for?

  That was a new side to Anjali. One that I wasn’t either familiar or comfortable with. Initially I hadn’t realized that she saw me as a threat. But gradually I realized that there was a competitiveness to her that would brook no threat. In our relationship she was the star.

  On the day of the beach party the first changes in our relationship had begun to make themselves felt and she didn’t like it at all. And, before I forget, there was the little matter of Abe on the evening after the party.

  After dropping off the smoldering Anjali at their flat Abe offered to take me home. I urged Anjali to accompany us, but she opted out pleading that she was exhausted and needed to catch up on her sleep. Unsuspectingly, I went along with this arrangement. Driving down Marine Drive, Abe turned to me and said, “You know, this is ridiculous. You are the only friend of Anjali’s that I haven’t screwed.What’s the matter with you? Are you frigid or something? Why don’t we have lunch together and talk about it?” I can’t really say that I was surprised by this, I’d been waiting for it to come too long, but even then I was thrown by the crudity of his approach. Even as I reviewed the various ways in which to put him down, I realized with a shock that however close I had grown to Anjali this was a commonplace occurrence in their marriage: her husband and she quarreling over her friends. I’d been reduced to a precedent. In my anger I chose what was in retrospect the best way to answer Abe: politely, I told him to go look up his own rear end. I told Anjali about this incident when I visited her and I was taken aback by her reply. “But you should have gone to lunch,” she said. I had told her about the incident expecting her to acknowledge if not applaud this proof of my loyalty. Her reaction was like a sharp slap in the face. Something snapped within me. Suddenly, I realized the ridiculousness of my position in their lives. I was nothing to either of them. Not even a plaything, any longer. The tension of the hunt was over. They must be looking for a new toy now, I reasoned, and decided to get out. If only it had been that easy!

  Soon after this I went abroad—my virgin trip. I’d managed to make enough through modeling to buy myself a cheapie round-trip ticket to NewYork. And I needed to get Anjali out of my system so I figured now was the time to go. After a couple of weeks in London, I landed in the Big Apple at a school friend’s apartment.The setup was pretty weird. Here was this Sindhi girl, involved with a Bulgarian businessman huckster, splitting her apartment with a Swedish spinster, who was a professional masseuse. And in the middle of it all was me—the original yokel, well, perhaps with a superficial polish—in a state of suspended excitement prepared for anything—everything. For the very first time, I felt ready. On my own, free of family influences and pressures, free of Anjali, prepared to discover the world on my own terms. I felt reckless and brave. Adventurous and liberated. It was amazing that Father had agreed to let me go—and without a battle at that. Getting on to that Sabena flight and leaving a world that had begun to bore me behind was, and still remains, the single most exhilarating moment of my life. As it happened this trip became the turning point—and once again without knowing it—Anjali was responsible.

  The excitement and jet lag had finally driven me between sheets and I was fast asleep when my Sindhi friend shook me awake. “There’s a call for you,” she said.

  “Me?” For a second I panicked. Maybe it was a long-distance call. And that meant only one thing—someone had died.Who? Nervously I picked up the receiver.

  “Hi,” said a voice that sounded familiar.

  “Who are you?” I asked suspiciously.

  “So good to hear your voice and know you are in NewYork.” My God, I thought, thousands of miles from Bombay and it was Him! The ad filmmaker who had driven off so abruptly after being so nice and who had prompted Anjali to sharpen her fangs on me. The urbane voice poured smoothly into my ear.

  “I ran into Anjali the day I was leaving India—she told me you’d be in New York. I called her up later in the night to ask whether she knew your contact here. And, listen babe, that should be explanation enough. Can I buy you lunch today?” For a moment the almost-awe I’d felt at hearing his voice was displaced by anger. Why the hell had he to complicate my life? I hadn’t come all these miles from home to reconnect with the past and with people I’d left behind. This was going to be my Brave New World trip. I was going to find out about myself. America was supposed to be my experiment with adulthood. I wanted to take charge, assume responsibility, find direction. All in a vague sort of way, of course. I mean, these were the “goals” one was expected to arrive at. I had no career to speak of and no real plans for the future. I don’t know what it was that I was consciously seeking—but it certainly wasn’t an affair. “Say yes,” said my Sindhi friend, furiously penciling in her eyebrows. I said yes.

  As soon as I put the phone down I began feeling guilty. And the person who dominated my thoughts was someone I’d only thought of infrequently in the last fortnight: my boyfriend Bunty. He was a sweet enough person. Loving, affectionate, accommodating. We were unofficially engaged and it was assumed by the family after all the fights I’d had with them that I’d marry him on my return. He had just landed his first job as a management trainee in a multinational, which meant that he wore Zodiac ties to climb into a bus. But every time I’d thought of him on the trip, I’d seen him in an unflattering light. Our last evening together in his PG digs had really depressed me. Was this where we were going to begin our life together—in someone else’s dingy home with smelly dogs and dirty lavatories? I hated the curtains that hung limply on the window over his bed. And the cheap prints of cocker spaniels on the walls. I hated the peeling plaster over the musty cupboard. And the dressing table with the jammed drawers. More than anything else I hated the thought of sneaking into a room that was not our own and feeling like thieves (God, the furtive sex) even while paying nearly half his stipend for the rent each month. Surely life had to be better than that! It was OK to eat frilly cutlets at the neighborhood Irani as students. But it wasn’t OK to grab the same in place of a proper dinner, once we’d married and become a couple.Yet, I thought, I loved him in my own way—he was certainly the most considerate man I’d ever met. And now here was this one. “Enjoy,” my friend said as she rushed off to work. The masseuse had not come home the previous night so I had the apartment to myself. Tiredly, I sat down on a sofa, tried to put Bunty out of my mind and figure out what I was going to wear to lunch. Perhaps I could cancel. But then I didn’t have his phone n
umber. I put my face in my hands and wept: for innocents like me, like Bunty, for the dreams we all weave. After a while the tears stopped and I began lightening up: hey, after all I’m abroad, I thought. Why not enjoy myself? I chose a magenta sari to wear and paired it with an equally bold magenta lipstick and went off to meet my date . . .

  He saw me from across the street and waved. Briskly, I started to cross the street without looking at the light and from all sides there rose a clangor of car horns, brakes, curses. My God, I remember thinking, where do you think you are! I finally made it to his side of the street all flustered and jittery. He wrapped his arms tightly around me and planted a great big kiss right on my mouth! I was deeply embarrassed and must have looked it. “Relax! You’re in New York, not New Delhi, sweetheart. It’s allowed over here. Nobody will arrest you,” he said smoothly and did it again!

  “That’s not the point,” I said, struggling to free myself. “I don’t even know you!”

  “I’ve been dying to do this for years. Fat chance you had of escaping. God! But you look terrible—what’s that purple shit on your lips!” He pulled out his handkerchief and rubbed my mouth vigorously. “OK, I’ve taken it all off. I bet you’re famished and you deserve a great big lunch.”

  For the four weeks that we spent together, I feel thankful now. For one, he helped me arrive at the decision to break off my ridiculous engagement to Bunty and call off the marriage. “It won’t work, baby,” he said simply. Of course it won’t work, I repeated in my head, as I had a million times before. Only I had to hear it from someone else. Someone older, someone clever and someone who loved me or said he did.

  New York lived up to its fantastic reputation. I was introduced to things I’d never heard of before—like quiche lorraines at the Brasserie and Goldberg pizzas. It was the time of salad and singles bars. My girlfriend and I discovered both jointly and lived to tell our experiences. Maxwell’s Plum wasn’t scary at all. It was plain depressing.We sipped our vodka tonics, smoked pastel-colored cigarettes and tried to look bored with everybody around us. Maybe we resembled Hispanic maids having a little fun during off hours. We were certainly dressed weirdly—I in a handblock-printed maxi (a peculiar version of a ghagra actually) and my friend in a salwar kameez. (“Are you pregnant?” asked a nasty man.) Nothing happened. We grew fat on salads with Thousand Island dressing and frustrated at being a part of the scene and yet out of it. The ad filmmaker was around constantly. The Swedish masseuse didn’t approve. Till one day he showed up with a huge bouquet of blood-red carnations the size of cauliflowers. They were intended for me, but the Swede opened the door and barricaded his way. Stumped by the door-filler, he did the next best thing—gave her the bouquet and kissed her hand. Next thing we knew, she was twittering in the kitchen fixing him a cup of coffee.

  I wasn’t sure what I was doing with him. Learning, I suppose. And, as he never failed to remind me, I had a lot to learn.We talked a lot—mainly about our lives. He described his marriages and I tried to understand the reasons they’d failed. I described my limited experiences with boys (not men) and he tried to connect with them. A lot of the time we talked about Anjali, or at least I did, and he listened. I don’t think he was particularly interested in discussing her and often told me so. But I was feeling vaguely uneasy—about her and myself. I didn’t know what I was going back to. I didn’t know how I was going to handle the breakup with my boyfriend. I didn’t know what my parents were going to feel about it (relieved, as it turned out), plus, I didn’t know what the hell my next move was going to be or even supposed to be. I didn’t have a career—and now, I didn’t have a marriage. “Move in with me, love,” said the man persuasively. “I’ll handle everything—the parents, boyfriend, family—whoever, whatever.” It would have been the easiest thing to do—to use him as a stopgap till I found my bearings. But I couldn’t get myself to. And I’m not sorry either. The best way out would have been—and I considered it—to just stay on in the US like the thousands of other Indians who melted into the woodwork and stayed put as illegal immigrants till they could legitimize their presence. Once again, I found myself balking at the thought of living like a thief, scrounging around for a job, maybe ending up as a waitress in some seedy downtown “ethnic” restaurant.

  Finally after long debates and many arguments I decided that I would be a big brave girl and go home. By then, my worried boyfriend had phoned spending the half of his salary left over from the rent on that call. I was beginning to feel guilty. Carnations and candy were all very well—but I couldn’t spend my life swooning over flowers and gorging on chocolates. The man gave me a farewell gift. I had consistently refused to accept any (apart from a fourteen-dollar T-shirt when I ran out of the only T-shirt I’d brought and was told it would cost as much to have it laundered). It was very important for me not to accept presents. As it was, I was beginning to feel like a kept woman.

  In fact, for the first few days, I’d almost starved because I’d felt too embarrassed about the man picking up the tab. I’d insist I wasn’t hungry and then end up eating an enormous submarine sandwich at some trucker’s joint. “You are being loathsome,” the man would say. “This isn’t pride—this is madness—stop it! Listen, you pricey bitch, I can afford to feed you. I am rich. Do you understand what that means? RICH. Besides, it gives me great pleasure to watch you eat. I have never met a woman who eats as much. Where does it all go? Do you have a wooden leg or something? Come on, let’s get you a banana split—I bet you’re starving.” It was like that. So, we struck a deal—food, OK—presents, not OK.

  Anyway the farewell gift was supposed to be a talisman I’d wear on my way home. It was to remind me that no matter what happened, the man was a phone call and a flight away. I was to call (reverse charges, of course) and report my final decision. The man wept. I wept. It was all very Francoise Truffaut.

  Until the very end, as I passed into the immigration hall in fact, the man refused to give up. “Live with me—check it out. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. What have you to lose . . .” No. No. No. It wasn’t for me. It was only a pause. An important one. But a pause—nothing more. The Lanvin watch—far too smart for me—looked awkward on my thin wrist. It was perfect for Anjali, whom I met of all things at Bombay airport as I was waiting to clear customs (she was returning from London).

  Unsurprisingly, the watch was the first thing she noticed. “You didn’t buy this, did you? Who gave it to you?” she asked, zeroing in perfectly. I didn’t want to tell her about the man. I was in no mood for exchanging confidences. Besides at this point Anjali wasn’t on my priority list. But she wouldn’t let up. “Tell me, idiot. I know you couldn’t have bought this. And you couldn’t have selected it either. I bet you don’t even know how to pronounce the make—go on—pronounce it and show me. Why are you being so bloody secretive? Who was he? Do I know him? Is it serious?” She was being nosey and tiresome and I got rid of her as quickly as possible and headed for home. If my sisters outdid Anjali in anything, it was in their nosiness. They wanted to know everything, particularly the big question—had I done it? Had I finally lost my virginity? I hadn’t, but I didn’t feel like saying so. They weren’t half as bothered about the more important questions—the marriage that wasn’t going to be, for instance. They weren’t even interested in what I perceived as a major emotional crisis. If I felt my sisters were doing badly, I wasn’t doing much better. My short stay in the States had, I felt, elevated me above the rest of the world. I felt assertive and found my sisters provincial and pesky. I resented their superficial questions. I had stumbled on something called “privacy,” “space,” to give it its Stateside name—a concept that didn’t exist in my home. “I need space,” I said airily soon after my return.

  I tried the line on the boyfriend first. He looked puzzled. “What do you mean—‘space’?”

  “You know—SPACE—I need my own space. I feel claustrophobic. I need to find myself.”

  And then it was his turn to surprise me by saying
something that was really sharp and smart. “Yeah?” said he. “Find yourself, huh? What if you don’t like what you find.What then? Will you be able to lose yourself again?”

  I gave him my best European-heroine smoldering look. “What would you know about such things.” Quietly I gave him back the ring he had taken from his mother for me. “I can’t go through with it, darling. I’m not ready for it yet.”

  He had a desperate look in his eyes. “What happened in America? What could have happened in just a few weeks? If you need time—you’ve got it. OK. Let’s not rush into anything. Take your time. Maybe you are upset because you are tired. Maybe the trip was too much for you. Don’t see me for a week, if that’s what you want.”

  “I don’t want to see you again,” I said, in a voice I could hardly recognize as my own. But it had to be done and I didn’t know how else to do it.