Glitter and Gloss

by Vibha Batra

  ‘Akki,’ Poulomi snorts derisively and looks up. The words freeze on her lips.

  It’s Akshay. In the flesh. At the store. He heads over to where I’m standing. My heart rate spikes and I drop the sandwich I’ve been hungrily biting into.

  It falls to the floor in slow motion, splattering on to his impeccably tailored pants and so-gorgeous-must-be-Italian-custom-made-handcrafted-leather shoes.

  ‘Oh god, I’m so sorrryyyyy,’ I yelp, springing to life. I bend down, spring back up again. I flail around wildly for a tissue. Then I dive back again.

  ‘It’s … I … It’s okay,’ Akshay begins.

  ‘No, no … let me get that for you.’

  And before he can say another word, I’m cleaning his shoes. Actually cleaning them. Like, rubbing the tissue back and forth, like a good ole shoeshine boy.

  ‘What are you … please stop, please don’t do that … STOP!’

  I think I’m making it worse, because there is mayo all over his shoes. Without warning, Akshay grabs my arms and yanks me up. And suddenly, I’m at eye level with him, shaking in my metallic ballerina flats. Oh my, he’s a sight for sore bleary eyes. Did he go from hot to smokin’ hawwwt in a week? If he were a weed, I’d totally be smoking him up right now.

  ‘Hi,’ he says, looking into my eyes.

  How can I possibly respond to that?

  ‘What the!’ Poulomi swears under her breath, abandoning her position behind the counter and hurrying up to us. ‘Is everything okay? Sir, are you all right?’ She asks solicitously.

  Akshay straightens his clothes. He’s wearing a peach coloured shirt and I suddenly remember that I love peaches. I love grabbing them and unpeeling them and devouring them.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Are you okay?’ he says turning his eyes at me. Again!

  I realise I’m still holding on to the dirty tissue, the one I cleaned his shoes with. I toss it away. There’s an awkward silence till Akshay clears his throat.

  ‘It’s funny, you know, in the last one week, you’ve rescued me from a … a hairy situation, you’ve applied make up on my face, you’ve cleaned my shoes, but we still haven’t been properly introduced.’

  He pauses and shoots me a flatten-a-thousand-girls-in-one-blow smile.

  ‘Akshay.’

  For a split second, I just gawk at him.

  ‘She’s Misha,’ Poulomi speaks up for me.

  ‘Misha,’ he repeats after her.

  Funny, when he says it like that, my name doesn’t sound so bad. I mean, it’s kind of okay to be named after a bear. Or a mascot. Or a Russian mobster.

  After that, it’s as if someone has hit the remote and paused the screen of my life.

  ‘Misha, will you help Sir?’

  I’ve a glazed expression plastered on my face. I’m looking at Poulomi, but I’m not really seeing her. I can hear her, but I’m not exactly listening.

  Then Poulomi elbows me. Hard.

  ‘Oww,’ I cry out, spluttering back to life.

  ‘Misha will help you Sir,’ Poulomi scuttles around, her eyebrows shooting up and down. I know those kathakali expressions are supposed to mean something. But am not quite sure what.

  Another customer walks in then and she scoots off to attend to her.

  ‘Sorry about that sandwich,’ Akshay says sincerely.

  ‘Um, it’s okay, no probs, no biggie. Don’t worry about it,’ I say in my most reassuring voice.

  ‘Fine, let me buy you lunch and I won’t.’

  What???!

  ‘N-n-no! No, no, that won’t be necessary. I wasn’t really hungry, I just love stuffing my face…’

  And blabbering in front of hot dudes, it’d seem. Ladies and gentlemen, my special talent.

  He glances at his watch. ‘It’s three in the afternoon, you must be starving. There’s a Costa Coffee on this floor. Tell you what, let’s grab a sandwich. I haven’t eaten either … it’ll be nice to have some company.’

  He’s asking me to have lunch with him! And suddenly, I’m brimming over with excitement.

  ‘I—um, okay,’ I respond.

  ‘Great!’

  I hurry to tell Poulomi.

  And before I know it, we’re sitting in Costa Coffee and demolishing a huge sandwich.

  ‘So,’ I say, brushing my fringe off to one side.

  I’m so glad I did this. Got myself a pixie cut, that is. And highlighted my hair a deep red. I’m actually quite stoked about my new look. I’d have chopped my hair off ages ago, but like most Indian guys, Rahul liked girls with long black hair.

  ‘So,’ he says, by way of conversation. ‘Nice store you’ve got there.’

  ‘Um, thanks,’ I say, scrambling for words. ‘I mean, it’s not my store, I just work there. Ha ha! And all M.A.C. stores look alike. Been in one, been in all.’

  Okay, I’ve got to calm down. Talk sense. Sense. Yeah, I could do that. I’m a trained make-up artist. I can talk sense. I take a deep breath and open my mouth.

  ‘So, what are you looking for? Don’t tell me, after I made you wear foundation, you loved it so much that you’re here to buy it.’

  Somebody stop me!

  He looks baffled. ‘What? No! Actually, it’s my niece’s birthday. Next week. Um, she’s turning seventeen.’

  ‘How nice!’ I coo. ‘Congrats!’

  I don’t know why I’m congratulating him. It’s not as if he gave birth to her or brought her up.

  ‘Thanks, I guess’ Akshay says with an easy laugh. ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘Drinks at a pub,’ I say without thinking.

  Akshay narrows his eyes. ‘She’s too young, you know. To drink.’

  ‘How old were you when you started drinking?’ I counter.

  ‘Sixteen,’ he says sheepishly. ‘But—’

  ‘Oh come on, don’t be an old fart.’

  I did not call him that. I did not. We’re not in the store. So he’s not exactly my customer. But still.

  ‘Oh god, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I said that. You’re not old. Or a fart. In fact, you smell great. Positively divine!’ I sniff to elaborate my point.

  The corners of his mouth lift. ‘Thank you, not every day that you get complimented on the way you smell.’

  ‘What? Really! No way! I’m sure people must be telling you that you smell heavenly every day.’

  ‘Nope,’ he says with a mischievous glint in his eyes. ‘Just you.’

  Oh! I don’t know quite how to respond to that. So I just stare at my sandwich.

  ‘So, I was just wondering what to get her,’ Akshay says, taking a bite of his sandwich.

  ‘Hmm, okay, let’s see. Her complexion, what’s it like?’

  He shrugs like he hasn’t really noticed.

  ‘I mean,’ I say patiently. ‘Is it smooth and soft and supple like yours?’

  What is the matter with me?

  He chortles before disguising it into a polite cough. ‘Um, I don’t know about that.’

  ‘I mean, that’s just my professional opinion,’ I say with great emphasis.

  ‘Okay,’ he says, his eyes twinkling.

  Okay, you know what,’ I stumble over the words. ‘Why don’t you get her along?’

  He makes a face, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘What’s the fun in buying gifts like that?’

  ‘Oh, you want it to be a surprise,’ I say slowly as it finally dawns on me.

  ‘You make it sound like a bad thing,’ Akshay says, reading my expression. Very astute.

  I wonder if I should give a politically correct answer, and then think oh, what the hell.

  ‘I think surprises are waayyy overrated. I mean, why bother? The person’s right here, just take them along, buy them what they need. Or it’s an endless round of save the bill, show up at the store again, exchange it, blah blah. Waste of time, if you ask me.’

  ‘Wow, sounds like you have a thing against surprises. Okay, remind me to never give you one.’

  And suddenly, in my mind’s eye, I s
ee Akshay landing up at the store, playing peekaboo with a giant teddy bear.

  His eyes fall on my rapidly reddening complexion. For one heart-stopping moment, I worry that he can read my mind. I’m not being too fanciful, I’ve been told my face is transparent.

  But mercifully, he doesn’t say anything. He calls for the tab and I’m kind of bummed that our lunch time’s up. He’s so easy to be with. And so charming, so gentlemanly and so frickin’ hot.

  He walks me to the store.

  ‘So, what do you suggest I get Raksha?’ He asks me.

  ‘Hmm, let me see. How about a tinted moisturizer with SPF 15, a dewy blush and a coral lip gloss?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what any of it meant, but yeah, sounds good.’

  ‘Okay, then!’

  I bill the purchases and hand him the bag.

  He sticks out a hand. ‘Thanks so much, Misha, for all the help. Really appreciate it.’

  I give him my hand. His grip is strong and warm and soothing. Just like his voice. My womb positively quivers.

  ‘Thanks, Akshay. You know, for lunch. And oh, sorry, about your pants and your shoes.’

  ‘Don’t worry, they’re going to be fine.’

  I’m worried because I don’t think I’m going to be.

  Then, with a wave, he’s gone.

  Poulomi troops over, bubbling with excitement.

  ‘So, impromptu date shate, huh!’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Poul, it was nothing.’

  ‘Come on! He’s into you. You’d have to be blind not to see it.’

  ‘What? He’s not! He was just being polite.’

  ‘When people are being polite, they say, “Thank you”. They don’t buy you lunch,’ Poulomi insists.

  ‘It was just a sandwich,’ I protest.

  Poul rolls her eyes. ‘That’s what Kim Kardashain thought when Kanye West took her out. “It’s just a sandwich”.’

  ‘Oh, please, Poul.’

  ‘You think he’s hot, don’t you? Admit it.’

  ‘I do!’ I confess. ‘But, but it’s not nice.’

  Poulomi is genuinely puzzled. ‘What’s not nice, Mish?’

  ‘He’s just being friendly and I, I’m just thinking about getting into his pants. Don’t we hate it when guys do that?’

  ‘So do it in the name of gender equality,’ Poulomi exhorts. ‘Go after him, I say.’

  ‘I don’t know, Poul…’

  ‘Tell you what, Mish. He’s left his number in the comment book. Call him up, ask him if his niece liked the stuff. You know, make it sound like a routine follow up from the store. All very professional, above board. He won’t suspect a thing. Who knows, maybe he’ll ask you out again!’

  ‘Isn’t that … desperate?’

  ‘Misha, you haven’t had a date in months. You should be desperate! You don’t want your plumbing to choke up from months of disuse.’

  No, I don’t want that. I think about what Poulomi has told me all day. I’m strangely excited. I keep thinking back to the lunch. I keep replaying everything Akshay has said to me. He seemed to like me. And god knows, I like him. A call can’t hurt, right.

  So the next evening, I call him up. A girl answers the phone. There’s loud music in the background.

  ‘Mr Akshay Agarwal, please.’

  ‘Hello? Hellooooo?’ she yells over the noise.

  I hear the phone being passed on. Someone cuts the volume.

  ‘Hello?’ Says a sultry voice.

  ‘Hi, is this Akshay’s assistant?’ I venture.

  ‘No, his intended,’ pat comes the reply. I hear giggling in the background.

  My heart stops. My hands go numb. I hear shuffling sounds. Before Akshay can come on the line, I hang up. I’m so agitated, I end up calling the number back. I disconnect the call in the nick of time, hoping and praying Akshay doesn’t call back.

  4

  ‘It was stupid!!! Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid,’ I say, doing a bottoms up.

  For the last two hours that’s all I’ve been doing. Drowning my sorrows in alco.

  ‘Are you done?’ Poulomi asks placidly.

  I nod miserably, my energy ebbing.

  ‘STUPID,’ I say one last time with as much feeling as I can possibly squeeze into the word.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ Poulomi says.

  It totally is. But saying ‘I told you’ sucks. And at the moment, I’ve had enough of sucky things.

  ‘Of course, he’s engaged. I knew it! He’s too good looking to be single.’

  ‘What rot!’ Poulomi snorts. ‘You are good looking too, but you’re single.’

  I wave a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, please, I’m so not in his league. He’s a Greek God,’ I slur. ‘I’m a Plain Janaki, no, Plain Janani—what the eff is the Indian equivalent of Plain Jane again?’

  I stare at the sippy cup in my hand. My eyes trail across to Poulomi. She’s drinking out of a sippy cup too. I know I haven’t done the dishes. I know there are no clean glasses. I know we need to drink in something. But sippy cups? Who the eff drinks rum in sippy cups? Why do I even have sippy cups?

  ‘Guess what I inherited from my Daddio?’

  ‘His love for poetry,’ Poulomi says sagely.

  ‘This!’ I tap my Pinocchio-ish nose. ‘This will never let me be anything but plain. Mom—raving beauty, Dad—The Nose. Guess who I take after?’

  ‘The Nose,’ Poulomi supplies, flicking through the channels.

  ‘Rrrrigght! Stupid bloody gene roulette.’ I slurp loudly before bringing the sippy cup down with a loud thud. ‘That’s it. I think I’m going to do it.’

  ‘Do what, Misha?’

  My voice trembles slightly. ‘Nose job. Yeah, I’m going to get meself a brand new nose.’

  ‘What? No, you won’t. Don’t be silly, Mish, this is Rumola talking.’

  I don’t think so. It’s not dutch courage. It’s time I took the plunge.

  ‘Why not? Jennifer Aniston, Shilpa Shetty, Shruti Hassan, so many people have done it.’

  ‘They are actors,’ Poulomi says. ‘It’s their job to look good…’

  ‘Ha! So you’re saying they didn’t look good before they got a nose job. Which means, I don’t look good before the good job. Which means, I should get the nose job now…’

  The key sounds in the lock.

  ‘Hulk Hogan is here,’ Poulomi says wryly.

  Sammy trudges in wearily, his cherry red gym bag hoisted on his shoulder. He really looks like the Hulk. Tall and beefy with biceps the size of Bandra.

  ‘Hey!’ I say brightly. ‘Welcome home.’

  ‘Misha,’ he nods solemnly. ‘Poulomi,’ he says curtly.

  Okay, here’s the thing. Life’s a little more complicated than geometry. So if A’s close to B and C, it doesn’t necessarily mean B and C are close. In fact, there’s every chance, they’re calling each other BC. What I’m trying to say here is that I love Poulomi and I love Sammy. But Poulomi and Sammy, they love to hate each other.

  ‘Drinking? Again?’ He asks arching an eyebrow.

  ‘Some of us like to have fun,’ Poulomi says.

  ‘Some of us only like to have fun,’ Sammy retorts.

  ‘Some of us have a stick up our ass,’ Poulomi rejoins.

  ‘Some of us have a drinking problem,’ Sammy adds.

  And suddenly, I feel as if I’m watching a Federer-Nadal match. I’m looking from one to another. Volley after volley after volley.

  ‘Whatever you say, Arogyaswamy,’ Poulomi says, her tongue firmly in cheek.

  Sammy’s nostrils flare. ‘I’m sorry?’ he says, his eyes turn to narrow slits.

  ‘You heard me,’ Poulomi says insouciantly.

  ‘You did not call me that!’

  ‘Oh, isn’t that your name?’ Poulomi asks innocently.

  Unfortunately, it is. I’m guessing Arogya whatchamacallit’s parents were like mine. Hell bent on ruining their offspring’s chances even before they ventured out into the cruel world. I mean, who can blame the guy
for shortening it to Sammy?

  I totter to my feet, only to lose my footing. Sammy grabs my arm to steady me.

  ‘How much have you had to drink?’

  ‘Not much.’

  Poulomi waves the half-empty Old Monk bottle in the air. ‘Yeah, not much.’

  He snatches the bottle away.

  ‘Hey!’ Poulomi protests, jumping to her feet. ‘You give that back right now, Arogya.’

  ‘Don’t call me that, Bhattacharya. Look what you’ve done to the sweet li’l girl.’

  ‘Butt out, Thangabali! Go pick on someone your own size, in an akahada or something,’ Poulomi bites out.

  ‘Children, children, please,’ I say, holding my hands up.

  ‘She can take care of herself,’ Poulomi says, her voice climbing an octave.

  ‘She can,’ I agree. ‘I mean, I can. This,’ I say waving my hands around, ‘is just a chotu pity party I’ve thrown meself. And everyone’s invited.’

  Sammy narrows his eyes. ‘Pity party, I know what that means. Another guy?’

  ‘Right-o!’ Poulomi hoots.

  ‘What do you mean, “another” guy, Sammy?’ I bleat, an injured look on my face.

  ‘Well, there was the Rahul phase…’

  ‘I know, right?’ Poulomi chimes in. ‘I’ve been telling her the same thing. For a Chaturvedi, she’s not very chatur.’

  ‘What are you doing to yourself, babe?’ Sammy asks me, pity filling his eyes.

  ‘What am I doing?’ I blubber. I round on Poulomi. ‘She told me call him…’

  Sammy looks completely thrown. ‘Call who? Rahul?’

  ‘No, that Agarwal boy, Akki.’

  ‘Who?’ He asks again.

  ‘She didn’t tell you about Akki?’ Poulomi asks snarkily.

  Hey, I hadn’t told her either. It was Meddling Martin who squealed.

  Sammy looks from me to Poulomi. ‘Who’s Akki?’

  Poulomi reaches for the Indian Jewellery Journal, one of the many magazines the store subscribes to. She flips through it, till she reaches the page, and stabs a finger on the photograph.

  ‘New hero’s entry.’

  Sammy crosses his arms over his Chappan Inch ki Chaati. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ Poulomi rolls her eyes.

  ‘Don’t listen to her, Sammy. It’s just that … I met this random guy … last week … at the fashion show. And he was, well, cute…’