Glitter and Gloss

by Vibha Batra

  ‘Cute?’ Poulomi snorts.

  ‘Okay, okay, hawwwttt,’ I admit. ‘10,000 degree Celsius Surya Devta hot. And he lands up at the store. Whatte coincidence. So Poulomi here asks me to…’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to do anything, Misha, I merely suggested…’

  ‘Okay, so Poulomi here “suggests” I give it a shot.’ I lean forward, grab the magazine, and click a picture of Akshay’s photograph. ‘Here’s a shot,’ I giggle.

  ‘And did you? Follow her suggestion?’ Sammy asks, snatching the paper away.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And?’ Sammy prompts.

  ‘Turns out the hottie’s engaged,’ I say in an aggrieved tone.

  ‘Good for him,’ Sammy utters with feeling.

  ‘Bad for me,’ I mewl. ‘So I’ve turned to Rumola for comfort.’

  ‘Who?’ Sammy asks, scratching his head.

  ‘Rum+Cola, Rumola.’ I clink sippy cups with Poulomi.

  ‘I see,’ Sammy bobs his head. ‘You know you could always turn to Gymeshwar for comfort.’

  It’s my turn to frown. ‘Who?’

  ‘Gym + Eshwar, Gymeshwar. You could run on the treadmill, spin on the aerobike, pump some weights,’ Sammy says pointedly.

  ‘Or you could have a life,’ Poulomi interjects.

  Sammy glares at her.

  ‘I’m just saying,’ she shrugs.

  I hold up my cup. ‘Salud!’

  ‘I can’t watch this,’ Sammy shudders as if it’s an orgy of self-destruction. He marches to his room, slamming the door shut behind him.

  ‘Bottoms up,’ Poulomi says.

  We lift our bottoms from the couch and fall back on it, giggling. And that’s how Sammy finds us the next morning.

  It’s my day off and Poulomi has left by the time I wake up. While my room is just the way I like it—in a stare of meticulous disorder—I’ve got tons of chores to wrap up. Sammy mentioned the Bai—an expensive proposition and necessary evil—wouldn’t be coming in today.

  There’s something else, something Sammy wants me to do. But for the life of me, I can’t think what. I’m sure it’ll come back to me later and throw myself into the chores with all the enthusiasm I usually reserve for a dental appointment.

  I’m midway between ironing my black shirt, when my cell phone buzzes. The TV is on full blast.

  ‘Hello!’ I say, raising my voice above the noise.

  ‘Hello?’

  The muffled voice says something, but I can’t quite catch it.

  ‘Hello?’ I say, stuffing a finger in my other ear.

  ‘Hello? Who’s this?’ The voice answers.

  I get so annoyed when random folk call and ask me that. I mean, they frickin’ dialled the number.

  ‘Depends. Who are you?’

  ‘This is Akshay, Akshay Agarwal.’

  Oh, bloody hell.

  ‘Hello? Hello?’

  ‘Um, hello,’ I say contritely hitting the mute button on the remote.

  ‘I got a missed call from this number? Last evening?’

  ‘Yeah, um, it’s me, Misha. You know, M.A.C. Misha?’

  There is a second’s pause.

  ‘Misha? Oh, hi!’ His voice is warm. Kind of like he is happy to hear my voice. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I … I’ve never been better! And you?’

  ‘Good,’ he says in rippling tones.

  I don’t know what to say next.

  ‘You called me?’

  ‘I, uh, yeah-h,’ I stammer. ‘Just wanted to check if your niece liked the surprise gift.’

  ‘Her birthday’s next week, remember?’

  Crap!

  ‘Oops, sorry, slipped my mind.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ he says affably. ‘It was nice of you to call.’

  ‘Yeah, um, we’re big on customer satisfaction.’ I’m so flustered, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line.

  ‘I see. Well, full marks on that front.’

  ‘If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to drop by,’ I say steadily, in my most professional voice.

  ‘I won’t.’ He sounds amused now. ‘I kind of like the service at the store.’

  Wait a minute, is he mocking me? I can’t be too sure. He sounds awfully polite.

  ‘Thanks. We aim to please.’

  ‘Very impressive, all the personal attention you give clients.’

  ‘That’s our speciality,’ I say in a confident voice.

  God, it is bordering on the ridiculous now.

  ‘Prompt follow ups,’ he agrees.

  ‘Naturally,’ I say proudly.

  That’s it. I clamp a hand over my mouth. Not another silly word shall pass my lips.

  ‘So, calling clients after hours is a done thing, then?’ He asks without missing a beat.

  I shouldn’t have listened to Poulomi’s suggestion.

  ‘Um, uh, yeah, sometimes,’ I croak. ‘If they happen to be very important clients.’

  ‘I see.’

  I can practically hear him chortle now. But does that stop me? Sadly, no.

  ‘Basically, anyone who makes a purchase over three thousand rupees…’

  That’s it. I’ve got to stop. I slap my forehead. Hard. Harder than I mean to. The impact makes me reel. I stumble back and hit the iron that falls on my foot.

  ‘Oww!’ I cry, hopping on one leg.

  ‘Are you all right?’ He asks, his voice tinged with concern.

  ‘F-f-fine, fine.’

  Gawwdd, it hurts.

  ‘Misha? Misha, is everything okay? Did you hurt yourself?’

  ‘No, I, uh, just managed to drop the iron box on my foot,’ I squeal.

  ‘What? Oh, no! Is it swelling up? Why don’t you rub some ice cubes over it? It’ll help, trust me.’ He shoots off a list of instructions.

  ‘Um, okay,’ I say half-heartedly.

  ‘Let me guess, you don’t have ice cubes in your fridge,’ Akshay exhales.

  He’s a bloody genius. I don’t know how he keeps doing this. And he isn’t even reading my expression right now.

  ‘No. I was supposed to fill the trays, but—’ Now I remember, that’s the other thing Sammy wanted me to do.

  ‘But you forgot,’ he sighs. ‘Right?’

  I’m a little cheesed off. Who the hell does he think he is criticizing me? Unlike him, I don’t have flunkeys to order around. Nor do I have a bloody army of minions doing all my menial chores.

  ‘Yeah, so? Happens to the best of us,’ I reply tersely, defending my action, or rather my inaction. ‘I also forgot I’m expecting an important call, um, right about now. So thank you once again for your valuable feedback, we really appreciate it.’

  ‘Who’s “we”,’ Akshay wants to know.

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Exactly. So why did you say “we”?’

  I grit my teeth.

  ‘It’s like the royal “we”,’ I say tartly.

  ‘Oh, the royal we,’ Akshay says affably. ‘I thought as much.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘That you were named after royalty. Isn’t Misha a Russian princess?’

  ‘I wish! Sadly, Misha was a bear—the mascot of the 1980 Moscow Olympics. It was the year my parents met, so…’

  ‘Nice,’ Akshay comments.

  ‘Not so nice,’ I counter. ‘Imagine being a hairy kid and being named after a bear?’

  ‘Ouch, that must have been rough,’ he says sympathetically.

  ‘Don’t ask…’

  And then it strikes me, he is asking a helluva lot of personal questions, for someone who’s just met me.

  ‘You always ask this many questions to people you buy stuff from?’

  ‘Only if I’m pleased with the service. Which, in this case, I am.’

  Oh, so we are back to that.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Right.’

  There is a spot of silence and then I speak up.

  ‘So, okay, here
’s wishing your niece a very happy Sweet Seventeen from all of us at M.A.C., hope she likes her birthday present.’

  ‘I’m sure she will. Thanks so much.’

  ‘It was nothing. Was just doing my job. Bye, Akshay.’

  ‘Bye, Misha.’

  I hang up and turn around and find myself bumping into Sammy. He’s ready to leave for the afternoon session. He gives me a funny look.

  ‘What?’ I ask him.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, why?’ I ask in a high voice.

  ‘No reason. Just that, you look all, I don’t know, all flushed.’

  I’m not! Am I?

  ‘I guess it’s the heat. Uff, it’s killing me!’

  ‘Mmm-hmm,’ Sammy says, his brows knitting.

  Clearly, he’s not buying it. But I stay mum.

  ‘Am eating out. There are leftovers from last night. In the fridge.’

  ‘Super!’ I beam at him. ‘Thanks, you are a lifesaver.’

  He lets himself out of the apartment. I scroll through my list of WhatsApp contacts. My heart skips a little beat when I see the last name—Akshay. There is no display photo, no status message. It just says ‘Available’. If only he were, I think wistfully.

  I shake my head and scroll down, till I reach Mom and call her. She’s taking a sabbatical. She plans on backpacking through South America with Ronit, her boyfriend. Did I mention he’s only a couple of years older than moi? Oh, it’s all so exciting! Except maybe the Ronit part.

  Then I go back to kitchen, look around for the ice trays and proceed to fill them out. Impulsively, I click a picture and WhatsApp it to Akshay. It’s bloody reckless and I regret it the instance I hit send, but the damage is done. I stare at the screen, but the two blue ticks remain conspicuous by their absence.

  For the next few hours, I reach for the cell phone every chance I get. Before going to the washroom, after stepping out. Before washing my face, after brushing my hair. Before I heat the sandwich, after I take a huge bite. I check and check, but nothing.

  I’m half asleep, when the display of my cell phone flashes. And there it is, the text I’ve been waiting for.

  So you finally got around to filling them. Good! How’s the foot, btw? Not swollen up, I hope.

  P.s. Are you always this accident prone?

  p.p.s. Decent shot of the ice trays. Composition could be better though. Next time, don’t leave so much space on top.

  It’s not exactly an encrypted message, but I can’t really decode it. Akshay’s texting me at midnight. Why? Is he trying to send me a ‘message’? Is he just being friendly? Polite? What?

  I’m so confused. I read and reread it. Soon, the words are embossed in my mind, but I’m not any closer to deciphering them.

  5

  ‘Hey, that passport of yours, is it up to date?’ Poulomi asks me ever so casually when I troop into the store.

  I wonder if she’s rubbing it in. But her face is perfectly serious. So here’s the thing. My passport is like a shiny red Ferrari that’s left never the garage. Or a chick/dude who’s all decked up and has got nowhere to go. Or a packet of condoms that never gets to see any action. Oh, you get the drift.

  I got a passport mainly because Mom’s seriously bitten by the travel bug. And I thought, maybe just maybe, some off the wanderlust would dust off on me. But so far, bluey has just been gathering dust in my cupboard.

  ‘Why?’ I ask, eyeing her doubtfully.

  ‘No reason.’

  Just what I thought. I go back to arranging the testers on the shelf.

  ‘Except, Martin wanted to know if you’re free this weekend.’

  I stiffen. She’s not the kind to play matchmaker. Then another depressing thought strikes me. Martin has a crush on me. Eww!

  ‘You know, I don’t think of Martin that way. In fact, I don’t think of him at all.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. But it’s just that, there’s a show this weekend…’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘In Dubai.’

  ‘WHAT????!!!’ I’m so excited that I throw my arms around her neck and nearly squash her to death.

  ‘Ohmmygodd!’ I exclaim, placing a hand on my racing heart. ‘I don’t believe this!’

  ‘You better. He asked for you.’

  My face falls. ‘Oh, so does it mean you’re not coming?’

  She places her hands on my shoulders.

  ‘Okay, Mish, you need to sit down.’

  Now I’m worried. The last time she’d told me that was when she told me about Rahul two timing me. I quietly walk up to the stool and plonk myself on it.

  ‘Okay, this may come as a shock to you … but I’ve been meaning to tell you this … for a while now, actually … I just didn’t know how.’

  ‘You’ve got cancer!’

  ‘What? No!’ Her eyes widen with shock. Then she flicks me lightly on the forehead. ‘No, you silly girl. I’m fine, I’m healthy. Or at least as healthy as a chain smoking, vodka guzzling alcoholic can be.’

  I’m so thrilled, I garland her neck with my arms again.

  ‘Enough with that already,’ Poulomi says in a gruff voice.

  But I know she is pleased.

  ‘So, here’s the thing. I think I’ve had enough with this makeup artist thingy.’

  ‘What???’

  ‘Let me finish, Mish. I always thought it was something I wanted to do. But now, I’m not so sure.’

  Oh, so that’s why she dropped out of the Bridal Week and the event fell in my lap. It all makes sense now.

  ‘I think there’s something else for me out there, Mish. Something I’ll enjoy doing, something that will make me get out of bed, something I will look forward to when I’m going to bed.’

  I hear her. That’s exactly how I feel towards my job. I can’t wait to wake up, throw off the covers and wield the brushes. I love everything about my job. Well, except the coming-to-the-store-everyday part of it.

  If I had it my way, I’d work out of home, do a bride a day. But I have to start somewhere. I’ve got to get more experience. I’ve got to put myself out there. I’ve got to do this long enough to ace it. Long enough for people to trust me. Without that, no bride is going to let me anywhere near her face.

  ‘I’ve put in my papers, Mish.’

  Oh no! My face falls. I’ll miss working with Poul. She’s the one who pushed me to quit the Tres Chic Academy after three long years. She’s the one who gave me the courage to apply to M.A.C.

  ‘Anyway, forget about all that. We’ll talk later. I promise, Mish,’ she says tenderly, looking at my crestfallen expression.

  ‘About this event, it’s a three day affair. You leave the day after. Martin’s team will take care of the visa, tickets, stay, etc. All you have to do is show up. And oh, tell that house husband of yours that he won’t have to see my mug all this weekend.’

  I screw up my face. I hate it when she calls Sammy that. He’s is like a bro, you know. A neat and tidy and amazingly helpful bro.

  ‘The way he makes himself useful around the house,’ Poulomi shudders.

  In his defence, Sammy has a mild to moderate form of OCD. Thank god for that. It’s just what I need. You know, to balance things out on the housekeeping front.

  I’m so excited, I don’t notice Vrushali walking in and tossing us a dirty look.

  ‘How much you girls gossip, ya? Whenever I see y’all, you’re going yak yak, yak yak,’ she says theatrically.

  ‘What to do, Vrushali, lots of spare time on our hands. No love life, no complications,’ Poul says sweetly.

  Vrushali narrows her eyes, trying to gauge if Poulomi is being flippant, and then decides to let it pass.

  A gaggle of college girls troop in and I’m swept away into the day. I don’t have a minute to think about Dubai. But the second I reach home, I throw myself into packing with the enthusiasm I usually reserve for shopping.

  I know I won’t have much time to see the place, but who cares, I’M GOING TO DUBAI. And ain’t that frickin’ a
wesome! I’ll be leaving Indian soil for the first time. I throw in my best pair of jeans, a pair of black harem pants, cutoff denim shorts, a few fitted shirts, and practically all my ganjis.

  When Sammy comes home and I break the news to him, he looks concerned. He asks me if it’s going to be safe. Ha! It’s Dubai. It’s one of the safest cities in the world. I mean, they chop off your hands for stealing and stuff there but it’s going to be great, I just know it.

  It’s not.

  My flight is late. I’m the last one to reach the venue, a posh hotel that’s teeming with guests. I practically sprint backstage. And the first thing I see? Agarwal Jewellery standees and banners! There’s an Agarwal Jewellery store in Dubai! OMG, Akshay might be here! I want to weep.

  Martin weeps too, he is so relieved to see me. I get busy with work. But the whole time, I’m so self-conscious. It’s as if I’m expecting Akshay to rappel his way down like some hunky S.W.A.T. Team hero.

  I wish I’d worn something more glam than a neon green ganji, a checked shirt, and skinny black jeans. What if Akshay finds me dowdy? What if he looks through me? Worse, what if he doesn’t recognize me? But my fears are unfounded. He’s not around.

  Unfortunately, Tarunesh, the pain in the arse designer, very much is. He makes model after model wash her face, because he’s ‘Not happy with the look.’ It doesn’t help that he doesn’t know why.

  All he knows is that he ‘Can’t quite place a finger on it’ and ‘It’s not quite what he had in mind’. Which means, we’ve to do up each model’s face TWICE before he makes a constipated face. Which is his way of saying, ‘Yeah, okay, let’s go with this’.

  I’m so tired by the end of it, that when the fashion show gets underway, all I want to do is vegetate backstage. The show gets wrapped up in half an hour. It’s funny how quickly the whole thing gets done.

  All that excitement, all that preparation. And the stage time? Blink and you miss it. Come to think of it, fashion shows are like foreplay: the amount of effort that goes into it is inversely proportional to the main act.

  I’m just glad the first day’s a huge success. I’m kind of looking forward to the after-party at Theos, a fancy pub on the sixty-first floor of a skyscraper. Mojito mojito mojito is all I can think of on my way up, but when it’s my turn to enter, the bouncer blocks my way.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Misha Chaturvedi.’