Glitter and Gloss

by Vibha Batra

  ‘WHAT?’

  I blink. My mind’s whirling with doubts. ‘But … but … the other day … the girls who answered your phone … one said she was your intended…’

  ‘Yeah, that,’ he sighs, ‘it’s an inside joke, Misha.’

  BLOODY HELL!

  ‘So those girls…’

  ‘Must have been my niece Raksha and Girija. She’s a family friend and the Flavour of the Month—’

  My eyes widen in shock.

  ‘—for my sister. Didi intends to get me hitched to someone “Suitable”.’ He breaks off to make air quotes. ‘Last month it was Suhana, the month before it was Akshara…’

  ‘And this month, it’s Girija,’ I finish.

  ‘Right.’

  Wow,’ I exhale. I amble up to the bed and flop down on it. ‘Didi’s Bahu Browsing big time.’

  ‘And for a while now,’ Akshay confesses, grimacing.

  ‘Old and doddering, are you?’ I ask archly.

  ‘Twenty eight, in the prime of youth, some might say’ he informs me, casually flexing his biceps, making me lick my lips like a lascivious Bollywood villain. ‘And you?’

  ‘Twenty four, considerably younger, some might say,’ I put in cheekily.

  ‘Oh, that explains it.’

  ‘Explains what?’ I narrow my eyes and sniff suspiciously.

  ‘Nothing,’ he says maddeningly, a smug smile playing on his lips.

  ‘So, you and this Girija character, um, no boinking?’

  The corners of his mouth lift, but very chivalrously, he strives to keep his expression solemn.

  ‘No boinking,’ he says with a straight face, pinching his throat for good measure. ‘Didi thinks we’re a good match, that’s all.’

  ‘And you? What do you think?’

  I hold my breath as Akshay stalks up to me with the easy grace of a hunter.

  ‘I think,’ he says very deliberately, ‘ferocious bobcats are more up my alley.’ He touches his lower lip gingerly. It looks positively ravaged from my guerilla attack.

  I turn a deep shade of crimson. ‘Um, you want to put some ice on that?’

  He shakes his head, his eyes never leaving mine. ‘No, not ice.’ His voice drops to a chocolate-y consistency as his gaze plummets to my lips.

  I feel a fresh surge of excitement. My heart resumes its antics on the trampoline. My throat feels terribly parched. In fact, I feel like a janam janam ki pyaasi. ‘I’m so sorry, Akshay.’

  He pauses right at the foot of the bed, parking his legs on either side of mine. Without warning, he places his hands on my shoulders and gives them a gentle push. I find myself flat on my back, gazing up at him as he straddles me.

  ‘No sweat, Bobcat. I’m sure you can think of a way to make it up to me,’ he drawls, unleashing his most lethal weapon: his smile.

  A way? I can think of a hundred. Grrr!

  8

  You know how it is when you keep secrets from your family and friends. It’s like you’re sitting on this gigantic, unpredictable volcano, tingling with molten anticipation, spewing fiery excitement, and kinda petrified it’ll explode any second.

  That’s exactly how I feel on the way to Lonavala. I’m going away for a dirty weekend with Akshay (Wheeeeeeee). I’ve told Sammy and Poul it’s a family getaway (baby bro and his GF). And my family thinks I’m off with Sammy and Poul.

  I mean, what else could I do? The week after I got back from Dubai was HELL. Things were so crazy (work, Poul’s birthday, Sammy’s treat), I’d to cancel dinner plans with Akshay thrice. I was going berserk. So when he suggested renting a cottage in Lonavala, I jumped at it the way newly crowned beauty queens jump at Bollywood offers.

  ‘Misha?’ Akshay’s voice cuts into my thoughts. We’ve made a pitstop at a quaint dhaba and I’m going all out over breakfast.

  I look up momentarily, brows furrowed, cheeks stuffed.

  ‘Sure you want to eat that?’

  I follow his glance. The kulchas look as if they have skin disease.

  ‘Donsch worrysch, they only look like thatsch,’ I hasten to assure him. ‘They tastesch yummm.’ I push the last piece into my mouth and lick my fingers off to make the point.

  Akshay doesn’t look convinced.

  To be honest, I’m fuelling up for the strenuous times ahead. The times are strenuous indeed, just not in the way I imagined.

  Because one minute Nathoo-ji—the caretaker cum cook—is welcoming us into Satyavaas Cottage, and the next minute, my stomach’s heaving. I clamp a hand on my mouth and look around wildly for the frickin’ bedroom.

  Akshay gives a start, and for a terrifying second, I’m scared he’ll follow me. I shake my head vigorously and launch myself into the loo like a ballistic missile.

  Now, leaning above the sink for Puke #7, I want to kiillll myself. Dick move, devouring poisonous kulchas, when I could have as easily been devouring Akshay.

  A knock sounds on the door.

  ‘Misha, you okay? You’ve been in there a long time.’

  ‘Coming,’ I call out weakly.

  I quickly straighten up, peer into the mirror, and almost stumble back in fright. My hair looks freshly electrocuted, my eyes resemble a raccoon’s, and my face is so pale, I look like Edward Cullen’s twin. I sigh resignedly and step out.

  ‘Hi,’ Akshay says softly.

  There’s so much concern in his eyes, my eyes start watering.

  ‘Hey, hey, hey,’ he murmurs. In a flash, his strong arms are around me and my face is pressed against his wonderfully comforting chest. I snivel and snuffle as he strokes my back and murmurs in my hair.

  I step back after an eternity and gasp in horror. My tears and snot and drool have soaked his shirt through. That’s so not my idea of a dirty weekend.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Akshay says in soothing tones, taking a step towards the loo.

  ‘Noooo!’ I cry out shrilly, halting him dead in his tracks. The loo is strictly off-limits. I mean, I was like Along Came Polly’s Ben Stiller in there.

  He hesitates, then whirls around and stalks out of the room.

  I drag myself to the bed, crawl under the covers, and close my eyes for a teeny second.

  When I open them, I find Akshay sleeping in the uncomfy chair next to the bed.

  As I struggle to prop myself up, his eyes fly open.

  ‘Hey!’ He shoots me a tender smile. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Like I’ve been hit by a truck stuffed with diseased kulchas.’ I manage a weak smile.

  Akshay’s mouth quirks.

  ‘Gosh,’ I exclaim, rubbing my forehead. ‘How long was I knocked out?’

  He consults his watch. ‘About thirteen hours.’

  ‘WHAT?!’

  It’s ten in the pm??? No no no no noooooo! I’ve truly madly deeply ruined the romantic getaway. This is so, so, soooo effed up.

  ‘This was supposed to be a f-f-fun weekend,’ I wail.

  He gets to his feet and places a finger on my lips.

  ‘I kind of enjoyed watching you snore,’ he grins down at me.

  ‘I didn’t!’ I gasp before asking tentatively. ‘Did I?’

  ‘I’ll get you something to eat,’ Akshay says with a wink. ‘Tea and toast, okay?’

  I nod gratefully. ‘With butter and jam, please…’

  His eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

  ‘… or maybe not,’ I trail off, my face burning with mortification.

  Great, like he didn’t think I was a bhooka bhediya already.

  He comes back holding a tray.

  Oh god! He couldn’t be more caring if he rubbed Vicks on my chest and sang Soft Kitty Warm Kitty. And suddenly, I feel a huge rush of, of … love! That’s when it hits me. I love Akshay. OHMYYGOOOODDD!

  I must look pretty dumbfounded, because Akshay frowns. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘N-nothing, I—you’re having toast, too?’ I croak, blood thundering in my ears, my pulse racing. ‘Why didn’t you ask Nathoo-ji to whip up something…’


  ‘And risk indigestion from your nazar?’ he says in mock horror,’ I don’t think so.’

  I crumple a paper napkin and fling it at him. He hands me the plate, grinning.

  Akshay disappears after dinner, and when he comes back, he’s wearing these heart achingly cute boxers and skimpy tee. He walks to the other side of the bed and climbs in. My heart starts pounding wildly. Wait, he doesn’t think … I mean, I was suffering from projectile dysfunction just hours ago … surely he doesn’t want to swap spit with a sickly…

  ‘Tempting, but I’ll try and rein in my raging desires,’ he drawls, as I pull the covers tightly around myself.

  His Gentleman’s Promise is enough to make me relax visibly and we spend the night chatting about this and that, that and this.

  I tell him how much I heart Sam and Poul, he tells me about his besties in the US. I share a list of things that piss me off—people who talk loudly on their cells in theatres, people who stick to your ass in queues, he shares his (the entire Agarwal clan’s, actually) morbid fear of lizards. I ‘fess up to my guilty pleasures (reading Regency romances, watching reality shows), he confesses to aping MJ’s signature moves when no one’s watching.

  We drift off to sleep, chatting. And I feel so much better when I wake up. Past noon. Before I know it, it’s time to say ta ta bye bye ram ram to Nathoo-ji and Satyanaas Cottage.

  ‘Sorry about the weekend,’ I say in a small voice, buckling my seatbelt.

  ‘Wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world,’ Akshay says, kissing the top of my head.

  I loll about on Akshay’s bed and soak in his male beauty. I mean, with my eyes. I let out a sigh as he bangs away on the laptop, his long, tapered fingers flying furiously over the keyboard. Lucky laptop, I muse, it’s certainly getting more action than some of us in the room.

  Akshay looks up. ‘Okay, can you stop looking at me like that?’

  ‘Like what?’ I ask warily.

  ‘Like you want to rip the laptop from my hands…’

  Rip the laptop, right. I cast a wistful glance at his boxers.

  ‘… fling it to the floor…’

  On the floor, now there’s a thought.

  ‘… and stamp all over it,’ Akshay finishes.

  Stamp hickeys all over his chest, oh with pleasure.

  It’s been four weeks, four glorious weeks since that awful weekend at Satyanaas Cottage. And ever since, Akshay and I have been inseparable.

  It’s all worked out rather well. Poulomi’s quit M.A.C. and is busy travelling, visiting family in Kolkata and what not. Akshay’s Didi is off on a long jaunt to the US. Their Maasi lives in Los Angeles, a close cousin in San Francisco, and Raksha’s just passed out of school. In other words, they are in no hurry to get back.

  Which means, we’ve got Mangal Mandir—his sprawling home tucked away in the leafy bylanes of Malabar Hill—to ourselves. Ever since his family departed for foreign shores, we’ve been using it as a love nest, like a couple of hawas ke pujaris. Ironic, really, because I bet Akshay’s grandfather or great grandfather or whoever named the house Auspicious Temple, didn’t foresee it being used as a haven for sinfully delicious amorous activities.

  It’s fantastic, having the place to ourselves. There’s the hired help, of course. Though I’ve only met the Agarwal’s Alfred, Narayan Kaka. He’s a sweet bumbling Alok Nath type of person. The staff is super discreet and never gets in the way. It’s as if Santa’s Little Elves lay the dinner on the table and clear the dishes after we’re done. An army of super efficient invisible minions makes our bed, and on occasion, folds the bath towels into fascinating animal shapes—duck, swan, and even an elephant one time.

  I’ve kind of become an ardent nature lover, too. How can I not? Akshay’s room opens out to a breezy balcony. There’s a mini bar at one end and bang opposite it is a cosy canopied cabana dramatically situated at the edge. I’ve come to think of it as Kingfisher, because, you know, I’ve had the King of Good Times on it.

  I look at it longingly. Unable to contain myself, I clamber out of bed and hurtle towards the terrace, only to smack my head against the glass.

  ‘Ouch!’

  Akshay mutters a curse under his breath, flings the laptop to the side, and bounds up to me. He bends down to kiss my forehead before hauling me up in his arms. I shriek in delight as he slides the glass door open, carries me out to the terrace, and deposits me on the cabana.

  I sink into its mattress-y depths and feel as if I’ve been whisked me off to a magical land where there’s nothing but a cluster of trees and a clutch of stars for company. Or maybe I’m wrong, maybe it’s a cloudless sky and Akshay’s the one making me see stars. After an exhilarating intergalactic spin, he brings me back to terra firma. I snuggle against him, burrowing my head in his chest and he strokes my hair.

  It’s so perfect, I find myself telling him about my far-from-perfect life, revealing its make-up-free-warts-and-all-real-face. Beauty expert Mom’s latest love (who’s a quarter of a century younger). Marketing wiz Dad’s only love (twelfth century Sufi poet, Rumi). Their fading love (and eventual separation). Dad moving (to hometown Lucknow). Nitin and I opting to stay back (with Mom in Pune).

  I don’t hold back, I lay it all bare: How desperate I was to escape that life. How I finally did when I got admitted to the Tres Chic, Mumbai’s topnotch professional make-up academy. How hurt Mom was when I decided to stay put after completing my training. How I worked there for three years before moving to M.A.C.

  I look up at Akshay and the post coital glow goes pfft. His expression, it’s so sombre. Oh no, I’ve weirded him out with the poora khullasa. Just when I thought he could be—no, just when I know he’s The One! I silently will him to say something, anything. But he doesn’t. Why did I open my stupid satyavadi gob, why?

  ‘Gosh, I sound like a sad act.’ I make a weak attempt at levity, lowering my head.

  He places a finger under my chin and tips my face up. A tender look comes over his face.

  ‘Not at all, Mishkin, you sound so real,’ he murmurs, his eyes shining.

  ‘So it doesn’t make you to want to run miles away?’ My voice breaks.

  ‘On the contrary,’ he says softly, ‘it makes me love you even more.’

  ‘You love me too,’ I say in dazed tones.

  Akshay reaches for my hand and kisses the inside of my wrist. ‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where…’

  Gooseflesh covers every inch of my skin as he quotes one of my favouritist poets.

  I stare up at him—open-mouthed—as he continues. ‘… I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride. So I love you because I know no other way.’

  ‘Neruda!’ I squeal, floating in a happy daze.

  He cups my face and kisses me thoroughly before enveloping me in a delightfully tight embrace.

  ‘I really hope I don’t regret this,’ Poulomi mutters, dabbing lip conditioner (M.A.C. Fuchsia Fix) on her bottom lip.

  ‘Admit it, girl, you’ve been dying to meet Akshay,’ I tease, extending and lifting my lashes with the mascara (M.A.C. Haute and Naughty Too Black Lash) wand. Except for a hint of moisturiser (M.A.C. Lightful C-Marine), I’ve left my face bare. I’ve kept the focus on my eyes and lined my lips with a light warm pink gloss (M.A.C. Angel).

  ‘Anybody would love to meet Mr-Three-Times-in-a-Row!’

  God, it happened just that one time, but she won’t shut up about it.

  Suddenly, I’m not so sure if this is a good idea. It’s been a fortnight since Akshay and I declared our undying love for each other, but maybe it’s too soon to unleash my scary friends on the poor unsuspecting soul.

  ‘But I don’t know, Misha.’ Poulomi pirouettes in front of the full length mirror in my room.

  ‘Trust me, you’ll love him,’ I say, mentally crossing my fingers as I check out my reflection. I’ve teamed up denim cutoff shorts with an asymmetrical pink top.

  ‘That’s what you said about all those other losers,’ she s
cowls.

  I turn beseeching eyes at Poulomi. ‘Um, these Misha ka Swayamvar type of references, could they not come up during the course of the evening, puhleeezee?’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Your house husband be ready any time soon?’

  I let out a weary sigh. ‘Would you Puhleeeeeze for the love of all that’s nice, watch what you’re saying, just for the next few hours? Think you can manage it?’

  Poulomi effects a hurt expression. ‘How can you even think otherwise?’

  From years of experience mostly.

  The doorbell rings. I take one last look at my reflection. ‘Remember your promise, Poul,’ I toss over my shoulder as I hurry to the door.

  I fling it open and nearly swoon. Akshay looks yummy in a pair of khaki pants stylishly cropped at his ankles, a black Ralph Lauren Polo tee shirt, a braided belt and comfy loafers.

  ‘Hey,’ I beam at him.

  ‘Hey you,’ he says softly, flashing a loin warming smile.

  He hands me a biggish paper bag. I peek inside. There are three boxes of Ferrero Rocher, one bottle of Jack Daniels, Grey Goose, and Old Monk each. Our favourite dessert and poison! Aww! I want to stand on tiptoe, kiss him on the cheek and not stop at that.

  Poulomi clears her throat behind me.

  Akshay steps in and extends a hand. ‘Hi, I’m Akshay. You must be Sammy.’

  She takes his hand. ‘Do I look like Bahubali to you? I’m Poulomi.’

  Akshay’s eyebrows furrow. ‘Poulomi?’

  I don’t know why he looks so confused.

  ‘I told you, Akshay, remember? My best friend Poul and my roommate—’

  ‘Sammy,’ Sammy says stepping out of the room and into the conversation. ‘Hi!’

  Akshay looks gobsmacked. ‘You are Sammy?’ There’s a short pause before he mutters. ‘I just assumed it was short for Samyukta or something.’

  Three pairs of eyes bore into me. Uh-oh. It completely slipped my mind to explain my somewhat unorthodox living situation. A-W-K-W-A-R-D.

  ‘Drinks, anyone?’ I say brightly.

  For the next hour or so, everyone just sits in their corner, sulking (Akshay), stewing (Sammy), speculating (Poulomi), sipping (me). Then Jack, Monk, and Goose take effect and some amount of stilted convo gets made.