Glitter and Gloss

by Vibha Batra

  By the time the food arrives—prawn dumplings, roast duck spring rolls, Cambodian basa, egg Hakka noodles, and egg fried rice from Royal China—everyone’s acting pretty civil.

  ‘I’ll get the starters,’ Poulomi announces, placing her sippy cup on the table and making a beeline for the kitchen.

  ‘Why don’t I give you a hand,’ Akshay says gallantly, tailing her.

  ‘See, it’s all going well,’ I purr.

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’ Sammy erupts. ‘You didn’t tell Akshay that your roommate was a guy?’

  ‘I forgot, okay?’ I genuinely did.

  ‘How could you, Misha?’

  ‘It didn’t come up,’ I defend myself.

  What can I tell him? That when Akshay’s explaining, ahem, the Big Bang Theory, no way can I keep track of tiny details?

  ‘God knows what he’s thinking now,’ Sammy mutters.

  Now that I think about it, Akshay has been looking at me funny all evening.

  He steps out of the kitchen carrying a tray, Poulomi in tow. I jump on the food the second they place it on the centre table.

  ‘Whysch aren’tsch yousch eatingsch?’ I ask Akshay, my mouth full.

  ‘Yeah,’ Poulomi says, pouncing on a dimsum and stuffing it whole in her mouth. ‘Don’t be formal. Jump right in.’

  ‘Here,’ Sammy says kindly, passing him a plate. ‘Try the roast duck spring roll.’

  ‘I’m vegetarian,’ Akshay says quietly.

  ‘Misha!’ Poulomi turns stricken eye at me.

  ‘Tell me you didn’t forget to order veg!’ Sammy yelps.

  I smack my forehead.

  ‘Oh, god, so sorry, Akshay, we’d no idea,’ Poulomi wails.

  ‘We’re such terrible hosts,’ Sammy laments.

  ‘There’s some Amle ka Murabba in the fridge,’ I pipe up.

  Three pairs of eyes bore into me again.

  Thanks to the cardinal sin of starving the Guest God, the atmosphere of the room changes significantly. Sammy and Poul trip all over themselves in a bid to feed Atithi Dev Akshay. Multigrain bread, digestive biscuits, bhujiya sev, potato chips, and orange juice are lovingly placed at his altar. Lord Akki graciously accepts the humble offerings of his new found devotees.

  Soon, everyone’s chatting away like chaddi buddies. Akshay charms the chaddis off my friends, regaling them with tales of the customers he’s encountered over the years—some decidedly shady, some superbly wealthy but shockingly penny-pinching, and some downright psychotic.

  ‘You’re not what I imagined, Akki,’ Poulomi guffaws, clutching her sides.

  I throw her a triumphant ‘I told ya so’ look.

  ‘You know, I was kind of worried that you’d be like Rahul,’ she continues, leaning in conspiratorially.

  ‘Who?’ Akshay asks, a puzzled look on his face.

  My heart plummets. I shoot Poulomi a quelling look.

  ‘Rahul, as in SRK? Wasn’t he called Rahul in all those corny romantic movies?’ I titter, steering the conversation away before it can veer into a shitstorm.

  ‘Misha’s last boyfriend Rahul?’ Sammy asks, stretching his long legs. ‘He was the pits! Why would you even compare Akshay to him, Bhattacharya?’

  Yeah, why?

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, because our friend here, really knows how to pick ‘em!’ Poulomi declares, waving a hand in the air.

  ‘Really?’ Akshay says, sitting up straight, a dangerous glint appearing in his eyes.

  ‘Really!’ Poulomi hiccups. ‘Rahul was a total “choo”. And don’t even get me started on Nischay. The second I shook hands with him, I knew what a douche he was. You know what they say, Limp Handshake—’ she says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

  Akshay’s leans forward with interest.

  Please don’t say ‘Limp Dick’ I pray silently.

  ‘—Wimpy Personality,’ Poulomi finishes.

  ‘What about that kleptomaniac, Abhay?’ Sammy puts in. ‘The bugger used to steal even toilet paper!’

  ‘And don’t forget Suicidal Satyen who used to pen that godawful shayari because, hic, our little friend here lurvvves poetry,’ Poulomi shudders.

  I look at Akshay in alarm. He takes a swig of his whiskey, an inscrutable expression on his face.

  Okay, I’ve got to shut the Dirty Linen Dhobis down and NOW.

  ‘Gosh, is that the time? Sammy! I thought you’d a client coming in at six tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Shoot!’ Sammy exclaims, jumping to his feet. ‘I better hit the sack!’

  He goes up to Akshay, who gets to his feet too.

  ‘Nice meeting you.’ Sammy says it like he means it.

  ‘Nice meeting you too,’ Akshay returns warmly.

  For a second, I wonder if they’ll do the bruh-hug. You know, the self-conscious chest-to-chest, balls-in-the-way, hearty pats on the back type of thingie. But all they do is nod at each other. Sammy ambles up to his room and shuts the door behind him.

  We drink for another agonizingly slow half hour. I find it excruciating, because it’s tough to enjoy your drink and keep an ear out for potentially lethal goof ups. Poulomi keeps up a steady stream of chatter. My jaw’s hurting from keeping a faux fun face, when she mercifully decides to call it a night and uber it back home.

  ‘Okay, hic, so I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.’

  ‘Bye, Poul,’ I say, slinging her bag around her neck and steering her to the door.

  She grabs Akshay’s hand and pumps it. ‘Nice meeting you, hic, so nice, hic, that Mish is finally getting some—’

  ‘Okay, now, that’s enough.’ I open the door and practically shove her out.

  I shut the door and heave a sigh of relief.

  ‘So, bad boyfriends, huh?’ Akshay places his sippy cup down and pushes his chair back.

  I shrug, my heart slamming into my ribcage.

  ‘BYE, MISH!’ Poulomi calls out from the other side.

  ‘BYE, POUL!’ I turn to yell at the door. I turn back to find Akshay inches away from me, his eyes glinting. Gosh, he’s like a silent panther.

  ‘How many exactly?’ He steps closer and I find myself backed up against the door.

  ‘Six,’ I whisper, positively pulsating with anticipation.

  ‘Six!’ He places his palms flat on the door, on either side of my face.

  ‘And you?’ I turn challenging eyes on him, feeling a fizz of excitement.

  ‘Boyfriends?’ He counters. ‘Zero.’

  ‘If you don’t want to answer,’ I say in a husky voice, my heart performing a ridiculously bombastic version of the bhangra.

  ‘Oh, you mean serious relationships? Two.’ He leans forward, imprisoning me with his eyes. I feel my excitement sky rocket.

  ‘Two … that’s not too bad … and six isn’t much … just three times more…’

  I close my eyes as his head swoops down and his eminently bitable lips begin their sensual assault.

  ‘BYE, MR THEEEE, HIC!’ Poulomi assaults the door.

  Akshay goes very still. He unfastens his mouth and pulls back. ‘What, what did she say?’ he rasps.

  ‘N-n-nothing, nothinggggg.’ I grab his tush and align his body back into position. He buries his head in my neck and his lips gently tug at the tender flesh. I moan softly as his hands stray inside my top. I throw my head back and arch.

  ‘BYE, MR THREE TIMES IN A ROW!’ Poulomi enunciates.

  This once, there’s no mistaking it.

  Akshay’s head jerks back. A scandalised look comes over his face. ‘You didn’t!’ He gasps as he retreats a few paces.

  ‘HOPE YOU BEAT YOUR RECORD TONIGHT! MWAHHH!’

  I listen to my inebriated bestie’s ill-timed exhortations and wonder why people call condoms mood killers.

  9

  ‘Okay, so keep a firm grip on the assailant’s neck, keep it in the crook of your arm, like this. Got it?’

  It’s been a fortnight since Pouolomi killed our buzz and finally, finally buzzed off. We’re at the we
ekly Brazilian jiu-jitsu class and trying to ape Prem Kumar, our Sensei, with little or no success.

  ‘Now do it with your partner.’

  I creep forward and try the same thing with Poulomi. It helps that her neck is small and fits in perfectly in the crook of my arm. I’m kind of glad she’s quit M.A.C., because now she has plenty of time to do fun stuff, like accompany me to BJJ class.

  PK starts calling students to practice the Super Slap, giving me ample time to fill her in on the latest development in my love life.

  ‘Don’t tell me!’ She says by way of congratulating me. ‘Now you’re going to get married, breed like a bunny and happily chuck your career!’

  Chuck my career? Never!

  ‘Poul, please! I haven’t even started what I want to do—’

  ‘I think all you want to do is Akshay.’

  That’s not entirely true. I mean, I want to do him very much, but I also want to do up brides.

  ‘No one said anything about marriage,’ I protest.

  ‘But it will come up, just you see. Old man needs to settle down, you said it yourself.’

  ‘I said no such thing, Poul. What I said was, his sister’s after him, she’s always matchmaking and…’

  ‘Whatever, Mish.’

  ‘I thought you liked Akshay.’ I keep my feet slightly apart and twist my body as I swing my right arm. Just taking his name makes me miss him like crazy. He’s finally getting into online retail—his Jeejoo and Didi were iffy about e-commerce and convincing them was a TASK—and has been crazy busy all this week.

  ‘I do, babe. And not just in comparison to those dickheads you dated. But this “Marriage at twenty five, first baby at twenty seven, second baby before thirty” business, it drives me nuts.’

  I don’t know why Poulomi’s harping on the ‘M’ word. I mean, we’ve only just ‘fessed up to our feelings two weeks ago. A warm, fuzzy feeling grips me as I think about the night, when Akshay and I declared our love for each other.

  PK’s voice breaks into my reverie. ‘Only when you master these fifteen steps, only when they become part of your second nature, do you get your Pink Belt.’

  Fifteen moves? Easy peasy. Pink belt you’re so mine, I think, stepping up to show off my Double Hand Neck Choke.

  Big on tough love, PK steps forward and grabs my neck. His big strong hands close around my neck. I know it’s a class, I know it’s a demo session, I know he won’t hurt me, but, one look at that hairy noose around my neck and I just freeze. I can’t think, I can’t react, I can’t duck. All I feel is a rising sense of panic. My eyes widen in alarm and the Sensei drops his hands.

  ‘Chaturvedi, how many times have I told you, get a sparring partner and practice, practice, practice.

  ‘Partner,’ I cough, clutching my throat and pointing at Poulomi.

  PK shakes his head. ‘It won’t help if you practice with a female friend. Your assailant is not going to be the same height and weight as you.’ He moves on to another disciple who niftily ducks out of the choke and earns a hearty clap from the pleased master.

  ‘Why can’t you practice with Akshay?’ Poulomi hisses in my ear.

  Oh I’ve tried, so hard. It starts out as Brazilian jiu-jitsu, but it always ends up as the other, far more exquisite, form of wrestling.

  ‘Will ask him again over the weekend.’

  ‘Oh, the big yacht party, I totally forgot. Don’t tell me, you’ve specially bought a dress and all.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ I say truthfully, omitting to mention that the dress has been bought and is waiting. ‘Please, I’m not going to go all out for the party.’

  I go all out for the party. I apply tiny dots of foundation (M.A.C. Studio Fix NC 37) on my face and blend them in with a brush. I set it with loose powder (M.A.C. Select Sheer) and highlight the apple of my cheeks with blush (M.A.C. Lovecloud). I fill in my eyebrows with brow mascara, use tongs to curl my eyebrows and stick to my trademark winged eyeliner (M.A.C. Black Gel). I trace the edges of my lips with lip pencil (M.A.C. Pro Long Wear Trust in Red) and finish the look with lipstick (M.A.C. Ruby Woo).

  I step back to survey my reflection in the full length mirror. I’m wearing the same Roberto Cavali gown that was the cause of the major showdown back in Dubai. I think about how Akshay and I made up and my toes curl. The scarlet off-shoulder gown has a fitted bodice and a flared skirt. I can’t help but notice that it hugs my body in all the right places, kind of like Akshay.

  The doorbell rings. I slip my feet into sky-high stilettos and my cell phone into the metallic clutch and totter to the door to welcome Akshay. I’m crushed to see a suited booted chauffeur at the door. I’ve never seen him before, new recruit, I assume. He hands me a bunch of orchids. They are gorgeous all right, but not a patch on Akshay.

  ‘Sir’s stuck at work.’

  I sigh. It’s only practical, my flat’s in Bandra, his store’s in town, and so is the party. It’s just that I’m dying to see him and pounce on him.

  ‘Give me a second.’ I march to the fridge and stuff the orchids on the top shelf.

  I go down to the car park and look around, but the black BMW is conspicuous by its absence.

  ‘This way, Ma’am.’ He leads me to a parked, wait a minute, stretch limo! Wow, Akshay knows how to throw a party. I grin and get in feeling very much like a celeb in Las Vegas. I settle down for a long nap on the cross-country drive.

  ‘We’re here, Ma’am.’

  I wake up with a start. I blink as the Taj Mahal Hotel at the Gateway of India comes into view. The chauffeur comes over and holds the door open. I clamber out of the car and make my way to the lobby.

  ‘Waiting for someone?’ ripples a rich, deep voice in my ears.

  I whirl around to find Akshay smiling down at me. He looks extraordinarily suave in a black suit, crisp white shirt, and bowtie. Ah, Mr Bond. Akshay Agarwal one, Daniel Craig zero. Too bad we’re in a public place, and the bobcat can’t be unleashed.

  ‘So sorry, Mishkin, couldn’t pick you up. I wanted things to be just right.’

  Mishkin. God, as if endearments could get any cuter.

  ‘Hey, no worries, I caught up on my sleep. Ready to be up all night, Sir.’ I salute smartly.

  He flashes me a dazzling smile. ‘Promise? Because I will hold you to it.’

  Ooh! I can’t wait.

  ‘Shall we?’

  I gurgle happily and hook my arm with his. He whisks me off to a magical realm yet again. This once, it’s a castle floating on the high seas. I step on to the deck of the yacht and gasp. The table at the corner’s set for two!

  ‘You said yacht party!’ I say breathlessly.

  ‘And yacht party it is,’ he says softly. ‘Why, don’t you like the company?’

  ‘Love it!’ I declare, reaching up and kissing him on the cheek.

  The starry canopy above, the rippling tides below, the fast receding shoreline, and the expanse of infinity ahead. Can a date get more wonderful than this, I wonder. Apparently, it can. After a scrumptious four course din din, Akshay leads me to the deck.

  ‘Thanks for a lovely evening, it was fab, just fab,’ I whisper in his ear as we dance cheek to cheek.

  He gives me a melting smile and pushes a hand inside his jacket. ‘Glad to hear it. Hope you feel the same way about … this.’

  He brings his hand out and my eyes fall on the small blue box he’s holding. I gasp. And gasp even louder when he opens it to reveal the most beautiful solitaire in the world nestling against the rich blue velvet.

  ‘You haven’t gone down on your knees,’ I blab, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Let me guess, those pants are too tight!’

  What am I saying?

  He winks. ‘Kinda,’ he concedes with a disarming grin. ‘So, Misha Chaturvedi, what do you say?’

  I open my mouth and the words of Rumi, another favourite poet, come gushing out. ‘The minute I heard my first love story, I started searching for you…’

  ‘I take it, it’s a yes then,’ Akshay smiles and sl
ips the ring on my finger.

  ‘Are we still on that,’ Akshay groans, ambling to the table across the room, where the breakfast tray has been lying untouched for the last half an hour. ‘Can we please talk about something else?’

  Talk about something else! What can be more important than talking about my first meeting with Didi? It’s our last Sunday alone, his family is back in town tomorrow. And I’m so, so, so stressed! I feel like a nervous pupa. Over the last few weeks I’ve lived in a cocoon, like Alice in Akkiland, but now, it’s time for a reality check. It’s time to Meet the Third Parents.

  ‘But I want to create a great first impression,’ I insist.

  ‘Trust me, from where I stand, you’re making a great impression,’ Akshay drawls.

  I go cherry and tomato and beetroot red. I’m wearing just a blue tee shirt—his—because I didn’t exactly come prepared for a night stay. I thought I was going for a yacht party last night, remember.

  ‘On Didi. I want to make a great impression on Didi,’ I stick out a tongue before walking up to the table and flopping in the chair next to him.

  ‘Trust me, you will,’ he says reassuringly, pouring me a glass of water.

  ‘But I suck at first impressions,’ I whine, taking a sip. ‘Don’t you remember the first time we met!’

  ‘Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re always in each other.’ Akshay reminds me, and despite all the stress, I can’t help but smile. I always get a kick when he quotes poets, my favourite Rumi in this case. And to think, the only poem he knew three months back was Ringa Ringa Roses.

  ‘Very impressive, Akki boy, but you can’t distract me from my mission.’ I set my jaw. ‘So, it’s decided then, right? You’ll drop the bomb on them tomorrow.’

  Akshay raises his eyebrows. ‘The bomb?’

  ‘Atom bomb,’ I say, widening my eyes for effect. ‘Me.’

  ‘Dramatic, much?’ Akshay says, reaching for a toast.

  ‘Oh please. Just imagine how she’ll feel. There she was, looking up one phuljadi after another, in the hope of finding the right bahu, and you went ahead and did the job for her. God knows how she’s going to take it,’ I say with a shudder.

  ‘She’s going to be fine. I don’t know why you’re over-thinking this.’ Akshay spreads strawberry jam on the toast and passes it to me.