by Vibha Batra
I accept it gratefully. Akshay really held me to my promise about being up all night. We got to his place in the morning and crashed immediately, and now, I’m starving.
‘Over-thinking? I’ve only just started thinking,’ I say.
‘Okay, so after you drop the bomb—’
‘Atom bomb,’ Akshay puts in, biting into his toast.
‘—we’ll schedule a meeting. Say, early next week … yeah, that will give her some time to digest the info, come around before, you know, we meet formally … preferably at a neutral venue. I don’t want to seem too familiar with your house, you know.’
‘Familiar with the house, hmm. And what about me?’ He teases.
‘Please, don’t even joke about things like that. I don’t ever want her to know that I’ve been helping myself to the sausage, before you know, officially buying the pig.’
‘Wait a sec, did you just call you me a pig?’ Akshay asks in mock reproof.
‘You know what I mean,’ I say. ‘Yeah, so what was I saying?’
‘Something about sausages,’ Akshay supplies, tossing me a wicked look. ‘About how much you’ve been enjoying them.’
Much as I like sausages, correction, one particular sausage, I’m forced to think about the matter at hand.
‘How about a saree? Yeah, I think that will be perfect. I’ll borrow one from Poul’s mom. She’s got a great collection.’
Akshay hands me a tall glass of orange juice. ‘Chill, Kish Mish, you don’t have to do all that. Just be yourself.’
Be myself! Has he just met me?
‘Are you maaaad! I don’t want Didi to think that I’m not suitable—’
‘You’re more than suitable, you’re perfect,’ Akshay interrupts, twining his hand through mine and raising it to his lips.
Ooh! How can you not jump his bones, when he says things like that.
I down the juice in one big gulp and wipe a hand over my mouth. ‘I know that, you know that, but Didi doesn’t.’
‘Give her time, she will,’ Akshay says getting up.
‘Should I cover my head?’
‘What?’Akshay looks at me, puzzled.
‘With the saree pallu?’
‘Sure if you want to convey the impression of a coy village bride,’ he says, his tongue firmly lodged in his cheek.
‘How about a salwar kameez? Or will that come across as too modern? I don’t want her to think “Yeh aaj kal ki ladkiyaan” and all that.’
‘She won’t.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because I know you,’ Akshay says. It’s the way he says it, all serious and solemn, that I get gooseflesh. ‘So, please, stop obsessing over it. We’ll handle it together. It’ll be fine.’
‘But—’
‘Shh!’ He places a finger on my lips. ‘Do you want to show me those Brazilian jiu-jitsu moves you can’t stop talking about?’
I’m so chuffed, I’ve been meaning to ask him about that. He’s read my mind!
‘Okay, so I’ll be your sparring partner,’ he shoots me a wolfish grin.
My heart starts vrooming. We all know what that means. But I really need the practice.
‘Okay, so, here’s what you should do, Akki, please!’
Few wickedly naughty moments later, I finally get Akshay to cooperate: to stand behind me and grab my hair. Then I reach back, cover his hand with mine, whip around, and bring him forward. Funny, but in class, the girls always keel over by this point.
‘Don’t worry, Akki, I’ll go easy on you,’ I say encouragingly.
‘Shame,’ he says, his voice dropping to a velvety whisper.
Oh, it’s a task concentrating on the task at hand.
‘Okay, so your neck is supposed to be in the crook of my arm, right about now,’ I instruct.
‘Like this?’ He willingly places his neck in the spot.
‘And you’re supposed to fall on your knees.’
I don’t know why none of it is working out as it should. I mean, in class, the girl opposite me is usually flat on the ground at this point. I wonder if I’m being too gentle on Akshay, you know, because I don’t want to break the poor boy’s bones.
A bird in the balcony squawks loudly at the moment. I hear something in the background.
My ears perk. ‘What was that?’ I ask.
‘What?’
‘That sound?’
‘What sound, I didn’t hear anything. So you were saying,’ Akshay asks, nuzzling my waist and slowly inching upwards.
Okay, this is why I can’t train with him. Because, instead of throwing him over my shoulder, I want to throw him over the bed. Instead of grabbing his arm, I want to grab his butt.
I’m thinking of all the things I feel like doing to him, when there it is again. The soft sound. It’s a knock, I realise belatedly. Before I can so much as react, the door swings open and in walks a tall, statuesque bespectacled woman!
She takes one look at us—me in a blue tee that ends mid thigh, a murderously fierce expression on my face, and Akshay in a stranglehold, a helpless look on his face—and has a Jim-Carrey-in-The-Mask-eyes-popping-out-of-the-skull moment.
‘So, which part of my body do you want to hurt next, hmm?’ Akshay decides to ask at that opportune moment. When I don’t answer, he looks up and gasps. ‘Didi!’
10
‘Didi hates me,’ I wail into the phone.
‘No, she doesn’t,’ Akshay says.
‘She caught me manhandling her baby brother, for god’s sake!’ I cringe as I replay the events of last morning in my head. ‘God, so not how I imagined our first meeting. I wish she’d walked in on us making out instead,’ I mutter.
‘No, you don’t,’ Akshay says, his tone roguish. ‘Don’t you remember what you were up to, Bobcat? You were—’
I tingle all over as the memory floods my vision. Like I need any reminders.
‘Stooppp,’ I cry out. ‘I-I, oh, some advance warning would have been nice!’
‘Didi took an earlier flight from Dubai, Mish. It’s okay, these things happen.’
‘Not to me!’
‘No?’ he muses aloud. ‘Funny, I’d have thought with six boyfriends—’
‘I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE BRINGING THAT UP NOW!’
He chuckles softly. ‘Chill, Mishkin, I’m just trying to lighten the mood.’
By bringing up my ex BFs? Grr!
‘You know what, Akshay,’ I retort, ‘why don’t we talk about your GFs?’
Yeah, let’s see if you find that funny.
‘What about them?’ he asks warily.
‘Why did you break up with them, huh?’
‘You know how it is,’ he says evasively.
‘No, I don’t!’ I mutter. Then a terrifying thought strikes me. ‘Was it because Didi didn’t approve? Is that why you gave them up?’
‘Gave them up!’ Akshay’s voice is laced with scorn. ‘You make it sound as if they were my babies out of wedlock.’
‘Oh god, should I be worrying about that?’
‘What’s wrong with you! A guy can’t even make jokes around here,’ he grumbles.
‘So what happened with GF No. 1?’ I ask, my tone sulky.
‘What usually happens,’ he says simply, ‘it didn’t work out. We were young, in college…’
College? As in, back in the US? And then it strikes me.
‘She was a firangan!’ I gasp.
‘Is that what you call them?’ I mean, I can practically see Akshay making a face.
I stay mum.
‘Yes,’ he says reluctantly.
And suddenly, I hate everything phoren. Why would anyone snub Bharat Mata and look westwards? A strong tide of patriotic fervor sweeps over me. Be Indian, buy Indian. Make in India, partner with India. Jai Maharashtra, Jai Bharat. I look at my iPhone with new found hatred, and for a teeny moment, am tempted to toss it out of the window.
‘Misha? You there?’ His voice brings me out of the xenophobic stupor.
‘W
hat about GF No. 2? Was she Indian?’ I ask, sounding like Billy Goat Gruff.
‘How does it matter, Misha?’ he bursts out. ‘I don’t know why we’re talking about this.’
‘Well, was she?’ I press on.
Yes,’ he says shortly.
‘What happened to her?’
‘Nothing happened to her. We both realised we wanted other things.’
‘What other things?’
‘Misha, please, can we forget about the past … it doesn’t matter. Let’s talk about the future, our future.’
‘Oh god,’ I groan as the prospect of meeting Didi in the very near future, that is, the very next day, looms up. ‘What am I going to do?’
‘You don’t have to do anything. Everything’s all right.’
Akshay’s told her all about us. Made a full disclosure. But something tells me he’s not telling me the whole truth, so help me god.
‘Are you sure she didn’t fly off the handle, Akshay?’
‘I told you, Mishkin,’ he replies patiently. ‘She took it well. She was calm…’
Calm? That doesn’t tell me anything. Serial killers are calm before they go on a rampage.
‘But surely she was shocked out of her balls, um, wits, shocked out of her wits?’ I insist.
‘She was surprised, yes. But I sat her down, told her exactly how I felt.’
‘What did she say?’ I ask, needing to hear it again.
Akshay sighs in exasperation, but humours me all the same. ‘She asked me if I was sure, I said I couldn’t be more sure. She asked me if I was happy, I said I’ve never been happier. She said my happiness was all that mattered. That’s all.’
It does sound okay, but I’m not so sure. Perhaps because of the way she looked at me, you know, when she walked in on us. Her expression, when I finally let go off Akshay’s neck Shudderrr!!!! So displeased, so disapproving. And when he introduced us, she didn’t smile, not once.
She merely said she’d knocked. That, by the way, was the sound I thought I kept hearing. The sound drowned out by the loud squawking bird in the balcony. Stupid bloody feather brained creature.
‘She did want to know why you were wearing my tee shirt though,’ Akshay states.
‘Really?’ I squeal.
‘No, not really,’ he chuckles.
‘AKKI!
I sulk for the next two seconds.
‘Come on, Kish Mish, don’t be like that. Cheer up,’ he cajoles.
It’s all fun and games for him. He can afford to take it lightly, but it’s my image on the line here.
‘So, the lunch, it’s on for tomorrow, right? I’m glad it’s your day off.’
I heave a sigh. ‘I’m just glad that you’ll be around to—’
‘Uh, about that…’
‘YOU’RE NOT GOING TO BE THERE??’ I shriek into the phone.
‘I’m so sorry, Mish! I really wanted to be there too, but here’s the thing. I’ve got to fly out to Delhi tomorrow morning.’
‘NOOOOOO!!! Why can’t Jeejoo go?’
‘The Dubai store, remember? He’s there at the moment. Besides, the startup is my baby, you know that.’
So it is, I concede. And it’s so cool, an exclusive website for solitaires and contemporary diamond jewellery. He has zeroed in on the name but refuses to share it with me. Says he wants it to be a surprise.
‘The venture capitalists are leaving for the US the day after, Mishkin. So when they called for the meeting, I couldn’t refuse.’
‘Why don’t I meet Didi some other time,’ I whine, feeling like a hapless tourist who has to take on a raging bull without the matador.
‘Relax, Mish, it’s going to be fine. I want you guys to get to know each other. You said neutral venue, right? I’ve suggested something in Bandra/Khar, closer home. Okay?’
‘Okay, but could you please ask Raksha to tag along? I’m sure I can talk to her about make-up and stuff,’ I say, wringing my hands.
‘Yes Ma’am, but I’m sure you and Didi will find something to talk about,’ Akshay says confidently. ‘You’ve got one thing in common, you know.’
‘What?’ I ask, all ears.
‘Both of you love me,’ he says cheekily.
I sigh. No two ways about that.
I’m at Vista, the upscale coffee shop at Taj Land’s End in Bandstand. I’ve chosen a table that gives me a direct, unhindered view of the entrance. I don’t want to be taken by surprise again. I make a quick call to Mom, she’s leaving for Argentina tonight. Then I sip on the Lime Mint Cooler, one eye on the entrance, another on the selfie cam of my phone.
I’m wearing a blue and black Satya Paul saree (wardrobe courtesy, Poulomi’s Mom) with a sleeveless blouse (model’s own). I’m wearing nude make up (make-up artist, Poulomi Bhattarcharya). Wait, what’s that green thing between my teeth. I peer into the phone screen. Stupid bloody leafy drink, never should have ordered it.
I’m busy trying to wedge the damn thing out, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn to look at it and am immediately blinded by the brilliant dazzle of a solitaire. I look up and find myself staring into Didi’s cold, unblinking eyes.
‘Misha?’
‘Didi!’ I get to my feet. How did she get in behind me? How?
She looks like she’s stepped out of a doodh-si-safedi Nirma commercial. White chikan salwar kameez, white kitten heels, white Chanel 2.55 bag, white ceramic strap Christian Dior watch.
There’s a steward hovering next to her. ‘This way, please.’
‘Oh, you made a reservation? I forgot to ask,’ I blather, trotting behind her like a well-trained puppy.
There’s a girl sitting on the sofa in the private room. She’s wearing a tight grey tee shirt, nerdy retro chic glasses, and a sparkly hair band. Her impossibly straight hair covers half her face and tumbles down to her waist as she types furiously on her cell phone. Raksha! Thank god.
Didi clears her throat.
Raksha continues texting furiously, chomping away on gum.
‘Raksha!’ Didi says in a tone that makes us jump. Raksha clambers to her feet, revealing a rose cross-sling Miss Dior bag and a pair of short shorts. Satya be told, I feel kind of stupid in my Satya saree.
‘Hi,’ I say warmly, revealing leaf encrusted teeth. She stares blankly at me, then nods like one of those springy bobblehead dolls, and goes back to texting.
Didi shakes her head, squeezes herself into the sofa and gestures at the chair opposite. I’m assailed by a strong sense of déjà vu as I slide into it. There I am, in the classroom, sitting in the first row, right under Mrs Batliwala’s nose.
Didi buries her nose in the menu. The steward brings my drink over and places it before me. As if I’ll have that enamel rotting beverage now. ‘I-you can clear it,’ I squeak.
Didi looks up from behind the menu. ‘Why don’t you have some soup? It’s good for the throat. She’ll have an almond and spinach soup,’ she tells the steward.
Ugh, I hate almond and spinach soup. It scalds my tongue and smells of vomit.
‘Great!’ I say out loud.
‘Shall we order,’ Didi asks. It’s a formality, because she doesn’t wait for us to reply. ‘We’ll have the usual.’ The steward beams as if he knows the names of all her favourite things by heart.
‘I’ll have the cold cuts,’ I pipe up.
The cold cuts here are to die for.
Didi’s head rears up in shock.
Oh, shoot. Veg, veg, think veg. Think.
‘Cold cut fruits, um, I’m fasting.’
Didi fixes cold eyes at me. ‘Fasting?’
‘Um, yes, it’s a…’
Fuck!
‘… Pooranmashi fast,’ I supply hurriedly.
What in frickin’ hell’s name is that? I haven’t the foggiest idea. I vaguely know it’s something that pops up very often in Bollywood potboilers.
Didi frowns.
Do people fast on Pooranmashi? Please let people fast on pooranmashi, I pray fervently. Way more fervently than I di
d for my Board Exams.
‘Is it Pooranmashi? Lost track of everything since I got back from the US.’ She looks at Raksha, who hasn’t stopped texting, not for a second. Such is her speed and dexterity, I’m amazed her fingers haven’t dissolved and fallen off. ‘Raksha!’
Raksha springs to her feet and blinks rapidly.
‘I asked if it’s Pooranmashi?’ Didi snaps.
‘How do I know?’ Rakhsa plonks back into the sofa.
‘You don’t, but your google will.’
‘I, um, it’s a family tradition…’ I put in quickly.
‘… back in my native place…’
Really, native place?
‘… at our family temple…’
Dear God.
I plod ahead doggedly, madly inserting the ‘F’ word—for a change, it’s ‘family’—everywhere. ‘… we do it to appease our family deity…’
F@#$!
‘… in fact, my entire family is planning on giving up nonveg, like a family sacrifice, you know.’
It makes no frickin’ sense, none at all.
The steward places platters of salad, pita bread and hummus on the table, buying me some time. I’m about to cough up some more mumbo jumbo, when Didi nods slowly.
‘Speaking of which,’ she launches into a menu of punishing fasts, which the women of the Agarwal family have to follow. Married and engaged women of the Agarwal family, I remind myself, as Raksha tucks into the pita bread and hummus with gusto.
‘I’ll ask Raksha to send you a printout.’
The list’s that long? I mean, I’ve shrivelled up already. I pick at the cut fruits despondently.
‘Raksha!’ Didi bellows.
Raksha gets to her feet without thinking. Her eyes survey the room blankly. ‘Washroom,’ she says and takes off in the direction of the loo and freedom. Please don’t leave me with her, I call out to her receding back.
A hush descends upon the private dining room. I have the distinct uncomfortable feeling that something’s coming up. I’ve half a mind to pick up my fruit platter and leg it.
‘Look, Misha,’ Didi takes off her glasses and wipes them. ‘I’ll be frank with you. This has come as a huge surprise to me.’
I nod vigorously as I attempt to cut a particularly stubborn piece of pineapple. ‘Yeah, to me too. I mean, everything happened so fast,’ I flail my arms in agitation. The pineapple piece on the tines goes flying to the adjacent wall, the fork somersaults in the air in slow motion before landing, tine first on my foot. ‘Aaah!’ I bend down to retrieve it and bang my head against the table while coming up.