by Vibha Batra
Didi goggles at me. Then she takes a deep breath. ‘I just want Akshay to be happy. If he’s happy, I’m happy. I’ll never come in the way of Akshay’s happiness.’ She breaks off to exhale. What I’m trying to say is that Akshay—he, he’s my first baby. I’ll do anything for him, anything…’
And suddenly, I’ve this hysterical urge to laugh, because I remember a Koffee with Karan episode where AB Junior imitates a crazy K Jo fan, who went down on his knees, beseeching, “I’ll do ANYTHING for you, ANYTHING!”
I reach for a black grape and quickly swallow it. Big mistake. Because the frickin’ pre-wine fruitlet is just the right size to lodge in someone’s throat and choke them to death. Was that Didi’s plan, I think, as I gag wildly, turning the same colour as my saree.
In my mind’s eye, I see myself walking out of the private dining room like that—a freshly minted murder victim, bloodshot eyes open wide, clutching my throat in abject terror.
Didi bounds across to me with a speed and agility that belies her form. She links the fingers of both hands and brings them down on my back with a violent motion. The offending grape pops out of my mouth, shoots half way across the room, ricochets off the wall, plops down and rolls away.
I thwack myself on the chest twice, panting hard. Didi lunges on a glass of water on the table and offers it to me. I glug it down. We collapse onto the sofa and chair respectively just as Raksha walks in.
She takes one look at our faces and stops short. ‘Kaun mar gaya?’ she mutters.
Everyone’s subdued for the rest of the afternoon. There’s a rapid fire round—personal questions all—but I think I manage to sidestep all the landmines. Didi orders the chauffeur to drop me home, which is her way of offering me a ride. I decline, but Didi won’t hear of it. I heave a sigh of relief when the car draws up outside my building. I stumble out of the car. I turn to thank her profusely for the lovely lunch, the lift, the second life.
‘Do you want to come up?’ The words, they just tumble out of my mouth!
WTF!!! Why in effing hell did I do that??? Same reason we ask a terrible date to join us for a nightcap. Frickin’ reflex.
Didi looks at her watch and then me. Turn me down, turn me down, I hypnotise her.
‘Okay,’ Didi says. She looks at Raksha. Raksha shrugs without looking up from her cell phone.
We ride the elevator in silence. I drag leaden feet out and go up to my door. I fumble around for my house keys. The door swings open and out walks Sammy, gym bag on shoulder. His appearance manages to do what the grape couldn’t: kill me.
‘Hi!’ he says brightly. ‘You must be Didi, and you’re Raksha, right. How was lunch?’
Didi looks gobsmacked.
‘Sorry, got to run. Nice meeting you!’ He waves and gets into the elevator. ‘Dinner’s in the microwave, Misha’ he calls out.
I turn to look at the Thunderstruck Twosome, my heart pounding like crazy. ‘Who was—’ begins Didi.
I aim for a tinkly giggle, which comes out as braying laughter. ‘Oh, that? That’s Sammy, my roommate.’
‘Roommate?’ Didi looks flabbergasted. For the first time in the afternoon—or in history, maybe—Raksha stops texting.
I affect a carefree titter. ‘Yeah, I know what you’re thinking! WEIRD, right? But hey, don’t worry, he’s gay!’
11
‘And that’s not all, Didi asked me for my horoscope,’ I tell Poulomi, cradling my cell in the crook of my neck.
‘Do you even have a horoscope? Like most sane people, all you have is a date of birth, right?’
‘Right! But Didi said it’s no problem, the family jyotshi can make one for me,’ I say, sanitising testers of bullet lipsticks in quick succession.
I’m not sure I want a horoscope. Especially if it doesn’t have nice-nice things to say about me and my future.
‘She wants to organise a formal engagement asap,’ I tell Poulomi.
‘Told you so!’ she says triumphantly. ‘I can see you heavily preggers with your second child already.’
‘Please, Poul,’ I groan. ‘I somehow managed to talo her. Said Mom’s off on a long, long pilgrimage…’
‘Oh, did you mention she’s gone with your new Daddy,’ Poulomi guffaws. ‘Who, by the way, is only a couple of years older than you?’
I shudder, putting the testers back in the slots. ‘Puhhleeeze! Don’t even joke about these things. The less she knows, the better.’
‘You’re being silly, Mish. Who cares what Didi thinks? She’ll just have to deal with it. But what if she finds out—’
‘How will she?’ I say, crossing my fingers. ‘Not as if my parents announced their break up on FB!’
‘I know, Mish, but you can’t avoid the meeting forever. Thought about that, Missy?’
Thought about that? It’s what keeps me up at nights. That, and Akshay. Whenever he finds the time to come over to the apartment, that is. Which is not very often. I mean, last week, he came over just once and he was soo pooped, he crashed almost immediately. Though when he woke up next morning, we kind of made up for lost time.
‘Um, yeah, but Mom’s not here for the next couple of weeks. That gives me plenty of time to make my way into Didi’s heart, and then, when she’s totally in love with me, it won’t matter.’
‘Make your way into Didi’s heart?’ Poulomi snorts. ‘Exactly how do you propose to do that, Chatur Singh?’
‘By doing everything that’s expected of me, by being a Stepford Wife, by being an Adarsh Bahu,’ I rattle off, ‘who upholds all the Agarwal customs and traditions.’
Yeah, that’s the plan. A good one too. It works every single time, you know, on the big screen and small.
‘You and your ul jalul ideas,’ Poulomi sighs. ‘And what does Mr Akki have to say about all this?’
‘Where does he have the time?’ I grumble.
Stuck as he is between investor video conferencing and agency brainstorming sessions. In fact, I’ve dated Didi more in the last few days. She’s asked me out for a wine and cheese tasting at The Leela, new menu launch at Busaba, Rohit Bal’s preview show at Ensemble, Anish Kapoor’s showcase at Jehangir Art Gallery, a trunk show of Prada bags and footwear.
‘Oh, please, Mish. I bet you guys cootchie coo, like, ten times a day.’
Of course not. Okay, maybe five. But we’ve got other stuff to talk about. You know, more important stuff. I mean, it won’t exactly be cootchie cooing if I go crying to him each time.
My phone beeps. Didi’s on the second line.
‘Okay, GTG, Poul.’ I blow a kiss into the phone. ‘Will catch you at BJJ class? Great Ciao, ciao!’
I pick up my bag and mouth ‘buh-bye’ at Vrushali, who nods and smiles beatifically at me. With Poulomi out of the picture, she’s been rather pleasant. And ever since Candice let it slip that I’m newly engaged, she’s been sweetness personified. I mean, just this afternoon, she kindly took on at least three of my customers and didn’t crib about it once.
See, I knew it, she didn’t have anything against me. I just happened to get caught in the Vrushali-Poulomi crossfire, I muse as I hurry to the mall’s entrance. I bound up to the waiting Beamer. The backdoor swings open, but Sanskrit chants are the only things that waft out.
Raksha and Didi refuse to budge, loathe to relinquish their window seats. I’m about to reach for the front door, when Raksha lets out a defeated sigh and steps out of the car. I crawl in. Once I’m tucked safely between Didi and Raksha, we speed off to Napean Sea Road for my soft launch. I’m formally being unveiled in front of all the family friends.
I’m wearing a blush pink anarkali—Didi picked up about a dozen hideously expensive sets from a hotshot designer friend and this one’s her gift to me—with a shawl type dupatta, which I’ve stamped upon repeatedly and which has tried, rather unsuccessfully, to strangle me on at least two occasions.
‘So I heard from Panditji,’ Didi says without preamble, handing me a bulging velvet pouch.
The Agarwal Jewellery logo l
eaps out at me. Sigh. I’m so not a jewellery person, but I guess I’m not the only thing that needs to go on public display.
‘Only 19 out of 36 guns match. That’s not good, not good at all,’ she says ominously.
So on a purely astral level, Akki-Misha fail-fail?
‘I was hoping for a better match,’ Didi says, her expression grave.
She means better score. I think.
‘This spells trouble in the future—stormy relationship, adjustment problems, compatibility issues.’
Why did she need to go to a Swamiji? I could have told her that.
‘Don’t worry, Didi, we’re very compatible in certain areas,’ I say without thinking, struggling to insert the giant jhumkas into my tiny earhole.
Didi peers at me over the rims of her Tom Fords.
‘I mean, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. Aaaaaaaaah,’ I cry out as Didi leans forwards, grabs my earlobe, and forcibly pushes the hole-maiming stem in.
‘So I was thinking of doing a yagya, you know, to placate the gods, make sure everything proceeds smoothly,’ she begins.
‘Great,’ I gush, squeezing my hand and slipping the diamond bangles on. I’m not wearing the ring. Akshay and I don’t want to hurt Didi’s sentiments, so we’re pretending that we’re waiting for her blessings and the formal ceremony to get formally engaged.
‘Panditji said you’ve a bit of mangal dosh, but nothing a few pujas cannot cure. Hmm?’
And suddenly I’ve a vision. There I am, resplendent in a deep red kalidaar lehenga and midriff revealing blouse, a heavy gold trimmed dupatta on my head, getting married to a tree. Wait, she’s not going to insist I get hitched to a dog, will she? I mean, I distinctly remember reading something about that in the papers. Talk about a doggy style disaster.
Didi fastens the chain with the diamond pendant around my neck. I don’t know if it’s the Sanksrit shlokas in the background, but I already feel married. To her. Swaha.
She looks at me, an expectant look in her eyes.
‘Of course,’ I say with feeling. ‘Anything for Akshay.’
Anything.
Her critical gaze falls on my ill-fitting kurta. I mean I’m practically swimming in it. She grabs a handful of cloth. ‘I’ll ask Masterji to come take your measurements. Hope you’re not doing anything this weekend.’
Nothing, except oh, working my butt off.
‘Good,’ Didi says with an air of finality.
I sink lower in the seat. From sharing the family jewels to the family astrologer to the family tailor, I feel like an Agarwal already.
It takes the family friends to make me feel like a Chaturvedi again.
Because the kirtan is a frickin’ kitty in disguise. Everyone’s dressed to the gills, I mean, full on make-up, designer suits, five star catering. I look longingly at the extensive spread. Too bad, it opens to the public only after the kirtan. My ‘surviving-on-two-cups-of-coffee-and-a-cookie-since-morning’ stomach growls. I always pray better on a full tummy.
Didi propels me in the direction of an elderly woman before I can put my nazar on the food. ‘Jai Shri Krishna, Kothari Aunty, dhok deti hoon.’
She bends down and takes the dust from Kothari Aunty’s feet. ‘Aunty, this is Misha, Akshay’s intended.’
Intended! That word again!
I almost chortle. Instead, very dutifully I bring my hands together and bend down halfway, but Didi keeps pressing a hand on my back till I’m a four legged animal, rubbing my nose at Kothari Aunty’s feet. Soon, we’re mobbed by The Sisterhood of the Saas-Bahus and I’m doing one stomach crunch after another, under Didi’s expert supervision. Who needs a gym when you’ve a kitty membership?
The Aunties pat my head and bless me so wholeheartedly that my hair starts resembling a newly dismantled nest.
‘Haircut due, haan?’ Clucks tubby Jhunjhunwala Aunty (or Khandelwal Aunty, I can’t be sure. They all look alike).
I push my hair out of my eyes, holding my now taut abs. ‘I just got one, Aunty.’
She looks up at my mangled mane in genuine confusion. ‘You asked for Priyanka’s cut or what?’
‘Priyanka Gandhi?’ I venture hopefully.
‘No, Priyanka Chopra, from that movie—kya naam tha uska—haan, Barfi.’
Her daughter-in-law, Kamini (I mean, she looks like a kamini) tosses me a sympathetic look, and then, by way of being helpful coos, ‘You know, I know this great stylist at Ravissant. Shall I put you on to him?’
‘Zeen—’
‘Jean, Mummyji, Jean,’ Kamini mutters, rolling her eyes.
‘He charges about fifteen “grands”.’ Mrs Jhinjhun’s eyes are very wide.
‘Only?’ I ask.
‘Not including tips, of course,’ Kamini adds.
‘Of course,’ I say breezily.
Mrs J tch tches. I look at the handbag dangling from her flabby forearm. I mean, it costs more than my annual pay package.
Kamini spots a friend and excuses herself.
‘No value for money.’ Mrs J grimaces behind her daughter in law’s back.
Riiiight. So, she doesn’t have a problem with spending per se.
A blindingly fair, voluptuous lass with masses of golden hair comes up to us. She’s wearing a gorgeous Sabyasachi anarkali and chandelier earrings that graze her slim shoulders.
‘Jai Shri Krishna, Didi,’ she tinkles.
Didi envelops her in a big hug, then holds her at arm’s length and regards her with undisguised pleasure. ‘Girija!’
And instantly, I’m on high alert. Girija! Girl on the phone! Flavour of the month!
She gives me an appraising look, mumbles a cool hello and the next thing I know, she and Raksha are chatting away to glory.
And suddenly, I’m kind of irritated with Raksha. When she’s with me, she acts as if she’s Golmaal’s Tushar Kapoor, but one look at Girija and she’s Jab We Met’s Kareeena Kapoor. So what if they are old friends, I’m the new Maami. Young people, they are so inconsiderate, I tell you.
I slink away to a couch which is occupied by someone closer to my own age. She’s sulky and skinny and drowning herself in gallons of coffee.
She turns to look at me and a bitter look comes into her eyes. ‘Ah, the newest DIL. Did you know all these MILs—Mothers-in-Law—are on a WhatsApp group called Kill DIL?’
I blink rapidly.
‘I’m Deeya, by the way. And you are being judged. Big time, I’ll say!’ She casts a look around. I look up to find a dozen pairs of eyes on me, gaping at me with open-mouthed curiosity, before they hurriedly look away.
‘So, you’re sure you want to do this?’ she asks, fixing me with a look.
My eyebrows knit. ‘Do what?’
‘Get married?’ She doesn’t wait for my answer and chugs on. ‘Because no matter what you do, it’ll never be enough. No matter how hard you try, you’ll always fail. Because you can never be a Marwari. You’ll always be an outsider. Take it from me.’
I kind of feel sorry for her. She appears to be in her late twenties but looks considerably older. Obviously, she’s had a hard life. I’m about to commiserate with her when Didi beckons me over.
‘That girl, Deeya, she’s bad news. What was she saying? Stay away from her. I don’t want her to influence you.’
‘Influence her? What is she, two?’ Rekha sashays into the conference, looking her usual exuberant self, toadies in tow.
‘Ma’am, I mean, Aunty!’ I exclaim.
‘So badhai shadai!’ She wraps me in a hearty embrace.
Toady One takes one look at me and gasps. ‘Arre, ye toh wahi hai.’ She turns to look at Rekha and Toady Two. ‘We saw her, na, with Askhay in Dubai…’
Didi’s eyebrows shoot up.
‘… chonch se chonch milaate huey…’
Didi splutters into her coffee.
Two more Auntijis sidle over, looking very interested in the story. Rekha elbows the toady who shuts up just in time.
And I can’t help but think how lucky Akshay is. He
doesn’t have to take half-days off to face this Janta ki Adalat. The Aunties are like a relentless firing squad, firing question after invasive question. And I finally know how those poor celebs feel during the Rapid Fire Round in Koffee with Karan.
‘So, how did you meet?’
‘Was it love at first sight?’
‘Who proposed to whom?’
‘When is D-d day?’
‘How did your parents take it?’
‘Are you going to move out of Mangal Mandir? Young people these days, they like their freedom, no? Just don’t want to adjust and all.’
Everyone looks at me like I’m the Antikrishna.
I open my mouth but no sound comes out of it.
‘Akshay’s always lived with us, always will,’ Didi answers with an air of finality.
I nod so vigorously I’m worried all the springs and bolts will come loose, and my head will go rolling up to the kirtan area. Human sacrifice, tomorrow’s headlines will scream.
Elderly Kothari Aunty beckons us. I heave a sigh of relief as we troop over to her. She hands me something. It looks like a medieval instrument of torture but I guess it is a musical instrument. I haven’t the foggiest idea how to play it, so I let her take the lead and follow suit.
The kirtan gets underway. I don’t know the lyrics of one bhajan, not one. And suddenly, I want to kick myself for not listening to my Dadi. She used to visit us from time to time and wake up the entire household with a never ending stream of bhajans. I wish I’d paid attention. All these Aunties would have sung paeans of my praise along with Lord Krishna’s.
I give the musical instrument a good shaking. My arms feel wonderfully toned at the end of the session.
I don’t realise Raksha’s been taking pictures (“Random Clix”) and see it only when she uploads them on FB (This is the last time, the absolute last time, I accept friend requests from people who don’t talk to me offline). I wince when I look at my photograph. With my mussed up hair and most enthu rendition, I look like a cross between a tantric and those evil-aatmas-possessed devotees at temples.