Glitter and Gloss

by Vibha Batra

  I decide to drown my sorrow in CCTT—Calories CholesterolTransfatTriglycerides—and proceed to pile my plate high with the snacks.

  ‘Oh, you’re carrying food for Didi?’ Sehgal Aunty asks, noticing the heavy density of snacks per square inch on my plate.

  ‘Um, yeah.’

  ‘Hai, that’s so nice. Where do you get sanskaari youngsters these days? My own bahu, never does anything, that one.’

  I see Deeya looking in our direction, a scowl on her face. And instantly, my loyalties align with her. Poor thing, it’s frickin’ awful the way her MIL’s dissing her in public.

  And suddenly, I’m convinced. Those saas-bahu serials are so not farfetched. There are at least three Aunties wearing those tilak type vampish bindis, every second person is wearing jingjang outfits, and nearly everyone looks bored.

  I’m pretty glad when the curtain comes down on the real life tamasha.

  12

  The cab draws up at the portico of the suburban hotel. I hand the cabbie a bunch of notes and mutter, “Keep the change, you filthy animal”.

  Okay, I don’t say the last three words out loud.

  I leap out and hurtle through the revolving doors and come up against a wall. Actually, a big, burly human bear. My eyes fly up to the middle aged, potbellied gentleman.

  “Sorry!” I mutter.

  Wait, he looks vaguely familiar. I squint, trying hard to place him. He fixes blank eyes at me for a split second and dashes through the doors. I’m positive I’ve seen him before. But where? I turn back to see him handing his car tag to the valet.

  I shake my head and race to the elevator. The hotel’s not exactly posh and I’m being polite here. But Poul’s photographer friend is kindly lending it to her, free of charge, along with his services, so.

  I can’t wait to give Poul the skinny on last evening’s kirtan/ kitty and pour out my woes. Turns out, she has more troubles than me.

  I enter the room and stop short. The camera is on the tripod. The reflectors are in place. But the photographer, he’s lying face down on the bed.

  ‘Poul! What happened?’

  She points at the tell-tale white powder on the table by the window.

  Pond’s Dreamflower Talc? I think not.

  We look down at the inert form of the photographer.

  The model troops in seconds after me.

  ‘Hi, I’m Kiara,’ she announces.

  ‘Is he like, dead?’ she gasps when she spies the photographer’s limp form.

  ‘Just passed out,’ Poulomi replies grimly, ‘from the excesses of a private party no doubt.’

  The model plonks down on the bed next to the dopey (no pun intended) guy.

  Poulomi fixes stricken eyes at me. ‘What the hell am I going to do?’ she groans. ‘My new career’s over even before it started.’

  Okay, so Poulomi’s decided what she wants to do with her life: be a stylist. She’s pulled all kinds of strings to get hold of a model and a bunch of clothes, courtesy her designer friends and contacts. It’s her first shoot ever, I mean, as a stylist. So naturally, she’s freaking out.

  ‘Shall I give it a shot?’ the model offers kindly. ‘I mean, how hard can it be? Click point, shoot.’

  ‘Babe, if you do the clicking, pointing, shooting, whom will I style? Besides, this is not for FB or Instagram. This is my portfolio we’re talking about. My career’s on the line here, my career.’

  The model gets bored midway through Poulomi’s impassioned speech. She ambles across the room and starts critically examining her non-existent cleavage in the mirror, cupping and uncupping it. She can’t grasp the, ahem, gravity of the situation, but I certainly do.

  ‘I know, Poul, I know. Oh god, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. I wish there was something I could do. I wish I’d studied photography in college…’

  I trail off and my eyes brighten.

  ‘What?’ Poulomi asks hopefully. ‘You studied photography?’

  ‘Nope,’ I grin, whipping out my phone, ‘but someone I know did!’

  An hour and half later, Akshay is standing inside the hotel room. It’s late in the night and he looks so tired. Yummy but tired. Kiara, who gave me a rather tough time, while I worked on her face, is now the model of professional behaviour. She’s lost all interest in her cleavage and suddenly looks very interested in the photographer. Not the old one on the bed, the new one behind the camera.

  ‘Thanks so much for this, Akshay,’ Poulomi gushes, herding Kiara into the washroom, her arms covered with a slinky floor length gown.

  I beam at my knight in shining armour.

  ‘What did you tell Didi?’ I ask him, holding up the light meter.

  ‘Catching up with old friends.’ He grins as he adjusts the lenses and takes a couple of shots in quick succession.

  ‘Old?’ I ask teasingly, marking the spot for Kiara to stand. ‘Hmm, I guess, an old dude like yourself is bound to have old friends.’

  ‘I think it’s time I reminded you how young I am, young lady,’ Akki growls in mock indignation.

  ‘Ooh, can’t wait,’ I tinkle.

  Poulomi clears her throat as she emerges from the washroom, model in tow. Kiara looks resplendent in the shimmery golden gown. She goes up to the spot I’ve marked on the carpet.

  ‘Don’t even think about flirting with my photographer,’ Poul whispers, as we inspect the fit of the gown.

  ‘Think it’ll distract him?’ Kiara whispers back.

  Poulomi reaches for the safety pin in between her teeth.

  ‘Babe, I was talking to Misha. He’s her fiancée—’

  ‘No way!’ Kiara gasps.

  It’s the way she says it! As if Akshay’s iOS and I’m Android, as if he’s Macintosh and I’m Windows, and the twain can never meet. Bah!

  ‘Yes way! All the good ones are taken, remember, dahlin’? Let’s focus on the job at hand now, shall we?’ Poulomi says tartly.

  Kiara pouts but gets to work. And so do the rest of us. Three distinct looks and two hours later, it’s a wrap.

  Back at the flat, I’m all set to call it a night. I’ve changed into my night suit.

  ‘Why don’t you do it more often?’ I ask, rubbing night cream on my face, sitting across from Akshay on the bed.

  ‘Do what?’ Akshay leans up on his elbows. ‘Stay over at your place?’

  ‘Click photographs, dummy. And yeah, that too.’

  ‘I wish,’ he says helplessly.

  ‘But doesn’t it make you happy?’ I ask him, rubbing my palms together.

  ‘You make me happy,’ he says reaching out for me.

  I wiggle out of reach. ‘I know you’re a busybee, I know there’s no time, blah blah. So do it on the side…’

  I sit up straight as inspiration strikes me. ‘You know what! Poul could put in a word with friends! Am sure you’ll get a break like this. You are that good!’

  Really, the photographs were just out of the world. I’m sure Vogue, Cosmo, Elle, Harper’s Bazaar will be beating down Poul’s door.

  ‘This was strictly a one-time thing, Mishkin. I told you,’ Akshay sighs.

  ‘It’s not selfish to pursue your own interests, you know,’ I tell him.

  ‘Let it go, Mish.’

  I open my mouth to protest. He cuts me off with a kiss. He’s very persuasive that way. But for once, I’m not swayed.

  ‘Sorry, we can’t,’ I say, placing my hands on his chest.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asks. ‘Is it—’

  ‘Nooo, it’s not that!’ I yelp. ‘Didi’s asked me not to!’

  He looks horrified beyond measure. ‘You told Didi?’ he cries out.

  ‘What? Of course not!’

  His shoulders sag with relief. ‘Thank god. For a second there, I thought you’ve started discussing our love life with Didi as well.’

  What does he mean ‘as well’? Not as if I’ve been tom tomming it to the world. I’ve just told Poul. I mean, we’re BFFs, it’s practically her janmasiddha adhikar.
<
br />   ‘So I was saying,’ I sniff. ‘The yagya that’s coming up, you know.’

  Akshay looks baffled. ‘So?’

  ‘Didi said the days leading up to it are supposed to be marked with restraint—’

  Akshay runs a tantalising thumb over my lower lip. ‘Restraint? I don’t believe I’m familiar with the concept.’

  I pull a Matrix bullet time stunt, bend back back back to dodge the temptation bullet. And somehow manage to instal a pillow between us, literally like a Line of Control.

  ‘So, Didi said pure thoughts, good deeds, no non-veg—’

  Akshay’s mouth quirks. ‘I thought you weren’t going to tell her that you eat chicken-mutton.’

  ‘I told her I’m planning to give up non-veg,’ I inform him.

  ‘Mish, don’t tell me! I’d never want you to do that!’

  ‘I don’t think I can give it up for good,’ I assure him. ‘But till the yagya, oh, absolutely!’

  He runs his fingers through his hair. He always does this when he feels there’s no convincing me. ‘Mishkin, I don’t know why you’re doing this. Giving up things you love for things you don’t believe in.’

  ‘I believe in the yagya, I believe in us,’ I say staunchly. ‘And it’s just two weeks. I can live without non-veg and alcohol for two weeks.’

  Akshay’s mouth quirks. ‘You told Didi you drink?’

  ‘I may have implied that I was a social drinker.’

  ‘You are very social,’ he says, his voice rippling with laughter.

  Ooh, that laughter. I suddenly feel as if he’s titillating Menaka to my resolute Vishwamitra.

  ‘Yeah, so that’s why, um, carnal relations are out too,’ I tell him.

  ‘Sure about that?’ His voice drops to a seductive whisper.

  Without warning, he swings his feet off the bed. Deliberately, very deliberately, he starts unbuttoning his shirt, his eyes not leaving my face for a second. He’s not going to, dear god, he’s doing a striptease. My heart and several other body parts give a simultaneous lurch.

  Why does he have to make it so difficult? It’s not as if I’m Bhishma Pitamah and I’ve voluntarily taken a brahmcharya vrat.

  ‘I-I told Didi I wouldn’t,’ I lick my lips and desperately try to avert my eyes. But his actions have a strangely magnetic quality to them.

  He shrugs out of his shirt expertly—like he’s been stripping professionally for years—exposing the delectable expanse of his chest. The shirt dangles on one long finger, then with one careless flick of the wrist, it drops on to the floor. My reservations and resolutions nearly follow.

  ‘What if your Pati Parmeshwar commands you to do it?’ he asks in a hypnotic voice.

  His hands go to his pants. Not the pants, please, that’s so below the belt! Tantalisingly slow, he unbuttons, unzips and steps out of them. I step out of my skin and have an out of body experience.

  Pretty Parmeshwar looks so divine that I waver and nearly succumb to his bountiful charms. I’m about to push off the bed and land on his chest in a flying leap, when I remember. I’ve made a promise to the Mother Goddess. I pick up the lakshman rekha and hold it over my eyes right before he goes Full Monty.

  ‘Oh, just go to sleep, will you!’

  ‘Night-y night, love. Let me know if you change your mind,’ Akshay drawls as he crawls into bed.

  ‘I won’t,’ I say grouchily.

  I turn my face away from the devil incarnate, drop my face firmly into my pillow and spend many miserable hours sticking to my side of the bed.

  ‘I could have sworn there were six of them!’ Sammy peers into the fridge, scratching his head.

  ‘Good morning,’ I chirp, emerging from the kitchen, decked in an orange and fuchsia banarasi silk saree (draping courtesy: google), feeling like the brand ambassador of Agarwal Jewellery what with every inch of my exposed flesh covered in it.

  It’s the day of the yagya and I’ve been up since midnight. Okay, maybe not midnight, from five in the am. Which is practically the same thing.

  ‘Morning,’ he says absently.

  ‘Looking for something?’ I ask him, fighting off hunger pangs. Didi mentioned it was best to do the yagya on an empty stomach.

  ‘Yeah, eggs. I thought we’d a shelf full of them,’ he rummages through the other shelves. ‘Didn’t we stock up day before?’

  ‘Uh, about that.’

  He straightens up and turns to look at me.

  ‘I threw the eggs out,’ I say, a blush creeping up on my face.

  ‘I see.’ Sammy crosses his arms. ‘May I know why?’

  I chew on my bottom lip.

  ‘Please tell me because they were rotten,’ Sammy says in a deceptively calm voice.

  I want to. But I can’t. That would be lying. And I’m not going to lie today of all days.

  ‘They weren’t.’

  A censorial look comes into his eyes. ‘Why then?’

  ‘Because it suddenly struck me that eggs are—’

  ‘Bad for health?’ Sammy prompts. ‘High in cholesterol? Have too many calories?’

  ‘—not exactly vegetarian,’ I reply timidly. ‘And the yagya—’

  ‘Not the damn yagya again,’ Sammy bites out.

  Did I mention I threw out some beer (“four perfectly great cans of Kingfisher”, Sammy called them) out last week?

  But hey, it’s not the yagya’s fault. I know he’s got every right to be mad. He pays for the groceries too. It’s just that I want to do this right. Go the whole hog, give it my best shot. Why can’t anybody understand that?

  Empty stomach, child’s play. No loo breaks, easy peasy. Smoke getting into the eyes, no sweat. Looking at Akshay dressed in a white kurta pajama and harbouring pure thoughts? Imposs, boss!

  I’ve tried to think of unsexy things—Indian politicians, ear hair, Indian politicians with ear hair, ANYTHING, anything to distract from that epitome of masculine beauty. But it’s so hard, he’s sitting too close and looking too good for my comfort.

  I glance at my Mom Dad’s photograph—Didi’s blown it up, so that they can give proxy attendance at the havan—resting opposite us. It’s their wedding picture and it looks ridiculously out of place, but that’s the only picture I could manage at short notice.

  I look across at Didi. She has an assassin’s focus. Her eyes, they never stray from the havan kund. Probably because her hubby is not around. Jeejoo’s been out of town the last few days. He was supposed to be back from Dubai first thing in the morning, but he missed the flight and consequently, the havan, and is expected back any time now.

  Hours and a lifetime later, Panditji signals that the yagya has come to end. I heave a sigh of relief. I swoop down to seek his blessings, Didi’s blessings, tottering Unclejis’ blessings, botoxed Auntijis’ blessings.

  I make my way across the room like that, like a hunched, four legged creature, not bothering to straighten up, soliciting blessings from one and all in one continuous motion. I pause to look up only when Raksha recoils, gasping ‘MAAMI, WHAT ARE YOU DOING!’

  ‘Come, Misha, Jeejoo’s here,’ Akki calls out. ‘He’s really looking forward to meeting you.’

  I hurry over, hands folded, all set to dive at his feet.

  A pot bellied, jovial middle aged man steps forward. It’s him! The same guy who I’d bumped into at the hotel, the day of Poulomi’s shoot, when he was supposedly away in Dubai! That’s why he looked familiar. I knew him from the family photograph Akshay had showed me.

  I don’t know if it’s the shock or the day long fast, but I take one look at him and faint.

  When I come to, I’m lying in Akshay’s arms. I’ve died and gone to heaven. Assorted gods have assembled high above and are showering me with flowers. A couple of dewy rose petals catch me square on the eyes and I blink them open. Akshay’s concerned face comes in focus and I manage a weak smile.

  ‘I told you not to keep a nirjal fast,’ he chides me.

  I blink again and see Didi’s face hovering above us. ‘What?’
A shocked expression comes over her face. She stops sprinkling water at my face and looks terribly guilty. ‘I didn’t know she was going to skip water too … Raksha, go get a glass of water, now!’

  ‘Please step back,’ Didi says crisply to the gathered audience. ‘Misha needs some air.’

  And lots of food and water, I want to call out.

  ‘Raksha!’ Didi calls out again. ‘Ask the caterers to start serving the bhog.’

  The crowd starts to thin out, no doubt, eager to sample the scrumptious spread. My stomach growls in anticipation.

  ‘Is she okay?’ I hear a note of worry in Jeejoo’s voice as Akshay cradles my head. Clearly, he hasn’t recognised me. I’m not surprised, he seemed to be in a tearing hurry that day.

  ‘Is she pragnaant?’ Someone in the departing crowd asks in a stage whisper.

  I nearly snort. As if I’m one of those mythological characters in the epics, you know, who could conceive merely by randomly invoking the name of a god.

  13

  I miss you, I miss you, I miss you*.

  That’s all I’ve been texting Akshay all day. I’m in Delhi for a training session. It happens each time a new product line is launched. Top M.A.C. artists in the country conduct the workshop and one deserving candidate from each store in every city gets to attend it.

  The VIVA GLAM X range is out now. India’s best make-up artist, the legendary Zachary Contractor, darling of celebs, is conducting a master class. And I’m the Chosen One from my store. Yay!

  It’s awesome and amaze and all that I could ask for professionally. But personally, not so much. That’s because Akshay’s brain child cum baby cum brilliant venture—the website is about to go live. And there’s a big party at home—I mean, his home—and I’m missing it. Yeah, that kind of sucks.

  I’m missing out on his big day. I did offer to drop out of the training. (Kind of half heartedly, but let’s not go there). But Akki wouldn’t hear of it. ‘It’s work and work comes first. I’ll miss you, but I sure as hell don’t want you to miss out on this opportunity.’