Glitter and Gloss

by Vibha Batra

  Aww, I get goosebumps just thinking about the stuff he says. And get equally mad at the stuff he deliberately leaves out. He’s still not shared the name of the website, for one. Didi’s reaction to my no-show, for another. I bet she’s not too pleased with the development. But he’s not telling.

  I think Didi’s in denial and/or having a hard time confronting the harsh reality: Li’l Mish Chicken has flown the coop, if only for a day. Why else would she hound me on WhatsApp all day like this:

  10 am: Did you tell Akshay?

  As if I would go behind his back.

  10:10 am: What did he say?

  You would have been crazy to bunk, gurl.

  11 am: So any change in plans?

  This, when she knows I’m already in Delhi.

  12:30 pm: Your outfit just came in. It’s lovely.

  Aha, now she’s resorting to bribery.

  1:30 pm: We miss you too, Misha.

  To be fair, she whatsapped this only after I screwed up and sent her the text* meant for Akshay. I miss you more, Didi, I felt compelled to message back. I mean, I couldn’t very well tell her “Oops, wrong window”, now could I?

  3 pm: Can you take half day off?

  God, she never gives up.

  I’m glad I didn’t either. On the training session, that is. Not only because I luuuurve all that I’ve learned at this make-up gurukul, sitting at the great Master’s knee. It’s also because I’ve taken so many chuttis in the last few weeks, had I asked for one more, it would have been the beginning of a permanent chutti.

  I’m also glad, correction, grateful, that my flight’s landing in Mumbai at ten p.m. Because much as I’d like to show dutiful support to my Pati Parmeshwar, I don’t think I can manage social hee-hee after being on my feet for eighteen hours (including commute time, flying time, training time) straight.

  How little we know ourselves.

  Because that’s precisely what I do. Didi insists I make it to the party, no matter how late. I assure her I will, but she’s not taking any chances. To make sure I comply, she sends the chauffeur over to the airport. Along with my outfit. She wasn’t exaggerating, by the way, it’s drop dead gorgeous. It’s a deep coral floor length Manish Malhotra anarkali-gown with his trademark kashmiri embroidery on the neck, hem and cuffs.

  I feel like Katherine Heigel in 27 Dresses as I change in the backseat. I pull the gown over my ganji and slip out of my jeans. She’s even sent a cache of Agarwal Jewellery along. I’m guessing the chauffeur’s been in the family service longer than I have.

  Ever the perfectionist, she’s sent accessories as well: a pair of sky high, strappy, sequiny Jimmy Choo heels and a Judith Leiber multi-coloured crystal embellished Owl clutch. I recognize it right away—I haven’t been reading all those Vogues all these years for nothing.

  I wish I’d been doing substances as well, you know, for that much needed energy. It’s a wonder I don’t collapse on my back seconds into the party. It’s such an effort to stand up, let alone make small talk with the procession of gossipy Aunty-jis, tipsy Uncle-jis and yummy Mata-jis.

  Didi whisks me away for a customary round of stomach crunches the second I’m through the door. I’m about to crumple into a heap and then I spot Akki. The very sight is like glucose. Life slowly seeps back into me. Akki looks dashing in dark denims, a custom fit shirt and a black jacket. Lucky clothes, I wish I could drape myself around him too.

  He comes over to give me a chaste hug. Why are we in public, why? But still, he’s to the soul what the Energiser Bunny is to batteries. Smiling at him? No problem at all. Looking into his eyes? No further encouragement (or Red Bull) needed. Talking to him? Sure, sign me up all night long.

  Alas, he’s the beau of the ball. Which means, I’m unable to do the aforementioned activities longer than two minutes at a stretch. Which also means, I’m chicken feed for the hawk-eyed Auntijis. They swoop down on me the second Akshay leaves my side and the Arnab-style grilling begins.

  ‘So, where you were?’

  Yeah, Miss Chaturvedi, the nation wants to know.

  ‘You went to Delhi? All alone? You’re not scared or what?’

  Honestly, it’s far scarier facing y’all.

  ‘Akshay’s allowed you to work?’

  Allowed? He practically deposited me on the plane.

  ‘Yes, yes, you can do all this masti now.’

  Masti? I thought I was travelling on work.

  ‘But once you’ve kids, where will you have the time?’

  You mean, life will get crazier than this? Is that even possible?

  Like always, Didi steps in and replies on my behalf. ‘Why go that far—’

  Why indeed? I draw upon my diminished energy reserves and nod as vigorously as I can under the circumstances.

  ‘—Misha won’t be working after marriage.’

  WHAT?

  I stare at Didi’s face in shock. Wherever did she get that idea?

  I open my mouth to set the record straight, but Jeejoo materializes next to us right then and drags Didi away.

  Akki, Akki, Akki, where are you?

  The crowd in the living room swells. You’d think people would be happy to go home, considering it’s late and all, but the guests are only arriving and the party’s just getting started.

  I cast my eyes around the room just in time to find new arrival Girija throwing her arms exuberantly around Akshay. And suddenly, I think PDA is disgusting, especially between platonic friends of the opposite sex. I mean, why hug when a handshake would do? Why even shake hands when a mumbled greeting would suffice? Why even greet and make eye contact? Surely it’s all understood between friends?

  I’m about to launch into a full-fledged frontal assault (mentally, of course) on Girija, when Deeya shows up by my side.

  ‘Mishaaaaa,’ she coos, kissing the air near my right cheek. ‘So good to see you! How have you been?’

  I’m happy to note that she looks considerably peppier than the last time we met. Then again, it could be because of the nap she took in the afternoon. Or was it the salon trip for the mani-pedi-blow dry? I feel an instant stab of guilt and stem my disloyal thoughts mid-flow. It’s not nice to judge people, not nice at all.

  ‘What drama, earlier on,’ she says, lowering her voice to a hushed whisper.

  ‘Oh, really? I missed it.’ I lean forward.

  She laughs out loud. ‘Of course you missed it. It happened because you were missing!’

  Nooooo! Please don’t let that be true.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask in a small voice. It’s like she’s punctured the balloon of my already flagging spirits with the sharp needle of gossip.

  She rolls her eyes. ‘That same old silly discussion, “What are you going to do with a working daughter-in-law what else?’ Deeya says with a toss of her shiny head.

  God, the Auntijis are like the Joker. They just want to see the world burn. No wonder Didi’s been acting like US and ISIS, all at once: refusing to grant work visa to spouse and issuing fatwas against female employment.

  Deeya drones on. ‘The Aunties were overjoyed to find the great Neelam Agarwal, who always has the last word, at a loss for words. You know, when they asked her where her daughter-in-law was and why she wasn’t at Akshay’s side at such an,’ she breaks off to make air quotes, ‘important time.’

  I’m kind of speechless myself.

  ‘You know, Neelam Didi has always got her own way, right from deciding the new members to be inducted into the kitty to the kitty amount—she’s always got what she’s wanted,’ Deeya grins, ‘until now.’

  She means me, of course. She means Didi didn’t get the daughter-in-law she wanted because she got saddled with me and then it was all downhill for her. Like how it happened with Senator John Mc Cain when he got Sarah Palin as the running mate. Is that what Deeya thinks? Is that what everyone thinks? Of me?

  ‘Anyway, forget all that. There’s no end to the Auntyji stories,’ Deeya says, clearly bored. Her eyes light up suddenly. ‘Hey, t
ell you what, why don’t we meet outside this suffocating circle sometime? Give me your number! Great, I’ll be in touch.’

  Deeya goes her way blissfully unaware of the havoc she’s caused in my mind. Oh, God. I feel like crying, but how can I? The last thing I want to do is create a scene and embarrass Didi. I get through the rest of the party like a zombie. I make sure no one finds out how I’m feeling, of course. I make small talk, make all the right noises, but inside I’m dying. I feel small, I feel inadequate, I feel insecure.

  I tell Akshay as much in the car. He’s dropping me home. It’s the first time we’ve got some alone time since this evening, all this week, actually. And I want to be happy at his success, I do. I want to ask him all about his website. I want to be the supportive partner. But all I am is upset and tired and miserable. I can’t act anymore.

  ‘Didi hates me,’ I blurt out, the second he straps on his seatbelt.

  ‘Not that again,’ Akshay mutters without taking his eyes off the road.

  I tell him what Deeya said. The words gush out in a torrent.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Misha,’ he says, skepticism evident in his voice.

  ‘I’m not being silly, Akshay. I’m not what Didi wants—’

  ‘You’re exactly what I want,’ Akshay says, reaching for my hand and clasping it tight.

  Good thing, too. Because I need that warmth, that touch, that hand over mine, very, very much.

  ‘Let’s face it, I’m not the daughter-in-law Didi hoped for.’

  God knows she was hunting for my exact opposite.

  ‘I know that I’m no ravishing beauty—’

  ‘You’re the most beautiful woman I know,’ Akshay cuts me off mid speech.

  ‘You’re only saying that because you love me,’ I say plaintively. ‘I mean, look at my nose! It’s—’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about, Mish. I think your nose is perfect. In fact, if I wasn’t driving, I’d be kissing it right now,’ he says suggestively, but I’m so not in the mood. For anything except self pity.

  ‘Okay, even if we forget that, what about the fact that I’m working?’ I point out.

  Akshay frowns. ‘What about it? You’re bloody brilliant at what you do. You’re talented, hard working, and so passionate about your work.’ His voice softens. ‘I couldn’t be more proud of you, Mishkin.’

  I smile despite my misgivings.

  ‘But Didi doesn’t feel that way,’ I persist.

  ‘How do you know?’ Akshay counters.

  ‘Because she told everyone that I’m going to quit,’ I say softly.

  ‘What? Where did that come from?’ Akshay turns around to stare at me, a startled look on his face. ‘How on earth did she get that idea?’

  That’s what I want to know.

  I continue. ‘She announced it to all the Aunties in that brookno-argument tone of hers. “Misha’s not going to be working after marriage.” In fact, she seemed on edge all evening. You know, because I was missing in action—’

  ‘You were not missing in action,’ Akshay says firmly. ‘You were away on work. And once you were done for the day, you made it to the party, didn’t you? In the middle of the night, after a gruelling day, after slogging your cute butt off.’

  That cheers me up. A bit.

  ‘You get that, Akki, but Didi doesn’t,’ I remind him.

  ‘She’ll get used to it,’ Akshay states assertively. ‘She has to.’

  ‘And if she doesn’t?’ I ask him, but I’m scared to hear the answer. ‘Will you give me up, you know, the way you gave up photography?’

  ‘What?’ Akshay turns to stare at me again.

  ‘You know, you loved what you were doing, back in the US. But you gave it all up and came back home, for the sake of your family.’

  ‘Are you crazy, Mish? Why are you saying these things? What’s gotten into you?’

  ‘And for Didi’s sake, you’ll sacrifice your love,’ I continue in a monotone, ‘and get married to one of those assembly line productions, one of those perfectly turned out kitty party types who’ll bring a huge amount of dowry for your new venture—’

  ‘We’ve got angel investors and venture capitalists for that, thank you very much,’ Akshay says disdainfully. ‘God, Misha, I wish I could—’

  I hear Akshay’s swift indrawn breath. He shifts in his seat suddenly, juts his butt out and mutters ‘Here!’

  I stare at him in shock. He’s not suggesting I grab him! I know abstinence is not the easiest thing in the world. It’s enough to drive a person mad. I mean, look at what it’s done to Akshay. He’s actually risking indecent exposure. Really, to want to do it now, while he’s driving!

  ‘Take it out,’ he hisses.

  ‘Okay, okay, but you may want to park on the side,’ I say, tentatively reaching for the fly of his jeans.

  ‘No, you dum dum! My wallet, there’s something I need to show you.’

  Oh, he wants me to grab his wallet? Because he has one hand on the driving wheel and one hand over mine. Right. Whew! For a minute there, I was kind of worried.

  I reach for his wallet.

  ‘Open it,’ Akshay rasps.

  I flip it open.

  ‘There’s a visiting card in there,’ he instructs. He switches on the overhead light. I pull it out and gasp! Because I finally know what his website’s called. Mishkin.com. I gape at the letters embossed on the card. Right above Akshay Agarwal, Founder and CEO.

  I run my fingers over it as the lump in my throat rises higher. He was right, I love the surprise.

  ‘It’s, it’s beautiful,’ I murmur. I’m so moved and thrilled and dazed.

  ‘Not half as beautiful as you are,’ Akshay says softly, looking straight into my eyes.

  And then, I feel it too. I feel beautiful, so beautiful.

  14

  ‘So what do you think?’ Poulomi asks me when we reach the lobby.

  ‘Mind blowing, Poul! Just out of the world!’ I assure her.

  We’re wrapped up in yet another shoot at the shady hotel in the suburbs. “Hotel Decent” is how I’ve come to think of it. Poul’s outdone herself. I mean, the girl’s a natural.

  ‘I don’t know why you can’t do the make-up and the styling for the shoot,’ I tell her.

  ‘Same reason Farah Khan doesn’t choreograph the songs of the movies she directs,’ pat comes the reply. ‘It’s good to focus, Mish.’

  ‘Sure you don’t want me to hang around?’ Poulomi asks me.

  She’s heading out with the photographer and model for drinks. I’m ubering it back home. ‘Don’t worry, Poul. My cab will be here soon, I’ll chill in the lobby until then.’

  Poulomi blows a couple of kisses in my direction and toodles off.

  I pull my cell from my handbag and am about to text Akshay, when someone breaks into a coughing fit. Eww! At least, cover your mouth, I grimace looking up. And then I spot him.

  Not the Germ Spewer, the person standing in the elevator area.

  Jeejoo!

  Oh god, not again! He’s supposed to be back in Dubai! What’s he doing here? And he’s wearing sunglasses. Inside a hotel. At nine in the pm. I mean, is that supposed to be a disguise? A woman in a garish saree sashays up to him. He looks over his shoulder in a shady fashion and jabs at the elevator button. My blood runs cold.

  Ohhhhmmygooood! He’s having an affair! Poor poor poor Didi! For a teeny second, I’m relieved. I’m not the worst thing to have happened to her. He is!

  I don’t know what to do? Confront him? Try a childhood trick? You know, close my eyes and pretend that I can’t see anything. I close my eyes for a brief second. But they fly open. I know what I have to do.

  I’m an Agarwal Bahu now. The honour of my new family is at stake. The izzat of my family is in my hands. I cannot let Jeejoo trample it under his footloose-y feet and loose character. I tiptoe towards him silently. I’ve got a clear advantage, the element of surprise. I’ll tap him on his back and…

  TRINGGGGGG!!!

&nb
sp; My cell phone rings loudly when I’m inches away from him.

  He spins around. And his eyes pop out.

  Stupid frickin’ Uber guys. No sense of timing.

  ‘Misha?’ Jeejoo says, reeling back, looking as shocked as I felt a few seconds ago.

  TRINGGGGGGG!!

  ‘Uh, d-do you want to get that?’ Jeejoo asks, pointing at my cell.

  The elevator arrives with a ding. Garish Saree gets in. ‘Are you coming?’ she asks.

  ‘No!’ I answer on Jeejoo’s behalf. ‘He’s not going anywhere.’

  I expect her to create a scene, to snap at me, to command Jeejoo to ignore me, but all she does is shrug. She reaches for a button, the doors close and up goes the elevator. Then there’s just a grim faced me and a very guilty faced Jeejoo, staring at each other in silence.

  I answer my cell. ‘Sorry, I’ll have to cancel the booking,’ I tell the Uber driver, my eyes perched firmly on Jeejoo.

  I push the phone back into my bag.

  ‘What, what are you doing here, Misha?’ Jeejoo asks, wiping his face with his handkerchief. He’s sweating profusely. Aha, sure shot proof that he’s nervous.

  ‘I could ask you the same question, Jeejoo,’ I reply coolly, my arms akimbo.

  Yeah, two can play the cat and mouse game.

  ‘I-I’m here on w-work,’ he stammers.

  I don’t buy that for a second. ‘Right,’ I say sarcastically. ‘And here I was thinking you were busy working in Dubai!’

  A defeated look comes into his eyes. His shoulders sag.

  ‘I’m sorry, I—’

  I raise a hand imperiously. I think I’ve seen Rajnikant do it in Robot or was that Sivaji? I’m not sure. I mean, Sammy’s the fan. He’s forever sharing links of his movies. Focus, Misha, focus.

  I come back to the task at hand. It’s an ugly job but someone’s got to do it.

  ‘How can you do this to Didi? How?’ I cry out. ‘I know she’s overbearing and stubborn and not the easiest person to deal with but, but have you thought of how she’s going to feel when she finds out?’

  A horrified look comes into his eyes. ‘You aren’t going to tell her, are you?’

  He looks so scared that I kind of thaw. Poor guy, he obviously lives in mortal fear of his wife.