by Vibha Batra
‘Jeejoo, I didn’t expect this from you,’ I begin, an indignant expression on my face. ‘How could you?’
His eyes widen. ‘You mean you know?’ His eyes dart around as if he expects Akshay to show up any second too.
I nod. ‘Don’t worry, I’m alone.’
He slumps against the wall with relief.
‘Why Jeejoo, why are you doing this?’ I ask him.
‘I don’t have a choice,’ he mutters.
Why do people always say that? I mean, we can choose where we put our body parts, for god’s sake!
‘It’s too late and I, I’m trapped.’
My eyes become big as saucers. Blackmail?
Oh god, the woman probably has pictures/video clips of the two of them in compromising positions. A visual pops up in my head. Jeejoo and Garish Saree with their limbs locked…
He wipes his face with his hanky again. ‘My hands are tied.’
I gape at him. BDSM? Jeejoo and kinky sex? Who would have thought? Wow, you can’t tell looking at a person, can you?
‘You think I haven’t tried coming out of it? I have, so hard, but, but it’s like quicksand. The more I try, the deeper I sink.’ He wrings his hands looking absolutely miserable.
That’s when it hits me. The poor thing’s a sex addict, a male nympho (himpho?). And while it may sound fun and all, it really is a sad, sad affliction. You just need to watch this movie—Shame—and you’ll know what I’m talking about. My heart goes out to him. I almost put a hand on his shoulder, but at the last moment decide against it. I mean, I don’t want him to get ideas.
‘Jeejoo, it’s not too late,’ I say kindly. ‘You can seek help…’
‘You think I haven’t tried? But I can’t approach friends…’
I mean, obviously he can’t! As they say in Bollywood, doesn’t need dua, he needs dava.
‘Friends can’t help you, Jeejoo, only a doctor can,’ I tell him.
A confused look comes over his face. ‘Doctor?’
I nod sagely. ‘Yes, for your condition.’
‘What condition?’ He asks, baffled.
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Jeejoo. Even Michael Douglas has it.’
His brows furrow. ‘What?’
‘You know, your “Ess dot dot” addiction,’ I say, dropping my voice to a whisper.
He continues to look puzzled. ‘Addiction?’ What are you talking about?’
I exhale. It’s time to catch the bull by the balls.
‘About your sex addiction—’
‘MY WHAT?!’ Jeejoo bellows.
I have to shush him. Imagine.
‘I get it, Jeejoo,’ I say in a soothing voice. ‘It’s why you have affairs left, right, and centre—’
‘What??? No, no no!’ Jeejo cries out, looking shell shocked.
‘Like that woman in the lift,’ I point out.
‘What? I’ve never seen her before in my life!’
I peer closely at his face. Bugger’s a fantastic actor, I’ll give him that, but I haven’t exactly played with kachi golis meself. ‘Look here, Jeejoo, don’t try to act all innocent now. I know what’s going on.’
His hand shoots out and grabs my wrist.
‘Excuse me—’ I begin indignantly as he pulls me in the direction of the lobby.
He lets go off my hand and motions at the sofa. I plonk down on it reluctantly. He follows suit.
‘Look, Misha. You’ve got it all wrong. ALL WRONG.’
‘But—’
‘Hear me out, please. I-I’ll tell you what’s going on, I’ll tell you everything. But you’ve got to promise, promise on your life that you’ll not discuss this with Akshay or Neelam. Can you do that?’
‘I’m not sure I can!’ I burst out. ‘I mean, how can I trust you, Jeejoo? You, who sneaks around in hotels after claiming to be out of town on work?’
Jeejoo exhales. ‘I know it looks bad. But it’s not what you think. It all started a year ago when I invested in a scheme—like a chit fund, you know—launched by a school friend from UK. The returns were amazing, so when he asked me to come on board as a partner, I agreed…’
Long story short, Jeejoo convinced several close family friends to invest in the scheme. Which, of course, went bust a couple of months later. The friend disappeared overnight taking the money with him. And now, Jeejoo owes his friends a great deal of money. I don’t know how people fall for these things, don’t they read the papers?
‘I don’t know what to do,’ he groans, dropping his face in his hands. ‘I’m too embarrassed to face my friends. Some of them are getting really impatient. It’s why I pretend to be out of town, to get them off my back, to buy time. I’ll definitely pay all of them back, but I don’t know how…’
‘You don’t have money saved?’ I prod. I mean, even I have money saved.
‘I used all of it to pay back a few friends.’
‘You can’t go to the bank?’
‘Neelam and I have joint accounts. If she finds out,’ he breaks off with a shudder, ‘she’ll kill me!’
That I don’t doubt for a second. She’ll probably Bobbitt him for good measure. My toes curl just thinking of her cold, forbidding expression.
There’s only one thing to be done. I’m greatly concerned for Jeejoo. Plus, this affects the prestige of the Agarwal khandaan.
‘I’ll help you,’ I say gallantly.
Hope flickers anew in his bleak eyes. ‘You will?’
I nod. ‘How much do you need?’
He tells me.
My eyes widen. ‘That much?’ I yelp.
His face falls.
I quickly alter my expression. ‘I mean, bas, that much,’ I say nonchalantly.
It’s a crazy amount of money. Think “I won’t be able to make that much even if I work as a bonded labourer for the next hundred years” kind of money. But I’ll think of something. I have to. I’ve no choice.
‘Thanks so much, Dad,’ I say gratefully into the phone. ‘I’ll pay you back as soon as I can, I promise. Love you, bye.’ I exult the minute I hang up. I go to my laptop and update the list.
MISHA CHATURVEDI’S URGENT RELIEF FUND
Name of prospective donor Financial status Willingness to help
Misha Than than gopal aka kangaal aka Broke Singh Cash withdrawn from savings account
Mom Likely very depleted because of sabbatical abroad Donor cannot be reached at the moment
Dad Robust Wire transfer expected tomorrow
Bro Surprisingly healthy Wire transfer expected shortly
Poulomi Irrelevant Candidate rejected on account of suspicious nature and habit of asking probing questions
Sammy Filing for bankruptcy Cheque received
I look at the list and I realise I need a hefty donation. Unfortunately, I’ve covered everyone in my social circle. I even tried asking Candice, but when I heard about her money troubles, I ended up giving her a loan. Whom else can I ask? I break my head all day, but can’t come up with a single other name.
I’m about to give up, when someone calls out “Myshaa” dramatically. I look up to find Rekha Aunty sashaying in. My eyes light up. Why didn’t I think of it before! She’s the soul of discretion. At the kirtan kitty, she actually shushed the toady when it blabbered in front of Didi. Plus, I’m sure her politician boyfriend’s bank balance can support the economy of a Banana Republic / tiny third world country. I just have to pretend that I need the funds for a dire personal emergency. That’s all.
Poulomi calls me just as I step out of the store.
‘So, where to for dinner?’ she gets right to the point.
Shit! Shit! Shit! I’d made dinner plans with Poulomi. Oh god, she’s going to kill me. We haven’t caught up after the shoot. Which, was a good two weeks ago. And that’s a first. But I’ve been so busy Keeping up with the Agarwals. Romantically, socially, financially.
There’s a short pause at the other end.
‘We’re on for dinner, right?’ Poul asks eventually.
‘Um, uh, Poul…’ I begin weakly.
‘What is it this time, Mish?’ She sounds violently calm.
‘I—I’m so sorry, Poul, it’s just that something’s come up…’
‘Let me guess, Didi needs you to attend a wine tasting with her?’
That was last week.
‘Or is she taking you to a Dior-Prada-Chanel trunk show?’
That was earlier in the week.
‘Not a menu sampling?’ Poulomi asks, her voice dropping with sarcasm.
That was the day before.
‘Poul, please, I feel awful doing this, trust me, but I’ve got to meet Deeya—’ I feel bad lying to her. But I can’t jolly well tell her I’m meeting a middle-aged woman to ask her for a loan. A middle-aged woman who’s a client and a close family friend. I mean, Poul will go ballastic.
‘Deeya!’ she exclaims. ‘Oh yeah, your new bestie.’
‘She’s not my bestie, puhleeze.’
I mean, we’ve spoken on the phone once. In hindsight, I realise I shouldn’t have told Poulomi about it.
‘We’re kind of in the same boat, she understands my situation—’
‘And I don’t?’ Poulomi asks, sounding injured.
‘Of course, you do, Poul,’ I say sincerely. ‘But that’s not why I’m meeting her this evening, it’s—it’s something else, but I can’t talk about it.’
Deafening silence.
‘Used to be when we didn’t have secrets from each other, Mish,’ Poulomi says bitterly and disconnects the call.
I hit my forehead with the cell phone a couple of times. How I wish I could tell Poul everything, but I can’t. It wouldn’t be right. It’s not my secret to share. I try to push the guilt away as I zip halfway across town. I hear from Mom on the way and breathe a sigh of relief. She and Ronit are doing great and are back next week.
‘Thanks so much for this,’ I tell Rekha Aunty again. It’s the weekend and she’s come home to make a very important delivery.
I feel like one of those dons in an eighties Bollywood potboiler as Rekha Aunty hands me a duffel bag full of, what else, cash. “Saara maal mere hawale kar do.”
‘Thank you so, so, so much, Aunty,’ I repeat.
‘Don’t mention it, Mesha,’ she says, looking at me with kind eyes. ‘I toh just hope ki you’re not in any kind of trouble. You’re not pregnant, are you?’ she asks, eyeing me suspiciously.
God! Why does everyone keep asking that?
‘Um, I’m not, Aunty. This,’ I say, pointing at the bag, ‘this is not for me. It’s for a friend,’ I trail off realizing how lame it sounds. It’s always for a “friend”, isn’t it? God.
‘I’ll return it as soon as I can,’ I assure her.
‘Don’t worry about it, Beta,’ she says. ‘Chalo, I’ll get going.’
‘Sure you won’t stay for dinner? I’ll order.’
‘Nah nah! Merawala is waiting for me at home. Take care,’ she says, giving me a bear hug and scampering to the door.
I wave her goodbye and slump against the door. I’ve done it! I’d promised Jeejoo I’d arrange the cash, even if I had to beg, borrow, steal. I’m glad I could get by doing only two of the above.
I grab my cell and call Jeejoo with shaking hands.
‘Hello? Misha, bolo.’
I drop my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Maal Mud Island waale bungale pe pahunch gaya hai.’
‘What?’ he asks, completely thrown.
I sigh. ‘Good news, Jeejoo, I’ve got the cash!’
I hang up, feeling so, so relieved. Is this how Obama felt when he bailed out the US Auto Industry, I wonder.
15
I’m at the launch of a restaurant. The same one that invited us for the menu sampling a couple of days ago. Because Didi said—and I paraphrase—we’ll look like a bunch of bhukkads if we skip the launch.
I glance at my watch, it’s past three and I really have to get back to the store. To think I used to bitch about Vrushali. But here I am, going nuts trying to juggle work and my social life. I’ve ditched Poulomi on at least three different occasions. I’ve bunked my BJJ classes. And last weekend Akshay complained he was feeling neglected.
But it’s like my body belongs to Didi now. Didi’s become the other woman in our relationship. She’s so demanding, she takes up most of my time and headspace. But my heart, it still belongs to Akshay. No one can take that away from me.
‘Misha, what are you doing after this?’ Didi asks the second we step out of the restaurant.
Oh god! She’s not going to insist I accompany her to some other do.
‘Why don’t you—’
‘I-I’m meeting Mom,’ I blurt out without thinking. ‘She’s driving down from Pune, must be home by now, I really have to spend some quality time with her—’
‘Mrs Chaturvedi’s back?’ Didi interrupts, impaling me with her eyes.
Shit!
She got back two weeks ago actually. Of course, Didi doesn’t need to know that.
I nod.
‘How did her pilgrimage go?’ Didi asks.
‘Fantastic! Simply superb!’ I blab. ‘Great darshan everywhere!’
‘Why don’t we meet for dinner. Tomorrow night.’ As always, Didi makes it sound like a command.
I rootle around wildly for an excuse, any excuse, to fob her off.
‘But but but,’ I stammer. ‘Akshay’s going to Delhi tomorrow!’
‘Great, so it’ll be just the ladies. See you at home at eight.’ Didi settles it, once and for all.
My face beams my distress loud and clear.
‘Oh, I forgot, you’re working tomorrow.’ Didi considers this for a moment. ‘The commute will be too long, hmm.’
My breathing normalizes for a second.
‘Okay, I’ll pick a restaurant in Bandra-Khar, don’t worry.’
My breathing goes through the roof again. Don’t worry, ha! Back at the store, I can barely function. I help my customer, a young mum, decide between powder blush and crème blush, but I’m all jittery. Vrushali takes one look at me and rushes over. I toss her a grateful look. Mom and Didi, Didi and Mom, I keep thinking. It’s the only thing on my mind even when I lock the drawers for the day.
The thing is, life’s like a placid ocean with different kinds of fish. Mom’s the “Original Rebel of the Love Brigade” kind of fish. And Didi is the “Overbearing Sarpanch of the Khap Panchayat” kind of fish. Both function great in their respective ecosystems. But bring them together—and bam—catastrophic earthquakes occur, generating tsunamis that affect every living creature in the ocean.
I want to kick myself for not being able to, okay, okay, for being the architect of an impending disaster. What can I say, it’s a mental illness really.
An idea strikes the instant I ring the doorbell of my flat. I know what I can do! I can get a bhaade ki ma. I’m sure if I go to Prithvi Theatre, there will be actorly types hanging around, starving for a challenging role.
Sammy opens the door with a flourish. I trudge inside with leaden feet.
‘Aunty!’ he blares out. ‘Misha’s home.’
The door of my room opens and a tall, fair, thickset guy in his late twenties bounds out. He blinks at me for a couple of seconds and then, beams broadly, holding his arms out.
‘Misha, my child!’
No no no no no! Mom’s got her frickin’ boyfriend along!
‘Come, give Daddy a hug,’ Ronit coos.
Ugh, someone kill me.
‘Ronit,’ I say gruffly, sticking out a hand.
‘Is that how you greet family?’ Mom clucks, emerging from the room. I groan looking at her. She’s wearing polka dot PJs, there are velcro rollers in her hair, and a multani mitti pack on her face. She’s lost oodles of weight and acquired a tan, thanks to her travels.
She kisses me smack on the cheek and I taste some, no, not motherly love, just multani mitti.
‘Enjoy the family reunion,’ Sammy trills, letting himself out of the door.
‘Sam
mmmmy, don’t leave me alone with them!’
Okay, I don’t say that aloud.
But in my head I’m screaming and screeching and creating a bloody racket.
‘So, when are we going to have a father-aughter chat?’ Ronit asks, putting an arm around me and squeezing my shoulders.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Later that night, Mom and I have a mother-daughter chat. Sammy and Ronit retire to their rooms after dinner. We make ourselves comfy on my temporary bed—the living room couch—our feet touching.
I turn to look at Mom. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
Mom gives me a knowing smile. ‘Let me guess, you’re in love.’
My face breaks into a smile. Mamma’s awesome, Mamma knows best.
Mom leans forward and caresses my cheek. ‘My Mishi in love! At long last!’ she exults. ‘You know, I was worried for a while—and can you blame me—all those losers you kept dating,’ she shudders, ‘but I like this one, he seems nice—’
I frown. Mom’s not met Akshay. ‘What are you talking about, Mom?’
‘Your boyfriend, Sammy,’ she says gleefully.
Mamma’s like Jon Snow, Mamma knows nothin’.
‘Mom, puhhhlease! Sammy is not my boyfriend!’
Mom leans back against the cushion, looking really surprised. ‘Oh! I just thought…’
I glare at her, pulling the sheet up to my neck. ‘What’s wrong with you, Mom? We’re like brother and sister, please! Akshay, Akshay’s the love of my life.’
I tell her all about him.
Mom reaches forward and envelopes me in a hug when I’m done. ‘Oh, he sounds wonderful, Mishy. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together. Happier than me and your Dad ever were—’
‘Mom, please don’t start,’ I groan.
Mom waves a dismissive hand and continues. ‘Actually, anyone would be happier than us. We were such a mismatch, I tell you. WHAT were we thinking!’
I can only think of the effect this kind of talk will have on Didi.
‘Um, Mom, there’s something else.’
I tell her all about Didi.
Mom takes her glasses off and looks at me intently. ‘You mean, you haven’t told this Didi person anything? She thinks your Dad and I are still together? And that there’s no Ronit in my life?’