As Anush sat, everything fell into place at lightning speed: how Nasreen hadn’t returned any of his calls recently, how the night watchman suddenly refused to let him park on building grounds. It all seemed to make sense now, the night at Kulshand Malwani’s party when Kulshand had playfully teased Anush for being Nasreen’s boy toy. At the time Anush had thought nothing of it, but that’s what Anush was to Nasreen, her boy toy. That’s why Kulshand had kissed Anush on the lips that night, not just because he was drunk and horny but because he thought of Anush as some sort of gigolo. And all those evenings with Nasreen and Ameena and Taran, even though he couldn’t keep up with their discussions about politics and philosophers, he’d fooled himself into believing that they genuinely enjoyed his company when they were most likely just putting up with him for Nasreen’s sake, while Nasreen had fun with her boy toy.
People inside were beckoning Nasreen and Zafar back to the table. Someone said, “To the newly engaged couple!” and others echoed with merriment, “To the newly engaged couple!”
Zafar took the bag of paans from Anush’s hand and said, “Thanks, yaar. I haven’t had a pukka paan in ages. The desis in New Jersey make them, but it’s rubbish,” and went back into the flat.
Nasreen looked at Anush and whispered, “I’m so sorry—I didn’t know. I should have told you about Zafar. We’ve been off and on for a long while.” She sighed. “It’s complicated. I’m sorry.”
Anush felt as though he was drowning, with a slab of cement strapped to his chest.
Things that he hadn’t paid attention to earlier became illuminated all of a sudden. He realized when they’d made love and she stood on the balcony, smoking, that she wasn’t daydreaming of a life together with Anush as he’d done while pretending to be asleep on her bed, eyeing her beautiful figure in the moonlight. She was most likely thinking of Zafar. Any doubts he had about not being as smart as Nasreen and her friends, about not being able to quip as quickly as them, always feeling a little bit of an outsider, were all legitimate. He should’ve trusted his instincts. That night at the beach in the Benz, when it’d been Nasreen’s turn to talk about the future, Anush could see now that she’d become taciturn and looked out her window not because she was thinking of him but because she was thinking of Zafar.
Anush could see she was somewhat remorseful yet determined not to let it show. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him when she began to close the door.
He blurted out, “I never told you about my destiny.” He knew it sounded ludicrous but continued. “I—I don’t know how to explain it to you—”
“There’s nothing to explain, Anush. I’m sorry, I really am. I should’ve been more honest with you. I didn’t know he was going to ask me. I really did have a great time with you. I’m sorry.”
He wanted to say he loved her, that they belonged together, that without her he was nothing, that the past few weeks with her had been paradise, that with her he felt like a new person, with her he was capable of living his destiny.
“Zafar and I have been together a long time. I just needed some space from him. He was supposed to be gone for six months. We got engaged yesterday.”
What really hurt was the fact that she wasn’t the type of girl who was forced into anything. If she’d wanted to say no to Zafar, she easily could have.
“We’re moving to New York, where Zafar works,” Nasreen said. “I’m so sorry. I hope we can be friends. Please go to the doctor first thing tomorrow. I’m not sure if Daisy’s had all her shots.”
Anush got into his car and drove away while draining the quarter bottle of whisky from the glove compartment. A cover of the Bob Marley and the Wailers’ “No Woman, No Cry” by the Fugees played on the car stereo. On Marine Drive a large wave broke over the breakwater. It must have been high tide as it sprayed water into the air, scattering large drops across the road. Some hit the Benz and sounded like little pebbles when they landed on the roof of the car. A street dog barked up the road, its sharp white teeth shining in the headlights. Without thinking about it, Anush steered the car towards the mutt. The Benz lurched onto the pavement and accelerated towards the barking dog who tried to dodge out of the way, but Anush hit it before smashing into the cobblestone wall.
- 42 -
JYOTI
1998
A FEW DAYS AFTER THE FIRST meeting, Jyoti met Kiran and Chaya for coffee.
They had many questions. “Is he tall? Handsome? Fair?”
“Mmm, a bit short. Not ugly. Huge penthouse with an ocean view.”
“Wow.” “Oh my god.”
Jyoti said, “But I don’t think there was any spark between us.”
“How can there be the first time with parents and all sitting around?” said Kiran.
“As Vinay and I got to know each other, the sparks flew,” Chaya, six months pregnant, said.
Although conventionally handsome, Anush wasn’t really her cup of tea. Jyoti wasn’t taken with the designer watch, the perfectly sculpted hair, the expensive cologne—Anush was like every well-to-do young man in the city. He likely also had a brand-new cellphone, drank expensive whisky, and smoked Marlboro cigarettes exclusively. Indian men were so predictable.
Jyoti said, “I don’t know. Is it just me or has Bombay changed?”
Kiran said, “Definitely changed, yaar.”
Chaya said, “Changed, for sure. Have you noticed what the price of vegetables is these days?”
“Forget vegetables, look at real estate values,” Kiran said.
“Stop talking real estate, freal estate. You sound like my husband,” Chaya said.
“Have you played tennis on the new lawn at the Willingdon Club? Their papaya martini is to die for,” Kiran said.
“No, but we were there the other night and so was that VJ from MTV, or is it channel V?” said Chaya and then whispered, “So handsome.”
Jyoti felt a pang for London. She missed conversations and debates about things like whether Daft Punk was influenced by the Beach Boys or whether abstract videos of mundane things were worthy of winning the Turner visual arts prize (Gavin thought they were, but Jyoti didn’t). She missed Gavin. As soon as his name came to mind, she willed herself to stop thinking of him, but it was impossible. His cute face, his tousled, sandy hair, his striking green eyes, the smell of Drum tobacco and Mountain Moss Speed Stick.
Snapping herself to reality, Jyoti said to Kiran and Chaya, “Well, we’re going on a date tomorrow. But he’s the one who had the accident on Marine Drive last week. With the dog.”
“What?” “I didn’t hear of it.”
Didn’t they read any of the newspapers at the various clubs they drank cocktails at? Or maybe they did and were exemplary liars, Jyoti couldn’t tell. She’d read all the articles: BENZ DRIVER KILLS DOG. SON SLAUGHTERS STRAY PUP. WEALTHY BOY MURDERS MUTT. Animal rights groups were outraged. There was speculation that the driver was drunk, but no proof. Calls for justice abated, and the charges, along with the accused, were quickly forgotten, replaced by racier gossip, like the Lewinsky affair going to trial later that year.
“It’s no big deal,” Kiran said. “So maybe he had a couple of drinks. As long as it’s not a recurring thing.”
“I’m sure he’s learned his lesson,” Chaya said.
“No one is perfect,” Kiran said.
“It’s not like in the movies. You’re not going to meet this perfect man and fall in love right away,” Chaya said.
But I did in London, Jyoti nearly said.
“It takes time. Love doesn’t magically happen right away. Just make sure he’s fair to you,” Kiran said.
“And not a liar,” Chaya said, “about the important stuff.”
“What do you mean?” Jyoti said.
Chaya explained, “For example, I know Vinay isn’t really a vegetarian—when he’s out for dinner with his friends or on business, he eats meat. I don’t really care. His parents and grandparents do. I just want him to be honest with me about things that are important to me.�
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“Yeah,” Kiran said, “like not going to those dancing bars some men do nowadays and have affairs with those dancing girls.”
Chaya laughed, touching Jyoti’s arm, and said, “Don’t worry, we’ll help you steer your way through this.”
Jyoti resented her friends’ condescension, their laughter, their assumptions about her being a naive virgin. She wanted to tell them about Gavin. How he was handsome, sensitive, funny, intelligent. How he made her appreciate paintings and architecture and history in a way she never imagined. How he made love to her in the morning and then brought her breakfast in bed. Did their husbands do that?
“I don’t know if I can do this,” said Jyoti.
“Why not?” “What have you got to lose?”
While Jyoti got ready for the date, her mother came into her room with a necklace and said, “Here, wear this.” It was one of the more sober and elegant pieces from the family collection of jewels. As a young girl, Jyoti had looked forward to wearing the extravagant jewelry, but now when her mother placed the gold and diamond lavalliere around her neck it felt ostentatious. Her mother clasped it together and whispered, “I’ve combed the entire city and this is the best family available.”
Her mother’s medical bill from the hospital stay in London was costly and over the past few months she’d dropped hints to Jyoti of their financial difficulties. Before Jyoti left the house, her mother kissed her on the forehead and said, “All the best.” It was what she always said to Jyoti before a big exam.
Her father said, “What’s the rush? Sure the Sharmas are wealthy but Jyoti could have any boy in Bombay she wants.”
Her mother snapped, “With Rahul’s expenses at Stanford, my hospital bills, and your brilliant investments—” Taking a breath, she regained her composure and shot Jyoti a stealthy look that said if Anush Sharma was the least bit interested then Jyoti should consider herself lucky and close the deal as quickly as possible. If Anush was not a gentleman, or if she found him to be unpleasant in any way, she could say so and be relieved of pursuing the match, but in order for that to happen Jyoti would need proof of him being despicable. He would have to do something as horrible as she had. Good luck. There wasn’t anyone she knew who’d gotten pregnant out of wedlock and then aborted their half-breed baby. Her duty to her parents now was to marry herself into a suitable family that would provide for her and her children without relying on her parents’ dwindling savings. She also understood from her mother’s slightly raised eyebrows whenever she talked about Anush Sharma that Jyoti didn’t have many options, that Jyoti should consider herself lucky a boy like Anush Sharma was interested, and if someone were to find out about her incident in London, forget Anush Sharma—Jyoti would be left to marry some boy from in a petty town in Gujarat where she’d spend the rest of her life.
“What about the car accident?” Jyoti’s father had asked a few days ago. “How do we know Anush’s a good boy?”
Her mother had said, “We don’t know all the details. Are you going to trust what the tabloids say? Besides, the police are so corrupt. They know the Sharmas have money. They’ll say anything to milk more bribes. Varoon Sharma strikes me as a man of principle. He probably didn’t pay them an exorbitant bribe and so now they make up these accusations of the liquor and the dog . . .”
JYOTI AND ANUSH sat in the back seat while the Patik family’s driver drove. When they rounded Kemps Corner and headed towards Marine Drive, Anush, with a sling around his arm, said, “Let’s take the inside road. Too much traffic on Marine Drive.”
Jyoti said, “Traffic should be fine this time in the evening,” but then suddenly remembered Marine Drive was where Anush’s accident had happened, leaving him with a fractured collarbone. As curious as Jyoti was, she decided not to pry and said, “Oh no, you’re right. The inside road is much faster.” Jyoti hated lying and imagined people could see the jugular vein in her neck flutter ever so slightly whenever she lied, its pace quickening along with her heartbeat.
The driver veered them towards Opera House, then towards Regal Cinema, where the immensely popular American film Titanic was playing. Eager for the date to go well, Jyoti’s mother had managed to get two good seats on the black market for triple price.
The cinema was packed. As the movie began, it struck Jyoti that Leonardo DiCaprio looked a lot like Gavin. She barely even paid attention to the story for the first half-hour because she was overwhelmed with memories of Gavin—memories she’d tried to dislodge over the past few months. Like the times he’d taken her to art house films at the Prince Charles Cinema in Leicester Square. She hadn’t liked them all. Some were a bit pretentious, drab, but some were quirky, romantic.
During the intermission, Anush went outside for a cigarette. Jyoti couldn’t help but think of Gavin and the smell of his hand-rolled cigarettes. If she and Anush were to marry, Jyoti wondered if Anush would ever brush his teeth after smoking, the way Gavin did, before making love to her. The thought of making love to Anush didn’t excite her at all.
By the end of the movie, Jyoti couldn’t help but be moved and was furtively wiping her tears away in the dark theatre. She was annoyed with herself for being so manipulated by a corny film, whose ending everybody knew, and she made sure by the time the lights came up that she’d dried her eyes. There was something too vulnerable and idiotic about crying at a sentimental movie on your first date.
On their way home, Anush asked, “Do you like paan?”
“I can’t remember the last time I had it.”
“I know the best paan walla in the city,” Anush said, directing the driver.
They stepped outside and walked down to the south end of Marine Drive. The humid sea breeze felt lovely. Jyoti smiled nervously as she attempted to eat her paan whole as Anush did, trying not to make a mess of it, but bits of maroon juice let loose and came out from one side of her mouth, making her blush with embarrassment. Anush offered her a hanky that she quickly used. They tried not to laugh with their mouths full of paan, which only made Jyoti swallow a large chunk of hers. She’d only ever had meetha paans before, which she found cloyingly sweet with their dried cherry and fruit preserves, but this was a real paan with betel nut. She couldn’t believe the tiny bursts of spices in her mouth. One by one she could taste them all as she chewed: cardamom, anise, coconut, lime, rose, jasmine, date, cinnamon, fennel, a hint of saffron.
They both smiled nervously as they chewed. She couldn’t help but compare him to Gavin. Anush was a bit shorter, his hair was preened nicely, but he was vain, conventionally handsome, and of course had much more money. No, she would not compare the two. Maybe Kiran and Chaya were right—if Anush was courteous and honest, maybe that was enough to start with.
As waves broke over the breakwater she could feel light ocean spray on her face. It relaxed her, and Bombay felt like Bombay again for the first time.
Anush said, “I crashed my car a little while ago down there. I didn’t want to be reminded of that night; that’s why I asked your driver to go another way earlier this evening.”
“Oh, is that how you hurt your shoulder?” she said, pretending not to have heard of the accident.
“Yeah. A dog was accidentally killed,” he said.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“Me too. But I’m over it. So, what did you think of the movie?”
“Uh, it was OK,” Jyoti said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Overrated. Mostly boring except near the end when the ship broke apart. The special effects were amazing.”
She lied and agreed. “Yes, exactly.”
Anush asked, “Do you like the Fugees?”
Jyoti lied again. “Yeah. Do you like Radiohead?”
Anush said, “Not really. It’s their alternative image that people are into. Their music is mostly just noise.”
“Yeah, I kind of liked them for a while. But maybe they’re just being weird for the sake of being weird,” she said. Lying wasn’t so difficult. Why had she made it out to be such a bi
g deal before?
“Exactly. My coconut cousin from Canada is really into that shit. Excuse my language.”
“I don’t mind.” It bothered Jyoti that Anush had to apologize for swearing. It was an antiquated and sexist notion that women were too delicate to handle strong language, but one that all Indian men held. And she was annoyed at him for talking that way about Radiohead, Gavin’s favourite band.
But her mother’s words echoed in her head. With Rahul’s expenses at Stanford, your father’s investments . . . Anush Sharma is a handsome boy. You’ll have a large home to yourself with an ocean view. No mother-in-law, no grandmother-in-law, no grandfather-in-law . . .
Jyoti thought about how she and Gavin had talked about going to Glastonbury last summer. She wondered if Gavin had gone with another girl to stand in a farmer’s field to see Radiohead play. She wondered if they’d slept together in a tent under the stars like the two of them had talked about. Jyoti had been so excited to camp—she’d never done it before.
Now, as she stood next to Anush, Jyoti decided to throw out her Radiohead CD when she returned home.
“Well, would you like to go out again?” Anush asked.
“Sure.”
- 43 -
ANUSH
1998
THE FIRST THING ANUSH DID after arriving home from the Titanic date with Jyoti was pour himself a tall glass of whisky, gulp it down, and then another.
After standing for a while at the large bay window in his room looking at the Arabian Sea, Anush wandered around the dark flat and found himself in the drawing room, staring at the portrait of his mother. He’d never allowed himself to look at the painting for this long. Even though it was dark, he knew the painting well as it’d been hanging in the drawing room for over a decade, and so his mind’s eye filled in the bits that were too difficult to make out. He stood for a long time, taking in her kind brown eyes, her fair, smooth skin, her perfectly sized nose and chin. He stood in the dark as random memories of her permeated him: her striding from her bedroom to answer the door while drying her long wet hair with a towel, holding her hand and hearing her bangles jingle as they crossed the street to get ice cream, her slicing vegetables in the kitchen on a hot day, stopping frequently to wipe her forehead with the end of her plain cotton sari, how she made her everyday saris seem elegant with her stride, her graceful gait, her thin arms. At formal events she wore fancier saris with jewelry that made her smile sparkle. He remembered hearing her laughter at dinner parties they hosted, when he was supposed to be asleep in his room. Her mellifluous voice playfully arguing with someone. Her singing to him quietly in his bed at night:
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