THOSE PRICEY THAKUR GIRLS

by Anuja Chauhan

  He slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans and says, his voice a little unsteady, ‘So, I have this idea. I know a way in which we can lick this little problem.’

  ‘How?’ Debjani asks, her voice agonized. ‘I’ve tried to practise, but the more I practise, the worse I get.’

  The long dimples flash. ‘Tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at ten. We’ll kick the autocue’s ass. You won’t regret it. I promise.’

  4

  ‘Gulgul bhaisaab, you’ll have to be brave.’ Dabbu is hot and sticky and quite fed up. ‘Take your hands off your chest please!’

  But Gulgul, standing with his hands covering his torso in a classic posture of outraged modesty, shakes his head vigorously. The removal of the very first strip of wax has brought tears to his eyes and options to his mind.

  ‘I’ll shave it,’ he says. ‘It won’t be so smooth, and I’ll have to do it every day, but that’s okay.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Debjani, a girl with a mission now, tells him firmly. ‘I spent ages heating this wax, I’m not going to waste it. Now stand still and take a deep breath – see how nice it looks where I pulled the hair off?’

  But it doesn’t. It’s all goose-pimpled and red. Gulgul gulps miserably, he is feeling a little faint in the hot kitchen.

  ‘You know, Dabbu, I don’t think-so that you are doing this correctly,’ he says, looking down at the used strip, thick with a furry layer of uprooted hair. ‘I think only qualified beauticians know how to do this. Isn’t that skin along with hair? Maybe that’s why it is hurting so much!’

  Debjani gasps at this ungrateful attitude. ‘It’s hurting because you’re so hairy,’ she tells him unkindly. ‘Now shut up and bare your chest or I’ll call Ma to hold your hands back.’

  But Gulgul continues to cover his nipples coyly.

  ‘I’ll put ice on your chest afterwards,’ Dabbu says wheedlingly, wondering how she gets herself into situations like this. ‘And then we’ll massage in some cold cream and you’ll see how chikna you look! Even through this little strip I can make out how well-defined your chest is!’

  Gulab Thakur perks up a little at this.

  ‘Definition is very important,’ he says. ‘Definition is everything. The skin must be so thin that the veins show. Bulk is for apes, Arnold says. Bulk is noth – owwwccchh!’

  This outraged howl brings Eshwari running to the kitchen.

  ‘What are you doing, Dabbu? Oh, gross! Avoidable! Avoidable! Why did I have to see that? What an ugly sight! Those used strips could sell in Jagdish Stores as carpeting!’

  ‘Good you’re here,’ Dabbu says calmly. ‘Help me finish. Two more strips should do it.’

  Ten minutes later, a cowed and hairless Gulab Thakur slinks out of the kitchen, clutching ice to his denuded chest, and the sisters sit down to a cup of tea in their bedroom.

  ‘That was scarring,’ Eshu says darkly. ‘What a sight to wake up to! I’ll probably have the worst day of my life now.’

  ‘Oh, it’ll be a good day, you’ll see,’ Dabbu sings sunnily as she sinks back into bed.

  ‘You’re very chirpy,’ Eshwari remarks, yawning as she yanks at the school belt hanging out of the bottom of her closed cupboard door. The cupboard flies opens and all its contents tumble out in a massive heap upon the floor. ‘Damn.’

  ‘I bet that’s how Japanese people’s guts spill out when they perform a ritual harakiri,’ Debjani says. ‘Why don’t you ever clean that cupboard, Eshu?’

  ‘I will,’ Eshwari says, rummaging through the heap for her school uniform. ‘What are you doing today?’

  ‘Oh,’ Debjani says, her cheeks turning a slow, sure red as she picks out a lime-green peasant top from her meticulously neat cupboard and holds it against her body. ‘I’m going to the Brig’s house today – his son’s offered to help me hone my autocue technique.’

  Eshwari’s eyes narrow. ‘Which son is this? Aren’t all his sons still studying? Except the harami one – but he lives in Bombay, no?’

  ‘He’s here on holiday,’ Debjani says, adding a pink sling bag to the lime-green top and studying the effect in the mirror. ‘He came over with the Brig, we got talking and he said he’d give me some tips.’

  ‘The harami one!’ Eshwari squeals, sinking into her clothes heap. ‘What d’you mean you got talking? I thought he was no talking, only cocking!’

  ‘What rubbish!’ Dabbu splutters.

  ‘When did he come home? How’d I miss him? Is he devilish?’

  ‘He’s okay,’ Debjani answers, her cheeks burning. ‘No horns or forked tail.’

  ‘And the rear view?’

  Debjani’s eyes get a faraway look.

  ‘Nice,’ she admits. And then covers her ears as Eshwari emits a glass-shattering shriek.

  ‘You said nice! Oh my god, you like him! You like someone! Dabbu likes someone! Dabbu likes someone!’

  ‘Just a bit,’ Debjani cautions.

  ‘Just a bit? Or just a butt?’

  ‘Well,’ Debjani shrugs. ‘I don’t know him yet. I mean, I don’t know if he’s honest and kind and brave – my three essentials, you know. But I guess he’s cute.’

  Eshwari grins, satisfied. ‘So all this sajjing and bajjing is in the harami’s honour,’ she crows. ‘Umm… for your deflowering today, may I recommend the white cotton Sheetal bra and the Nancy panties with the pink dots?’

  ‘Shut up. It’s not like that. You think what I’m wearing is nice?’

  Eshwari looks at her, standing before the mirror in the lime-green peasant blouse, with pink sling bag, dishevelled sticky brown hair and wax-spattered grey pyjamas.

  ‘You’re nice.’ She grins. ‘Yes, I like it. But lose those pyjamas and wear your shorts. And one silver payal. And remember to stay on your toes when you’re sitting in the car, so your thighs don’t press fully upon the seat – otherwise they’ll phailo and look huge.’

  At eleven sharp, Dylan, freshly shaved and wearing a body-skimming T-shirt that his mother assures him makes him look exactly like Michelangelo’s David but with clothes on, drives up to the gate of 16 Hailey Road and sounds the horn smartly.

  Debjani’s parents, whose eyebrows have already risen upon hearing her plan for the day, now look even more concerned.

  ‘Cocky chap,’ the Judge grumbles even as Debjani’s heart starts to beat a little faster. ‘When is he going back to Bombay? How long is he here for?’

  Debjani murmurs ‘Ma, I’m going’ as casually as she can and walks out to the verandah. And runs smack into Dylan, who’d meant for the horn to be an announcement, not a summons.

  ‘Whoops, sorry,’ he says, putting out a hand to steady her. ‘Hope I’m not late?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Debjani shakes her head, feeling idiotically breathless. Because he is looking at her. Like looking at her is something worth doing thoroughly. ‘Come.’

  But Dylan just stands there, still holding her hand, still staring down at her.

  ‘What?’ she says, feeling her face start to flush.

  ‘Nothing. Just… you look really nice today.’

  Debjani, worried that her father might bounce out any moment and ask Dylan what his ‘intentions’ are, replies stiffly, ‘Thanks. Shall we go?’

  Dylan looks undecided.

  ‘Should I say hello to your parents first, d’you think?’ he asks doubtfully. ‘This feels a little high-handed.’

  ‘Oh, let’s not make a big production out of it!’ she says hurriedly. ‘It’s not like this is a date or anything.’

  The warm light in his eyes dies. Abruptly, he lets her hand go. ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  He drives them silently around the Connaught Place outer circle, keeping his eyes on the road. He is suddenly rather annoyed. The trouble with girls, especially the prettier ones, is that the moment you give them even one compliment, they start thinking you’re madly in love with them. Why does she feel the need to clarify that this is not a date? I don’t want to date her, damn it! I’m just trying to undo the damage my revie
w may have done to her obviously low self-esteem.

  ‘Why do you even want to read the DD news?’ he asks abruptly as they pull up at a red light. ‘It’s just a bunch of ministers cutting ribbons and patting each other on the back.’

  She tilts her head. ‘Sorry, but do you know of any other TV channel in this country?’

  She’s so smart, isn’t she, he thinks, irritated. Why doesn’t she wear anything other those skimpy denim cut-offs? How am I supposed to think with those legs on display?

  ‘There’s a lot of stuff coming up nowadays,’ he says as he turns a corner. ‘People are finding ways to get around DD’s stranglehold. Video news magazines, if you’re hung up on the visual media. Or there’s print.’

  ‘But no one else has DD’s reach,’ she points out. ‘If you feature on DD, especially on DD English, you’re seen across the country. Do you know, after my first broadcast, we went for chaat to Bengali Market and the chaat-wallah didn’t let BJ pay because he recognized me!’

  ‘So this is about fame?’ he says, sneering slightly. ‘Are you hoping to get a break in the movies? Or just casting the marriage web really wide?’

  Debjani stares at him in disbelief. Just because he’s helping her a little, he thinks he can ask intensely personal questions?

  ‘Don’t you know,’ he continues, ‘that DD is just a government tool? That after her bodyguards shot down the PM in ’84, DD broadcast footage of her party workers chanting Blood for Blood! and A Life for a Life! on national television? And that led to the massacre of 3,000 Sikhs in Delhi alone?’

  What a pompous know-it-all, Debjani thinks. And I don’t even think that’s true. At least, I don’t remember it being that big a deal.

  ‘Think what you like,’ she shrugs. ‘And I wasn’t the only one who wanted to read on DD. The entire university rushed off to audition as soon as they turned twenty-one. When I got through, two whole years later, I was thrilled.’ She adds snidely, ‘Why do you sound so resentful, anyway? Did you apply and not get chosen?’

  Dylan chokes. ‘I’m an investigative editor at the India Post,’ he tells her loftily. ‘I think more people would know me than you.’

  Dabbu, still smarting from the nasty review his newspaper’s given her, starts to tell him exactly what she thinks of the India Post. But then the window of the car next to them rolls down and a woman with a tiny baby in her arms calls out excitedly.

  ‘Hai-ho, you’re the new newsreader, na? I recognized you from the mole on your chin. So pretty! Is it real?’

  Dabbu smiles and nods. Dylan glares. The light changes, and the Maruti 800 shoots ahead.

  ‘You were saying?’ she murmurs.

  ‘Never mind,’ he snaps.

  Why, if he dislikes my job so much, is he helping me? Debjani wonders, irritated. Eshu would say it’s because he’s in lust with me, but I see no sign of lustiness so far. Am I his good deed for the day? Like mine was Gulgul bhaisaab? Does he pity poor pathetic me? How humiliating!

  She is still thinking these panicked thoughts when he pulls up outside a pretty bungalow, half obscured by leafy banana trees, a few minutes later. He stalks into the house, making a point of not opening the car door for her.

  Dabbu wanders in behind him, looking uncertain.

  ‘What’s that lovely smell?’ she ventures as she enters through the heavy teak front door.

  ‘Huh? Oh, it’s Lobaan,’ he says offhandedly. ‘Frankincense. Mamma lights it every morning...’

  But Debjani has already been grabbed by a tiny, sweet-faced lady, with dimples exactly like Dylan’s. ‘It keeps out the evil bugs and the evil spirits,’ she explains. ‘You must be Mamta’s fourth girl. Such a sweet face, ba! Just like the Madonna’s.’

  ‘Hi, aunty.’ Dabbu turns slightly pink. ‘Ma says hello.’

  ‘Mamma, we’ll be in my room,’ Dylan says shortly.

  His mother looks up and says something in a sharper tone in Konkani. Dylan says something curt in reply.

  ‘What was that?’ Debjani asks as he walks her into his room, a neat, sunny, blue and brown space.

  ‘Don’t bolt the door,’ he says, rolling his eyes. ‘And no sitting on the bed. So I told her this was strictly work.’

  But Debjani has run up ahead to his desk. ‘You have a Mac?’

  Dylan, much gratified that she is so impressed, manages a nonchalant shrug. ‘Yeah. And today it’s going to double as a teleprompter.’

  Quickly, he explains it to her. He’s got the text ready, articles he’s written in the past, and she is to read it aloud sitting six feet away, just like in the DD studio.

  ‘I’ll keep scrolling it down for you,’ he says, turning to the computer, ‘at reading speed. Is the font big enough?’

  There is a tug at his arm. He turns around and is startled to find twin pools of Pears alarmingly close to his face. This close, they’re almost scary.

  ‘Thank you,’ Debjani says sincerely. ‘And sorry for that stupid remark at my place. It was dumb.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he agrees, somewhat distantly. ‘It was pretty dumb.’

  ‘I don’t know how to talk,’ she offers apologetically.

  ‘But you’re a Modernite,’ he reminds her.

  ‘I’m sorry about that crack too,’ she says. ‘And for holding up a this-is-not-a-date flag. I realize it was presumptuous. I mean, obviously you have a girlfriend.’

  Dylan, trained journalist that he is, knows that statements are questions. But he doesn’t want to answer this one.

  ‘What a big word,’ he says lightly. ‘Presumptuous. I bet you go around saying presumptuous things just so you can use presumptuous when you apologize and impress the other person with your usage of presumptuous.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ Debjani dismisses this with unconscious snobbery. ‘I know much bigger words than that.’

  And so they begin work. Dylan has typed out the transcripts of his latest interviews with the residents of Tirathpuri on his Mac, and he opens one of these at random. Debjani twists her hair into a rope, pulls it onto one shoulder, looks intently at the screen and starts to read.

  ‘The last two years have brought some healing to the family of Rajbir Singh and Satinder Kaur. After living in the grounds of the Indraprastha Stadium for the first three months post the riots, they shifted out to a tent behind their local gurudwara. Now they are back in Tirathpuri and are slowly rebuilding their ten feet by sixteen feet home. Rajbir Singh weaves string beds and his wife works from home knitting sweaters for a local NGO. When asked about her hopes from the SIC, Satinder Kaur’s eyes well up with tears. “My Simarpreet was only fifteen. Her favourite colour was bright yellow. She was wearing a new yellow and pink dupatta the day those daanavs came…’

  Debjani stops. ‘Daanav is a Hindi word,’ she says.

  ‘So?’ Dylan asks without looking up.

  She says, not without pride, ‘So, since I’m allowed to make copy changes at DD, I would change it to demons – or maybe devils.’

  ‘Okay,’ he shrugs.

  Her voice grows stronger and more assured.

  ‘And now she is gone and no SIC report can bring her back. But yes, I do want to see Hardik Motla hanged by the neck until he is dead. If I get that closure, I will finally be able to move on and be a cheerful mother to my two young sons...’

  And so it continues. The next article is about Indo-Russian trading ties and Debjani reads through it glibly, her confidence growing with every sentence. Dylan is a good driller, calming and unobtrusive, scrolling the text smoothly, blinking every now and then to remind her to blink, but otherwise managing to act like he isn’t there.

  ‘That was very good!’ he says finally. ‘You’ve got into the rhythm of it. You seem completely un-self-conscious now. I think we deserve to break for lunch.’

  ‘Tell me something about yourself,’ she asks him impulsively at the dining table, over the fish curry and rice that Mrs Shekhawat has laid out. ‘Something real, so I can decide if you’re honest and brave and kind.’
/>   Dylan lowers his glass. ‘Why is that mandatory?’ he objects mildly.

  Debjani flushes. She can’t believe she has laid bare her list of qualities-my-dream-man-must-have so blatantly.

  ‘Oh, because my father says those are traits all Rajputs must possess,’ she says.

  ‘Really?’ His brow furrows. ‘I know lots of Rajputs who are slimy and cowardly and cruel.’

  ‘Sonna.’ Mrs Shekhawat has just entered the room, bearing a plate of freshly fried papad. ‘Don’t be rude.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ Debjani picks up a papad and crunches into it. ‘I was just asking him about his childhood, aunty. What kind of stuff did these boys get up to?’

  Dylan racks his brains to recollect a brave childhood deed and draws a blank. ‘Let me see…’

  ‘Arrey, what will he tell!’ Mrs Shekhawat sits down at the table and pulls the plate of rice towards herself. ‘I will tell you, puta, these boys, what rascals they were!’

  Dylan eyes his mother in exasperation. How excited the Lobster is. She is reading all kinds of major significance into the fact that he has invited this Dabbu for lunch. It’s sad, really.

  ‘Mamma…’ he says, waving a serving spoon at her warningly.

  ‘Now you’ve spilt curry on the tablecloth! Cheh, you boys are so clumsy. That’s why I have to have such plain tablecloths, Debjani – you must be wondering – though I’ve always admired the pretty embroidered ones your mother lays out.’

  ‘She embroidered them herself,’ Dabbu replies, pleased. ‘Right after she got married, when she was pregnant with Anji didi. Cross stitch and satin stitch on casement. It took her ages.’

  ‘Debjani embroidered her own shorts,’ Dylan puts in blandly.

  ‘Really!’ Juliet Bai glances down at Dabbu’s Daisy Dukes, her expression rather doubtful. ‘How pretty! Maybe one day,’ she clears her throat meaningfully and takes a bold leap, ‘one day you will embroider a cloth for this table, hmm?’