There is a strangled choking sound from Dylan. Dabbu smirks.
‘See, puta, we had this old uncle Donny – Donald Noronha, my mother’s first cousin from her mother’s side. All the Noronhas were randy, but this Donny, he was the randiest. He was a bachelor and forty-plus, but all the women were mad about him. Heart-breaker, hymen-breaker we used to call him –’
‘Mamma!’ Dylan exclaims, scandalized. ‘Go make a bhindi painting or something!’
‘See how he talks.’ Juliet Bai sniffs. ‘Philistine. He was dreadful in art at school.’
‘I was dreadful because my mother was my teacher,’ Dylan groans. ‘Who wouldn’t be?’
‘Art is as important as politics, isn’t it, Debjani?’
‘Er, yes,’ Dabbu responds.
‘That machine of yours,’ Juliet Bai continues, nodding towards Dylan’s room, ‘is meant to be used for art. Not for typing out articles.’
‘You’re right enough there,’ Dylan concedes wryly.
‘See!’ Juliet Bai beams triumphantly. ‘So one day Donny Noronha started sniffing around Dylan’s and Jason’s piano teacher, Miss Patsy. Such an innocent girl! So pure! So quiet! That devil Donny broke her heart and spat her out like a chewed up wad of sugarcane. Dylan and Jason were furious. And two days after that, he confiscated their football – he said it had crushed his cock.’
‘He ran a poultry farm,’ Dylan clarifies straight-faced as Debjani splutters into her food.
‘So what these rascals did no, they pooled their Christmas money and got 200 beautiful gilt-edged wedding cards printed reading Donald Noronha weds Daisy Duck, complete with date, time, venue and his phone number as RSVP, and mailed them to everybody on the church’s mailing list.’
Debjani gasps. ‘That’s… evil. Did people actually believe it?’
‘Oh, no.’ Dylan grins reminiscently. ‘But they pretended to. He wasn’t very popular, you know. They kept congratulating him wherever he went. And phoning him up. And sending him presents of little rubber duckies. He was apoplectic. Miss Patsy thought it was damn hilarious, though. It’s the first time we saw her laugh in months.’
Mrs Shekhawat leans forward triumphantly.
‘Now isn’t that a sweet story?’
But Debjani simply smiles enigmatically in reply and asks Dylan if they can go back and practise some more. Dylan, much to his irritation, finds himself on tenterhooks for the rest of the day, wondering if he’s passed her ‘test’. What does this girl want, anyway? A Param Vir Chakra? A certificate of good character stamped by the Vatican? Maybe he should tell her that he won the Excellence in Investigative Journalism Award instituted by the Press Club of India last year. But how to work that casually into the conversation?
‘So? Am I honest and kind and brave?’ he asks finally, as he halts the electric-blue Maruti 800 outside 16 Hailey Road. Moti’s entire family are wagging their scraggly tails, waiting for Debjani to emerge.
Debjani turns to look at him, the slanting rays of the setting sun lighting up her face.
‘You’re evil,’ she says. ‘And cunning. And rude to your mother. And probably lusting after Miss Patsy yourself.’
‘That’s true enough,’ he admits. ‘She was…’ he sighs, ‘phenomenal.’
Debjani discovers within herself a newfound hatred for all piano teachers.
‘But I did help you with your newsreading. That was kind.’
‘Nah.’ Debjani shakes her head, flashing her street-urchin grin. ‘You just wanted to show off your brand-new Apple Mac.’
Dylan opens his mouth to protest. She raises her eyebrows challengingly.
‘You were right,’ he remarks. ‘You really don’t know how to flirt.’
Her eyes widen. ‘I said I don’t know how to talk. I never said I don’t know how to flirt.’
‘So you do know how to flirt.’ He grins.
‘Wha…? Ya… no!’ She shakes her head. ‘You’re confusing me.’
‘Do you know,’ he continues, squinting down at her, ‘that when the sun hits your eyes they’re the exact same colour as Pears soap?’
She wrinkles up her nose. ‘Orange?’ she hazards. ‘That’s just creepy. Also, you’re calling my eyes orange and I’m the one who doesn’t know how to flirt?’
His lips twist into a smile but his eyes stay intense, looking down at her, glittering strangely. Debjani’s heart starts to slam slowly against her chest. Harami alert, her brain panics. Harami alert.
‘Listen!’ she says. (Extra loudly, she realizes.)
‘Listenao,’ he replies invitingly.
‘Thank you so much,’ she says sincerely. ‘You were such a help. And I had a lovely day.’
‘Oh, let’s not make a big production out of it,’ he says mockingly as he reaches up to touch her cheek gently. ‘It’s not like it was a date or anything.’
Debjani, all flushed and buzzing, enters the house to find Samar Vir Singh, her lanky twelve-year-old step-nephew, sprawled across the sofa, his forehead furrowed in thought, eating wafers and playing Chinese Checkers against himself. Her high evaporates, instantly replaced by a faint headache.
‘Well, hello, summervine,’ she says as enthusiastically as she can. ‘Did you come,’ (clinging to a faint hope) ‘alone?’
Samar shoots her an ironic look. ‘Of course not,’ he says, his long mobile face creasing into a conspiratorial grin. ‘Anji-ma’s in the kitchen.’
‘Fabulous,’ Debjani mutters as she sinks down on the sofa next to him and kisses him soundly on both cheeks.
‘Where’s Eshu?’ Samar asks.
Dabbu pulls a face. ‘Is she still your favourite mausi, you horrid creature?’
‘She’s not my mausi at all,’ he replies seriously. ‘We aren’t related by blood.’
Dabbu tweaks his ear. ‘She’s still in school. Basketball practice. Can I play one side?’
He nods. ‘You can be red. Red is winning.’
‘That’s very generous of you,’ Debjani replies. ‘So, how’ve you been? What’s the action in Class 7B?’
Young Samar studies her intently. ‘Aren’t you going to meet Anji-ma?’
‘I’ll go in a bit,’ Debjani says airily, thinking, not for the first time, that Samar Vir Singh is an oddly perceptive child. ‘Hmm, you’re right, red is winning. Take that!’
Samar frowns and bends over the board. Debjani collapses back into the sofa and wonders how long she can hold off the inevitable.
Not very long. Before Debjani’s flock of little red soldiers can lay claim to the green triangle across the board, Anjini emerges from the kitchen, exuding Poison and her helplessly appealing kiss me-crush me aura. She is wearing a filmi-looking floral top over her ripe bosom, and – Debjani realizes with resignation – Debjani’s new custom-tailored bootcut jeans. She advances, arms outstretched, a smile of great sweetness upon her face, warmth spilling from her eyes.
‘Dabburam! My baby!’ she exclaims. ‘TV starrrrr! How are you, baba? Why don’t you ever talk to me on the phone?’
‘Hi, Anji didi,’ Debjani says with a tight smile. ‘Nice jeans.’
Anjini gives the tinkling laugh that always sets Debjani’s teeth on edge. ‘They were right on top of the dhobi pile,’ she explains. ‘They’re nice, Dabbu, fitted waist and all. Bit loose though, I have to keep pulling them up.’
Debjani chokes. Anjini clicks her fingers. Her nails are immaculate, painted a delicate shade of seashell pink.
‘Maybe a belt – oh, Chabbu’s school belt, let’s see if I can still get that round my waist… Where is she, anyway?’
‘Not back from school yet.’ Samar springs up from the sofa. ‘I’ll go wait for her at the gate.’
‘That boy is crazy about Chubs.’ Anjini rolls her eyes.
Mrs Mamta Thakur enters as he leaves the room, still in her flowered dressing gown, looking harassed. She has every reason to be. Anjini has just spent the entire morning telling her about her latest how-to-get-pregnant strategy.
‘First
I thought I would fast,’ Anji had explained. ‘But then I thought my motive might be tainted, that I might just be doing it to lose weight and pretending it was to please God, you know?’
Her mother nodded. Anji has done this before. A sixteen Saturdays fast, a month of Mondays fast. She’s even done a maunvrat – a no-talking fast – for two whole weeks, something the whole family remembers quite fondly.
‘So now I have sworn to become good.’ She perched herself on top of the kitchen counter, her eyes glowing with the fervour of those who swear mighty oaths. ‘Really, really good. I realized I’m not getting pregnant because I’m not a good person. It’s a punishment. So now I am going to eschew all vanity, all competitiveness and all jealousy totally, and spread kindness and sunshine and happiness wherever I go.’
Mrs Mamta looked at her apprehensively. Ever since she can remember, Anjini has slotted her own sex into two categories: the vast majority category that she dismisses as a) not as pretty as me, and the extremely tiny minority category that she allows to be b) as pretty as me. Similarly, the vast majority of men falls into a) smitten by me, while a tiny smidgeon serves out their notice period in b) not yet smitten by me. It is a simple universe and Mrs Mamta is not sure it can handle the revolution Anji is planning.
‘That’s, uh, good,’ Mrs Mamta Thakur had said cautiously. ‘But you’re only human, you know, Anji. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Both your father and I feel you’re making too much of this pregnancy thing – the doctors have said, na, there’s nothing wrong with you. And Anant has fathered a child before. If you just relax, it will happen.’
‘It won’t.’ Anji shook her head gloomily. ‘It’s all so clear now. I spent too many years making everybody’s boyfriends fall in love with me, and now just see, Binni’s sturdy uterus has squeezed out twin babies and totally neutralized my straight nose, my delicate collarbones, my C cup breasts, my tiny waist, my thin top-of-the-knees, my peachy skin and everything.’
Seeing how upset Debjani is now looking, Mrs Mamta concludes that Anjini’s attempt at ‘goodness’ isn’t progressing too well.
Into this thickened atmosphere enters Chachiji, her bulldog-face glowing. Her every step is accompanied by a melodious chham-chhamming sound, causing her sister-in-law and nieces to look down at her rather horny feet clad in blue and white Bata chappals.
‘Payals!’ Dabbu exclaims. ‘How lovely, Chachiji! And so heavy! Must be expensive?’
‘AN got them for me,’ Chachiji says with a nonchalance that fools nobody. ‘Three thousand rupees.’
‘They’re gorgeous,’ Mrs Mamta remarks.
‘You should get a pedicure,’ Anjini advises.
‘He said they are a nishaani of his pyar and I should never take them off,’ Chachiji elaborates triumphantly. ‘He put them on my feet himself.’
‘You really should get a pedicure.’
‘Be quiet, Anji.’ Mrs Mamta frowns.
But Chachiji is talking to Dabbu. ‘The totka worked,’ she says excitedly. ‘I did it and next day only he got me these payals – and he was so curt to the Hot Dulari, I can’t tell you!’
‘Terrific!’ Dabbu gives her a hug.
‘I’m going shopping now.’ Chachiji gets to her feet melodiously. ‘Bye now.’ And she chham-chhams out of the room.
‘Can’t wait to show her new bauble to all of Hailey Road,’ Anji says sapiently. But Mrs Mamta is glaring at Dabbu.
‘She told you about that totka?’
Dabbu nods.
‘The nimbu and the blood… and the pubic hair?’
Anji gasps. ‘What? This is delicious!’
‘Yes, she did,’ Dabbu says defensively. ‘And I told her to go for it. I like Chachiji. Everyone is so mean to her – especially Ashok chacha – and I’m glad she did it because now everybody’s happy.’
Her mother shakes her head. ‘She’s a bad influence, Dabbu. She’ll fill your head with rubbish.’
‘I’m not stupid, Ma,’ Dabbu replies hotly.
‘Yes, but it was irresponsible of her to tell you such things,’ Mrs Mamta says, quite distressed. ‘You’re an unmarried girl – chhi.’
‘Well, I’m married,’ says Anji, her eyes dancing. ‘Tell me the totka again, Dubz, what was it? Blood and pubes and nimbu? Ugh!’
But Mrs Mamta changes the subject. ‘Where’s that Eshwari? It’s almost dark.’
‘They’ve extended the practice timings by half an hour,’ Debjani replies. ‘She’ll be back soon.’
Anjini wriggles deeper into the couch and looks speculative. ‘Are you sure she isn’t seeing someone?’
‘Pretty sure.’ The thought has crossed Dabbu’s mind, several times, but just out of habit perhaps, she doesn’t want to agree with Anji.
‘I never played basketball,’ Anjini muses. ‘Bauji didn’t approve of it back then.’
And that, Debjani thinks, is history rewritten Anjini Thakur style. You didn’t play basketball because you weren’t good enough to make it to the team. Why blame poor BJ?
‘How’s Amitabh Bose?’ Anji asks next. ‘I love his voice! Whenever he speaks, I feel little responsive quivers in my… um… stomach. Did he flirt with you?’
‘No,’ Dabbu replies stiffly.
Anji just stares at her, wide-eyed and uncomprehending.
‘He seemed really nice, though,’ Dabbu adds.
Anji gives a little scream of laughter. ‘He would have flirted with me,’ she says. ‘I would’ve made him. God, you’re such a nun – Dubz the Demure. When is your supta vastha going to end? You’re almost a year overdue!’
Debjani glowers.
‘These jeans are really comfy!’Anjini says next, tucking her knees up under her chin. ‘But like I said, loose.’
‘They’re made of a new kind of material,’ Debjani explains. ‘It stretches.’
Anjini pulls a face. ‘Still! Not bad for me, right? I’m the mother of a twelve-year-old!’
‘He’s not your biological child,’ Debjani points out.
‘Don’t say that,’ Anjini hisses immediately, her head whipping around, looking for Samar. ‘He’s really sensitive.’
‘He’s outside, didi, relax. So, should I unpack for you? Pull out something for you to wear?’
Anjini’s face clouds over. Her lower lip trembles. She says, her voice rising to a higher pitch with every word, ‘You’d think, when you come to your mother’s house after so long, that your sister could share her jeans with you.’
Debjani hastily tries to stem the flow. ‘Anji didi, it’s okay, just wear them –’
But Anjini has got to her feet.
‘Ma!’
‘What, beta?’
‘Can you give me a track pant or something? Dabbu doesn’t want me to wear her jeans!’
Mrs Mamta turns harassed eyes upon Debjani.
‘Dabbu?’
‘Ma, I never said –’
‘I thought she wouldn’t mind because all she ever wears are those stupid shorts she cuts up! No, Ma, don’t shout at her. She’s all messed up because of the India Post article. I understand. She has to take it out on someone.’
And leaving Debjani open-mouthed, Anjini flounces over to the music system and starts to look through Dabbu’s and Eshu’s carefully arranged collection of cassettes and records. ‘Don’t you have any Abba LPs?’ she sniffs. ‘Or The Seekers? Or Cliff Richards? What is this Bryan Adams? And Dire Straits? And Wham? Is that even a band? This man looks pukka gay.’
Eshwari, who has just entered the room, leaps to the defence of her beloved George Michael. ‘He is not gay,’ she declares hotly.
‘I can tell,’ says Anji expertly. She points a perfectly manicured finger at the two smooth-faced men with plucked black eyebrows on the Wham – Fantastic cover. ‘This one’s the chick, this one’s the man. So how are you, Chabbu? And how come that bunch of amaltas? Who gave them to you?’
‘My nephew,’ Eshwari says. ‘He was waiting for me at the gate.’
Debjani watches sourly as Anj
i clucks over Eshwari, frowning at her stained T-shirt, approving of her fringe, asking about her love life. While chattering away, she also manages to unbuckle Eshwari’s school belt and clip it around her waist. ‘It fits,’ she says smugly. ‘Dekha? I didn’t have to loosen it at all.’
Eshwari, catching the stormy expression on Dabbu’s face, hurries over to her as soon as she can. ‘How’d it go with the harami?’ she whispers. ‘You still think his butt is cute?’
‘Oh, what does it matter,’ Debjani whispers back petulantly. ‘Now that Anji didi has come, the world will revolve around her again, and we’ll have to listen to bloody Abba for the next seven days and get non-stop unsolicited advice, and be told that all our choices – whether it’s music, clothes, men or movies – suck.’
Eshwari giggles. ‘Do you think the harami will hit on Anji didi? Everybody does.’
Debjani feels a surge of irritation. It’s all a joke for you, isn’t it, Eshu, she thinks. While for me it’s – it’s what? she asks herself, appalled. Serious?
‘Where’s Samar?’ Anjini demands suddenly.
‘Playing with the puppies,’ the Judge says, entering the room. ‘He’s talking of adopting one.’
Anjini rolls her pretty eyes. ‘Uff! Why are there so many laindi dogs outside the gate? And such ugly ones too! It makes our gate look really lower middle class. Bauji, shall I call the MCD office – that Sharma uncle was so fond of me, remember – and tell them to send some workers to take them away?’
‘Don’t you dare,’ Debjani hisses, jumping up.
Anjini turns around, raising her delicately arched eyebrows. ‘Oh, are they your laindis? Arrey, sorry, Dabburam, how about we get that big naked one fixed at least? The procedure’s quite painless, I believe.’
‘No messing with that dog’s balls!’ the Judge roars suddenly, making everybody jump. ‘What is a male without his manhood, huh? He’ll turn into a wimp and be killed in a dog fight before the week is out! Besides, it’ll be too expensive.’
‘Oh no, Bauji,’ Anjini says. ‘It’s not very expensive at all!’
‘You’re quite the expert, I see,’ the Judge snorts. ‘You women just like to emasculate all your men, and that’s the truth. You want us to curl up and purr and talk to you about crochet patterns and Princess Diana’s pregnancy and what not! Well, nobody’s going to touch Moti’s gotis on my watch. Is that clear?’
THOSE PRICEY THAKUR GIRLS Page 10