THOSE PRICEY THAKUR GIRLS

by Anuja Chauhan

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with the annexe,’ Mrs Mamta says, coming up behind them with the morning tea. ‘We could rent it out for 1,000 rupees a month tomorrow. It’s just the Ant’s antics that belong in a servants’ quarter.’

  Eshwari chuckles, but Debjani frowns.

  ‘Servants have morals too, Ma,’ she says. As her mother bristles at this reproving tone, she quickly adds, ‘The sad truth is that Ashok chacha is a bit of a saanp.’

  Mrs Mamta Thakur sighs. ‘That’s true. But you know, girls, your father’s entire family is like that only. My mother used to say he’s the white sheep of his family.’

  Privately though, she can’t help wondering if there is any truth in Bhudevi’s constant insinuations that the Judge is having an affair too. Why else would he sneak off to Gambhir Stores to make phone calls? She has even asked him about it, but all she has received in reply is a blank look and a testy ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mamtaji’.

  ‘Why doesn’t he talk to Ashok chacha?’ Debjani asks. ‘Drill some sense into his head?’

  Mrs Mamta shakes her head. ‘That toh is out of the question.’ She sighs. ‘He won’t even talk to AN.’

  ‘That’s really mature,’ Anjini says scornfully. ‘And what are we supposed to do if we see him? Or if he talks to us? Pretend he doesn’t exist?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s going to be an issue, actually,’ Mrs Mamta says. ‘AN will go scurrying off behind that Dulari, wait and see.’

  Sure enough, the scene outside the annexe plays out exactly as Mrs Mamta predicts. The Hot Dulari emerges, beating her breast, protesting her innocence, accusing Chachiji of being a dirty-minded, insecure woman who thinks everybody wants to sleep with her husband and son. When Chachiji asks her why, if she is so pure, had she been sitting in another woman’s husband’s lap eating cucumbers, she raises a mighty ruckus, weeps noisily, invokes the gods to bear witness to her purity, and marches out of the back gate, calling down curses upon Chachiji’s head and utterly delighting the denizens of the lane behind Hailey Road. Ashok Narayan Thakur slinks off behind her a couple of hours later.

  Chachiji is granted her wish: she is shifted into the main house, administered warm, sweetened doodh-double-roti and two Calmposes. She is just falling asleep, emitting little hiccupping sobs, her hand firmly grasping Debjani’s, when the phone rings. Eshwari enters the bedroom a little later.

  ‘Ma, where’s BJ, there’s a call for him. It’s the Brig.’

  ‘He isn’t home, Eshu, take a message,’ Mrs Mamta replies shortly. It has been an exhausting twenty-four hours and the Brigadier isn’t exactly her favourite person nowadays.

  Eshwari vanishes, and then pops her head into the room again, her black eyes very round.

  ‘Ma, he wants to speak to you. He says it’s urgent.’

  Debjani’s hand twitches inside Chachiji’s grasp. Chachiji’s lids flutter open instantly to reveal beadily, glittering eyes. What’s all this?’ she demands woozily. ‘He comes over every day, what does he need to say that can’t wait till evening?’

  ‘I’m coming,’ Mrs Mamta says, getting to her feet. ‘Dabbu, make sure Chachiji rests. I’ll go see what Saahas Shekhawat wants.’

  The pretty floral-themed drawing room – Mrs Mamta Thakur’s pride and joy – is having to do double duty as a makeshift dormitory for her three grandchildren. By ten in the night, the children sit, freshly bathed and brushed, before the pot-bellied Weston colour TV, picking out all the nutritious vegetables from their Nirula’s cheese-onion-capsicum-tomato pizzas and flicking them through the window into the flowerbeds outside.

  ‘Anant mausa got me this doll from America,’ Bonu says importantly as she chews. ‘Look, she actually has a grown-up chest.’

  A non-stop stream of little girls has been trooping into the house all day, wanting to look at Bonu’s new doll. Nobody has ever seen anything like it. It has two quite clearly defined breasts and the longest, thinnest legs in the world. Samar will never admit it, but even he is intimidated by its perfect, plasticky pulchritude.

  ‘What a stupid doll,’ he says. ‘It can’t even stand on its own feet.’

  ‘You’re stupid,’ Bonu retorts. ‘She’s smart. She’s a doctor Barbie. See her white coat? It can come off – all her clothes can come off, actually. Want to see?’

  The boys shake their heads hastily. Bonu, slightly deflated, sits her Barbie upon her lap, leans forward and whispers impressively: ‘Dabbu mausi is getting married.’

  ‘Really?’ Monu’s eyes swivel to meet Samar’s questioningly.

  ‘Children should be seen and not heard,’ Samar replies smartly to cover for the fact that he doesn’t really know.

  Bonu snorts. ‘If you’re so grown up, you should be in the adults-only meeting discussing Dabbu mausi’s shaadi. Why are you eating peeza with us?’

  ‘It’s not peeza,’ he tells her loftily. ‘It’s peedza.’

  ‘I like to pronounce things wrong on purpose,’ she tells him defiantly. ‘It’s my style.’

  Samar’s long thin face creases into a disbelieving smirk. He reaches for another slice of pizza.

  ‘Who’s she marrying?’ Monu wants to know. ‘Nobody knows for sure, yet,’ Bonu explains knowledgably. ‘She has so many rishtas. Because she’s so famous, na. But it may be a…’ she lowers her voice, ‘love marriage.’

  ‘Ho ji!’ Monu is horrified. ‘Is she going to have a baby?’

  ‘You’re such a crack, Monu,’ his twin tells him pityingly. ‘Isn’t he, Samar?’

  ‘Samar bhaisaab.’

  Bonu tosses her spiky head. ‘You’re no relation of mine,’ she says. ‘Not by blood, anyway. So I don’t have to call you bhaisaab.’

  ‘Are love marriages allowed?’ Monu wants to know.

  ‘Of course,’ Samar says confidently.

  ‘If only the poor Pushkarni had had a love marriage,’ Bonu says, shifting tracks slightly. ‘Her life might have been happier, no?’

  They all look at each other. They have arrived at the topic they discus hotly every night, with the zeal of convent inmates reciting their bedtime rosary. The Death (and rumoured Resurrection) of the Pushkarni.

  ‘Does the Pushkarni really take over Chachiji?’ Monu asks Samar for the nth time.

  Samar nods. ‘That’s what she says.’

  ‘Have you actually seen it happen?’ Bonu presses.

  Samar purses his lips. ‘Not really,’ he replies doubtfully.

  The twins stare at him, their eyes as large as dinner plates below their identical spiky mushroom haircuts.

  ‘What happens when the bhoot comes?’

  ‘Her eyes roll back,’ says Samar, ticking the manifestations off on his fingers. ‘She shakes her head a lot. And there is a smell. A very horrible smell that fills the room.’

  This is met with a slight sense of anticlimax. Monu-Bonu look at each other doubtfully.

  ‘Like a fart?’ Bonu asks.

  ‘Worse,’ says Samar, deciding that if a story is worth telling, then it’s worth telling well. ‘Much worse. Like the fart of a hundred snakes that have eaten mooli. Like the fart of a dead pig who ate the hundred snakes that ate mooli. Like the fart of a dead pig who died in the Union Carbide gas tragedy after eating the hundred snakes that ate mooli.’

  ‘Dead pigs don’t fart,’ Monu points out. ‘And snakes don’t eat mooli.’

  Samar quells him with a withering look. ‘And then she speaks like the Pushkarni,’ he says. ‘Her voice becomes low and growly. Like a bear’s. I’ve heard her.’

  The twins look at each other again. Samar is five years older to them, and they often get the feeling that he’s just messing with them.

  ‘What does she say?’ they ask cautiously.

  Samar shrugs. ‘Stuff about how she was murdered, mostly. And how she came back for badla on her husband. And how she’ll never let the building in Number 13 be completed – she’ll kill the labourers off one by one.’

  ‘Cool,’ the twins breathe
in awe.

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Samar says. ‘Seems a bit unfair to the labourers. What did they do?’

  ‘You’re just boring,’ Bonu tells him. ‘I think it will be so fun if she starts killing people – okay, listen, should we put on the scary movie?’

  They have a choice of two films to feed into the jaws of the shiny new VCR Anji has bought her parents: Nightmare on Elm Street or Masoom. Monu is keen on Masoom as everybody tells him he looks just like the little kid in the film. This is precisely the reason why Bonu would rather watch Nightmare. She thinks the kid in Masoom is a whiny loser – fair and green-eyed and weeping about his dead mummy and letting himself be bullied by a bunch of girls.

  ‘Put this one,’ Monu says, waving Masoom under Samar’s disgusted nose.

  ‘I want to see the scary movie,’ Bonu says.

  ‘Mummy said no scary movies.’ Monu frowns.

  ‘Mummy ka chamcha,’ his twin returns scornfully.

  ‘My mother bought the VCR,’ Samar says firmly. ‘And I’m older. So I get to pick the movie. And I say Nightmare.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bonu agrees with him quickly.

  But Monu is feeling mutinous. ‘No,’ he says, a look of stubborn stolidity settling on his face.

  ‘My VCR, my choice,’ Samar says.

  But Monu comes back strongly. ‘The VCR may be yours but the house is mine. So you don’t get to choose.’

  Samar, who is in the middle of wolfing down the last of his pizza, is so surprised to meet strong contradiction from this unlikely quarter that he stops chewing for a moment. ‘I’m the eldest grandson,’ he replies. ‘What do you mean the house belongs to you, you bloody Monu? It’s mine as much as yours.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Monu lisps stoutly. ‘I’m Justice Laxmi Thakur’s eldest grandson. When I grow up this house will be mine.’

  ‘And mine,’ Bonu chimes in.

  ‘No, it won’t,’ Samar responds, swivelling to look at her in astonishment.

  ‘It’s our house,’ Bonu says, crossing her arms across her skinny chest. ‘Mine and Monu’s. Mummy told us. You won’t get it because Anji mausi isn’t really your mother, but,’ she smiles encouragingly, ‘I’m sure you’ll get something nice from your real mother’s family, so don’t feel too bad, okay.’

  Samar considers this. It sounds like it could be true, but it doesn’t factor in the fact that he is Bauji’s clear favourite.

  ‘What about the other mausis?’ he asks.

  Monu shrugs. ‘Mummy says they all have a hissa. Not Chandu mausi, though, because she ran away.’

  A tight knot forms in Samar Vir’s stomach. It must be all that pizza he has eaten.

  He says, his voice shaking slightly, ‘BJ loves me best. And Anji-ma’s the eldest. Why would BJ leave his house only to you two channas, huh? Because your papa looks just like a bhatura?’

  On screen Freddy Krueger gibbers manically in his green-and-red striped jersey. In the living room Monu-Bonu, behaving in a manner the angelic child actor from Masoom would definitely have disapproved of, jump Samar Vir Singh, who sidesteps them smartly and grabs them by the scruff of their collars and thunders: ‘Say sorry!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Monu says immediately.

  ‘You say sorry!’ Bonu flares, baring her little teeth. ‘How dare you call my papa a bhatura?’ She struggles out of his grasp, spits on the floor and runs out of the room.

  ‘All in favour of First Officer Dev Pawar, raise your hands!’ cries out Binni’s husband Vickyji, getting to his feet and thumping the dining table with vigour. ‘Majority wins.’

  The Brigadier’s phone call last evening, in which he placed his eldest son’s proposal before Mrs Mamta, has led to a high-level conference at 16 Hailey Road. The whole family is gathered in the drawing room to discuss the ‘situation’. The arrival of two sons-in-law – one from Bhopal, the other from the US – has only added to the war-room like atmosphere.

  ‘That’s just silly,’ Eshwari remarks. ‘Majority has nothing to do with it. What Dabbu says goes.’

  ‘You be quiet,’ Binni snaps. ‘Ma, she should be in the drawing room with Monu-Bonu and Samar. Chabbu, go.’

  ‘No,’ Eshwari says combatively, tossing her spiky fringe out of her eyes.

  Binni scowls. She has never really forgiven Eshwari for thumbs-downing Vickyji outright when his rishta came for Binni, five years ago. Eshwari, then only twelve, had taken one look at his photograph, drawn a horrified gasp and blurted out, ‘Don’t do it, Binni didi! He can’t even shut his mouth – you’ll spend your whole life keeping him from swallowing flies!’

  Which was a slight exaggeration. But it can’t be denied that Vickyji’s teeth radiate out wondrously, like the rays of a cartoon sun. They are also nicely spaced – like modern housing – with a half-inch gap between each tooth. This causes his spit to sometimes spray out. Add to that his short stature, wispy curls and sing-song nasal voice, and one can understand why his wife avers that looks are nothing, it is character that is of supreme importance.

  And Vickyji’s character is top ka, declares Binni loyally. See how much guts he has! Doing his own business instead of being a salary slave like that boring Anant Singh.

  Basically, I’ve got a dud set of brothers-in-law, Eshwari muses gloomily. The first is a handsome bore, the second is a thook-spraying loan solicitor and the third is so persona non grata that I’m not even allowed to mention him. I have to get Dylan into this family.

  ‘Of course this can’t be settled by a show of hands,’ the Judge says testily. ‘Sit down, Vickyji.’

  Vickyji sits down, not at all abashed.

  ‘Either way, it’s a problem of plenty,’ Anant smiles gravely. ‘Which is great news. You’ve become such a star, Dabbu. Well done.’

  ‘I’m a little surprised, ekchully!’ Vickyji admits. ‘Because theek hai, she is reading the news and all, but it’s not like she’s very beaut – I mean,’ he amends hastily, with an apologetic glance at Debjani, ‘she’s no Binni, let’s just say.’

  He looks at his fair, buxom, bold-eyed wife with proprietary pride. Binni blushes.

  ‘B for beautiful,’ Eshwari murmurs, nudging Debjani. ‘D for dowdy. E for, um, excruciatingly ugly.’

  Anjini waits for Antu to jump in and extol her virtues too. But he doesn’t. He isn’t speaking to her at all. Why has he even bothered to come? she wonders petulantly. If all he’s going to do is ignore me! I’ve a good mind to sleep on the terrace with the girls tonight. Shrugging her shoulders, she says, ‘Dabbu likes Dylan. And we know the family.’

  ‘I know the Pawars,’ Binni chimes in.

  ‘The mother’s Christian, no?’ Vickyji enquires. ‘And before that, what was she? Matlab, her family couldn’t have converted more than 300 years ago. Must have been some scheduled caste before.’

  ‘They weren’t any schedules 300 years ago,’ the Judge says, looking distinctly thunderous.

  Mrs Mamta hurries in to fill the breach. ‘Dev is nice too. Earning so well.’

  ‘And the Pawars don’t have any demands.’ Binni throws down her trump card.

  But the Judge just snorts ungratefully. ‘They’d better not – or they’ll end up in jail! “Demands” (he makes exaggerated inverted commas in the air) are against the law! Why do people always say “we have no demands” like it’s so very noble of them? Demands indeed!’

  He glares at Vickyji. The bugger has got his wife to move the court, demanding the division and sale of the very house we’re sitting in, he thinks with a strong sense of ill-usage. Bloody hypocrite.

  ‘Besides, a lot of people,’ he continues meaningfully, ‘pretend to have no demands at the time of the wedding, but later they sit on top of your chest and never stop demanding!’

  There is an awkward silence. The Judge glowers at Vickyji. Binni blushes. Mrs Mamta makes soothing sounds. Then Vickyji gets up, mutters something and hurries out of the room.

  ‘My friend Saahas has no “demands” either,’ the Judge informs the room
in a calmer voice.

  ‘Ya, but I’m just saying, Bauji, that for such an educated, fair, well-to-do and eligible boy to have no demands is unusual. But for a dark, ordinary fellow, and a half-Christian at that,’ Binni curls her generous lower lip, ‘it’s not such a big thing, after all.’

  ‘Dev Pawar is butt ugly,’ says the incorrigible Eshwari. ‘He looks like he’s wearing diapers.’

  ‘Eshwari!’ her mother says, shocked.

  ‘This child is spoilt,’ Binni declares. ‘Ashleel. Shameless. Aur bhejo Modern School.’

  ‘And he isn’t a nice person either,’ Eshwari continues doggedly. ‘He turns down girls because their gums are too big.’

  ‘You want to turn him down because his bum is too big!’ Binni glares at her. ‘What is it, Vickyji?’

  Her husband has just popped his head into the room and is looking at her meaningfully.

  ‘I want to talk to you, Binni,’ Vickyji says, winking now. ‘Privately.’

  Binni gets up, tosses her dupatta over her shoulder and walks out. Probably for a quickie, Anjini thinks morosely. Lucky girl.

  Mrs Mamta turns towards her fourth-born.

  ‘So, Dabbu, what do you say?’ ‘Well, his butt is rather well padded, by god’s grace,’ Debjani admits.

  ‘Not about his backside,’ the Judge says patiently, wondering for the millionth time why the Almighty had thought it fit to bestow him with so many daughters and not even one single uncomplicated son. ‘About whether you want to marry him.’

  Debjani hunches up and hugs herself, her hair obscuring her face. Why has Dylan done this sudden about-turn? Because he saw her at Berco’s and realized he couldn’t live without her? Seriously? Does she still want him? If only she could speak to him.

  ‘Bauji, I’d just like to understand, it isn’t a Dev-versus-Dylan situation, is it?’ Anant asks in his low, pleasant voice. ‘I mean, there are other rishtas.’

  ‘Well, she refuses to consider NRIs,’ Anji says. ‘And of all the other offers, these are the only two she hasn’t rejected outright.’

  ‘I don’t see what the rush is,’ Anant persists. ‘She’s only twenty-three.’