THOSE PRICEY THAKUR GIRLS

by Anuja Chauhan

  ‘No,’ she says baldly. ‘We’re not.’

  ‘But he’s picking you up for the farewell party?’

  ‘Yeah, but that doesn’t really mean anything,’ she explains. ‘It’s only because he lives next door to me.’

  Jai rolls up his pants till just below the knees and lowers his legs into the water.

  ‘That’s good,’ he says finally.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yeah. I don’t think we should complicate school friendships with this “going around” nonsense. We’re too young. You don’t want to screw up your board results, do you?’

  Eshwari pulls back in mock horror. ‘Who are you?’ she demands. ‘And what have you done with stud boy Jai Kakkar?’

  He gives her an odd, twisted smile.

  ‘Can we just be friends?’ he asks. ‘I’m a nice guy. Really.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Don’t be so filmi,’ she mutters, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Chalo, we’re friends now, you and me. Jai and Veeru. I mean, Jai and Eshu. Happy?’

  He nods, the sunshine dancing on the water reflecting in his eyes, gets up and walks away. As he does so, she notices that his butt is definitely Dylanesque. She has always thought she is way too cool to fall for anybody as obvious as the school stud, but at this moment, she’s not too sure. As she gets to her feet slowly, Satish comes up from behind her.

  ‘Don’t listen to that choot,’ he hisses. ‘He’s got sex on the brain. Yesterday in bio class, he twice said orgasm instead of organism.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Steesh.’ She pushes him.

  ‘Pushy fucker.’ Satish shakes his head. ‘And after I told him you’re not allowed boyfriends till you’re twenty-one!’

  ‘You what?’ she says, startled. ‘No wonder…’

  ‘And he’s not the only one,’ Satish grumbles. ‘They’ve all suddenly discovered you – even that ass Mohit, who started playing the guitar because none of the girls would look at him otherwise. You’re a little Assamese oil trickle and everybody’s a white guy shouting Digboi-Digboi. It’s because all the hot twelfthies have passed out, I suppose. And because this north Indian cloth you’ve wound around your head is making you look all goody-goody.’

  ‘I hate you,’ she says with feeling. ‘Let’s get the camp started now, okay?’

  The polyclinic in the gurudwara compound has put up a banner announcing the blood camp, and two stern Malayali nurses are already in place behind the makeshift counters. They hand the Interacters a set of questions to ask every would-be donor and sit down on their shiny, round-with-a-hole-in-the-middle steel stools, cross their white nylon stocking-encased legs and exude a spirit of pessimism. AIDS has really put a dent in blood donations recently.

  The questions to be asked are pretty simple.

  Name?

  Age?

  Please stand on the weighing machine.

  Any alcohol intake in the past twenty-four hours? If yes, please do not donate.

  Do you have multiple sex partners? If yes, please do not donate.

  This last question is the cause of much sniggering and nudging and ribbing amongst the Modernites. Everybody tsk-tsks and regrets the fact that unfortunately, in spite of really wanting to, they won’t be able to donate, because they’re sexually so active, don’t you know. Eshwari, disgusted by this juvenile behaviour and stressed out by the fact that there seem to be hardly any donors in sight, sets out on a little walk, intent on commandeering people towards the camp.

  ‘Please save a life!’ she sings out as she hands pamphlets to everybody she encounters – families, couples, old ladies, single, hopeful looking men. ‘It’s for the Red Cross – please save a life!’

  But it’s slow going. People take the pamphlets from her happily enough but then hurry off to the parking lot, eyes lowered. It’s just like the first two camps, she thinks, disheartened – and this, when they’re showing all those films on DD every day, explaining exactly how AIDS spreads.

  ‘We use disposable syringes,’ she tells people. ‘It’s perfectly safe.’

  But it’s no use. Finally, discouraged by the heat, the mugginess and the glare of the sun bouncing off the golden dome of the gurudwara, she sits down under the Red Cross sign.

  You’d think, wouldn’t you, she rages silently, that people who have come all this way to pray would be willing to give a little blood to save somebody’s life? That’s why I thought holding these camps in places of worship was such a good idea! But obviously I hadn’t a clue.

  ‘Eshu puttar?’

  She looks up and beholds Old Mr Gambhir, all dressed in white, smiling from ear to ear, the dome of the gurudwara forming a halo behind his head.

  ‘Namaste, Gambhir uncle,’ she says without much enthusiasm, thinking, oh, what’s the use? He’s about a hundred years old. If he donates 470 ml blood he might keel over and die.

  But Old Mr Gambhir has enthusiasm enough for both of them.

  ‘Seen the paper, puttar? Dhillon ne toh aj kamal kar diya! He is wonderful. All his stories were good, but today’s is the best. It is top ka!’

  ‘Really? What is it?’

  Old Mr Gambhir, who is apparently so delighted with Dylan’s piece that he is carrying the India Post around with him, produces it immediately.

  ‘Today is the anniversary of the Sikh massacre, na, that is why I have come to Bangla Sahib to pray. See, see the story, puttar, this will put that butcher behind bars for sure, don’t you think? See what guts this girl has? God bless her!’

  ‘Front page,’ Eshwari says, impressed. ‘I saw Hardik Motla with my own eyes – he was leading the massacre, promising rewards to whoever killed the most Sikhs. Wow, this is explosive stuff, Gambhir uncle. Conclusive too.’

  Several people hurrying past hear her and ask to read the paper. A small, excited crowd starts to form at the Red Cross station. When the Modernites sidle up and ask the swirling masses if they would like to donate blood and save a life, they pause for just a moment before they roll up their sleeves. The Malayali nurses get busy, sticking in their needles and pumping out large amounts of Punjabi blood with gusto.

  In the midst of this spontaneous celebration and fluid extraction, old Mr Gambhir’s eyes suddenly brim over with tears. ‘Justice at last!’ he says, his voice trembling, and bows reverentially before the Bangla Sahib. Then he turns to Eshwari and raises his hand, a saint making a benediction. ‘Tell your mother, if Debjani marries this boy, I will supply all the Campa Cola and Gold Spot at the wedding for free! Free.’

  ‘That’s, um, really generous,’ Eshwari says, stunned.

  ‘And I will give, ten – no, twenty per cent discount on all the ghee, sugar, atta and dry fruits. But only if she marries this boy!’

  ‘Don’t you worry, Gambhir uncle,’ Eshwari assures him. ‘I think she will marry only this boy.’

  New Delhi Railway Station is teeming with travellers, coolies and beggars. Noise and flies sit thickly on everything. Dylan, shouldering Kamalpreet’s pink Rexine duffel bag, cuts through the crowd, taller than most, as she trots behind him, looking docile but determinedly pulling a trolley suitcase.

  Who the hell brings a trolley suitcase to a railway platform, he thinks in disgust. Doesn’t she know this place is full of stairs?

  ‘Lemme get that,’ he tells her but she shakes her head.

  ‘I am fine,’ she says. ‘You walk ahead. What platform number is it?’

  He stops and looks at her. There are dark circles under her eyes and she looks terribly distracted.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks gently. ‘Spotted any strange men yet? Looking at you?’

  ‘Make fun,’ she says bitterly. ‘You are not on the front page today.’

  ‘Actually, I am, and unlike you, even my photo has been printed.’

  ‘You’re used to it,’ she says dismissively. Her eyes skitter around the platform.

  ‘Would you like something to eat?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Waiting for someone to show up? A boyfriend, perhaps?�
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  ‘Ho-hai, don’t be silly,’ she responds, looking a little scandalized.

  Dylan studies her face critically. ‘Have you been dreaming about your mummy-papa or something?’

  ‘I’m fine!’ she snaps suddenly. ‘Please hurry, I think maybe we have missed the train.’

  Okay, whatever, Dylan thinks resignedly.

  They descend onto platform Number 11 and find the train already standing there, emitting steam and stink, its whistle blowing. Dylan busies himself with looking for her name in the second class unreserved coach. She stands back, still clutching her prized trolley suitcase, looking around the platform nervously.

  ‘Here you are!’ he tells her, tapping a finger on the printed list triumphantly. ‘12 C. C’mon, let’s get you on board.’

  She hangs back. ‘There must be some mistake. My ticket says 22 F. Look.’

  He takes the ticket from her and studies it. The lean dimples flash and are quickly suppressed. ‘That’s not your seat number, Kamalpreet,’ he tells her, carefully controlling his voice so that no laughter leaks through. ‘That’s your age and sex.’

  Kamalpreet looks caught out and then gives a delighted little peal of laughter. What a nut job, Dylan thinks indulgently.

  ‘Do you have water and everything?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she nods, and looks down at her HMT watch. ‘Come, it’s time I boarded, na?’

  She drags her trolley suitcase to the train and manages to clamber on somehow. Then she turns to face him, her face sombre.

  ‘Bye bye,’ she says.

  ‘Bye bye,’ he replies, aware of a strange pang at parting from this vulnerable girl. Then he realizes he has forgotten something.

  ‘Here, take this,’ he says, handing her the pink Rexine duffel bag.

  She reaches for it slowly, very slowly.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she says, and there is an edge to her clear, sweet voice that he hasn’t heard before. ‘You are too generous – this money will change my life.’

  ‘What?’ Dylan says, confused, still holding out the bag. The train whistle has started to blow and he can’t hear her properly.

  Kamalpreet raises her voice.

  ‘I will keep our agreement,’ she continues, her gaze suddenly impersonal, looking no longer at him but somehow through him. ‘I will never tell anybody about our deal, and never ask you for more money. What is inside this bag is my full and final payment.’

  As he stares at her, bafflement and consternation writ large across his face, she reaches out and plucks the pink Rexine bag from his grasp. Immediately, a heavy hand lands on Dylan’s shoulder.

  ‘Check the bag.’

  Dylan watches like a man in a dream as khaki-clad policemen force Kamalpreet off the train. The pink Rexine bag is quickly unzipped to reveal stack upon stack of stapled hundred-rupee notes.

  ‘You are under arrest,’ the plump senior officer tells Dylan. ‘For bribery, witness-tampering, falsification of evidence, rumour-mongering and slander. Take him away.’

  12

  ‘I told you, na,’ Binni says smugly, ‘ki that Isayee is not okay. See what he’s been up to – cooking up ganda-ganda stories of rape and murder! Chhi, I can’t even think about it, it’s too dirty. And you wanted Dabbu to marry him. He would have been in jail before the mehendi faded from her hands!’

  The defeated silence that often greets her utterances prevails yet again.

  ‘Say something, Ma!’ Binni prods. ‘Don’t you agree?’

  But Mrs Mamta is too overwrought to speak. Binni looks at her father.

  ‘You’re right, Binni,’ the Judge admits with a sigh. ‘It’s quite likely the boy did cook up some stories. He sounded frustrated about not making any breakthroughs even in that letter he wrote Dabbu. He says he’s not very rational on the subject of the riots and then goes on to admit that he is ruthless professionally and will do almost anything to get a story.’

  ‘He was being honest, BJ!’ Dabbu flashes. ‘Because I kept going on about being honest and kind and brave. Stop treating every word he wrote as court evidence. You shouldn’t have let him read my letter, Ma!’

  As Debjani herself pressed her mother to show the letter to the Judge, this a little unfair. But Mrs Mamta lets it pass.

  ‘And he watches porn.’ Binni prims up her mouth. ‘And he stole ten rupees once.’

  Dabbu whirls to look at her mother with huge, betrayed eyes. ‘You let Binni didi read my letter?’

  ‘And why not?’ Binni bridles up huffily. ‘They read it, Eshu read it, why not me?’

  ‘Because…’ Debjani starts to say, then goes quiet.

  ‘I found it on your dressing table,’ Binni tells Debjani. ‘So I read it.’

  ‘Don’t you know it’s very very rude to read other people’s letters?’ Debjani demands.

  ‘Bhai, I went to an old-fashioned Hindi medium school.’ Binni tosses her head. ‘Not to modern-fashioned Modern School. So I don’t know these modern manners.’

  Dabbu makes a strangled sound. Binni continues, ‘And he drinks also. And sex record toh his own mother has told us. And now police record also. Chhi chhi chhi.’

  ‘How can you!’ Dabbu is almost white. ‘How can you talk like that about somebody when they’re down and out? I mean, Dylan’s in prison. It’s like kicking an injured animal.’

  The Judge and his wife exchange glances. It’s pretty clear to them what’s happening. Saahas Shekhawat’s son is about to swell the ranks of Moti the hairless dog, flop actor Randhir Kapoor, least popular Beatle Ringo Starr and the West Indies cricket team. They have to veer Debjani away before she takes it in her head to adopt him, defend him and never let him go. Because the boy is trouble, pure and simple.

  ‘I don’t think the situation is that bad, Dabbu,’ Mrs Mamta says soothingly. ‘He’s not in prison, only in lock-up, and he’s sure to get bail or something.’

  ‘Vickyji says he’ll be locked up for years under TADA,’ Binni says smugly. ‘And I think-so jail is the right place for him. Thinking up imaginary ganda-ganda rapes and killings. Must have got the idea from all the porn he watched.’

  ‘But one thing is really confusing me, Binni didi,’ Debjani says tightly, knowing she may regret saying this, that she may get chhaalas in her mouth, but unable to keep it locked up inside her any more. ‘Last time I checked, you approved of this boy and you wanted me to marry him – on the basis of some legal advice your lawyer gave Vickyji. What happened? Did the advice turn out to be incorrect?’

  Binni’s plump cheeks suddenly sag. She swallows hard. ‘I-I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dabbu. You’re mad or what?’

  ‘No,’ Debjani replies. ‘Because I checked with Gulgul bhaisaab too, and he told me your lawyer had got hold of the wrong end of the stick completely.’

  ‘What are you two talking about?’ the Judge asks, mystified.

  ‘Girlie stuff, BJ,’ Debjani answers as Binni seems incapable of speech. ‘Oh, and Binni didi, in case you were wondering, the same law applies to girls who marry American-Estonian Christians too.’

  ‘Silly Dabbu,’ says Binni, turning to face her father with a laugh. ‘I don’t know what she’s saying. I really have no idea – but she’s right, maybe we’re being too hard on this Shekhawat. After all, he could have been framed. No, Bauji? What do you say?’

  ‘I think I have a very good idea of what just happened here,’ the Judge says, his nostrils white and pinched. ‘So let me make one thing very clear. I’ll say it only once, so listen carefully, all of you. Binodini, this house belongs to all my daughters, no matter who they marry or whether they have any biological children. And tell your husband that unless he returns the “loan” I gave him three years ago – you know damn well what I mean, so don’t look so blank – I’ll carve it out from your share of this house, so that when we sell it, everybody will get a hissa except you. Understood?’

  Binni gasps, starts to her feet, throws an anguished glance at her mother and stumbles out of the room.
Mrs Mamta shoots the Judge a furious look and follows her out.

  The Judge glares at the swinging door, looking grimly satisfied.

  ‘Oh, isn’t that typical.’

  The whisper is low and furious. The Judge looks around, startled.

  ‘You don’t give a damn about me.’ Debjani’s voice is trembling. ‘All you care about it is your stupid house and your stupid money and Binni didi’s court case and Anji didi not being able to have any babies. My life isn’t worth even a fifteen-minute conversation.’

  ‘That’s not true, Dabbu,’ the Judge protests.

  But she has already stood up. ‘I’m going to DD,’ she says curtly. ‘Bye.’

  ‘Now look here, Hijranandini –’

  ‘Bade-papaji, please,’ Varun interjects in an agonized whisper. ‘It’s Hiranandani.’

  ‘You don’t interrupt, duffer. Tum dono ke dono incompetents ho, out to dubao the newspaper I built with these two bare hands. Can’t you see what is right in front of your nose?’

  You are, Varun thinks resentfully. A short, bald, chubby hobbit of a man, with bulbous eyes, twin rows of broken teeth and nostril hair so long and bristly they actually cast a shadow.

  The Fat Old Man of Indian Publishing has summoned the two newsmen to his poolside for an emergency meeting. They have had to watch him swim eight laborious laps (one for each decade he has spent on the planet, his yoga teacher has instructed him) and then clamber out, practically catatonic, wheezing and snorting, exuding a strong odour of chlorine. A solemn ritual followed, where he hopped first on one foot and then the other, his flabby bits jiggling importantly above his tight red chaddis, till the water cleared out of his ears. Then he donned a loose white towelling robe, knotted it tightly right below his massive paunch and sat down to his evening naashta. Now, spraying watermelon seeds in every direction (he needs to eat one whole watermelon to keep his bowels in good nick, his yoga teacher says), he wants to know what the newspaper is doing about the fact that ‘Motla put on a bra and harem pants, batted his lashes, wriggled his bum and led all you chutiyas up the garden path’.