Miss La Di Da and Other Stories

by Shobhaa De

  Of course, I did send it to our children - they needed to know how ridiculously their father was behaving. Had he gone completely mad? They surprised me by saying, ‘But Ma, doesn’t Dad look happy?’ What on earth did they mean? Is that called ‘happiness’? He didn’t look happy, he looked drunk! And he was behaving like a complete idiot.

  After ‘M’ fell seriously ill in London, I never really ran into them, nor did I want to keep in touch. I heard she was in charge of everything and was making all the appointments with top Harley Street doctors and all that. Good for her. At least she was paying back for her luxurious life by behaving like his nursemaid. The children kept going to London to visit him. Of course, they could not avoid meeting ‘That One’ when they met their father. But my children have been raised very well by me - they remained polite and courteous to her so as not to upset their dearly beloved father. Initially, I would bombard them with questions about her and ask how it was working out between ‘M’ and that whole set up. Then, I realised my children did not want to discuss all that. So, I stopped.

  It was only when ‘M’ decided to move back to India and into a palatial penthouse, that I started feeling awkward. After all, Mumbai maybe a huge city, but socially, there are only a few old families that count. Like ours. We meet the same set all the time - at the club or over dinners and lunches. Or at the races. And of course, during art and charity auctions. ‘That One’ was a complete misfit in our circle. She was so dreadfully gauche. While they lived in London, I was okay with it. This was a bit too close for me to pretend I didn’t care! Mind you, it wasn’t about the divorce settlement, or the heirloom jewellery or cash or anything like that. ‘M’ had been more than fair and given me whatever I had demanded… and more. The children had been settled as well. So, it wasn’t about material comforts. It was the acute embarrassment of running into them somewhere. Because of that fear, I stopped going out.

  My children used to meet both of them quite often and they kept their meetings from me. Silly things! I would find out from the old cook who now worked for them. And ‘M’s’ old driver, whose son works for me. The jeweller would also tell me what ‘That One’ had ordered - and we would laugh at her taste! She didn’t belong to our world at all. And that’s what bothered me the most.

  Oh well… when ‘M’ fell ill in Mumbai, I felt a little bad and would have liked to visit him in hospital. But I stopped myself. I couldn’t stand the thought of running into ‘That One’. She was there all the time. I heard she barely went home to change and then, she’d be right back to maintain her vigil by ‘M’s’ bedside. If she left him even for an hour, he would start asking for her, summoning the nurses and making a big fuss. Not once did he utter my name or ask for me! The children said ‘M’ was looking very frail and had shrunk to half his size. Frankly, I wanted to go and sit next to him, and sing his favourite arias, or play his most loved symphonies conducted by Zubin… something ‘That One’ couldn’t possibly do or understand.

  He used to enjoy my singing, even though mine was not a trained voice. I was no Callas - I know that! ‘M’ used to say I sang like Celine Dion… and even looked a bit like her. Such a flatterer! He could certainly belt out Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin numbers… and boy! The two of us jiving on the dance floor used to pull in an audience. I would have liked to dance just for him. Yes! Right there around his hospital bed. Just to remind him of happier times. Or take profiteroles… a big slice of pineapple cream cake… Bohri mutton samosas… asparagus mousse… I knew ‘M’s, palate. But that was out of the question with her around, guarding him like a hawk. I suppose she must have loved him in her own way. I did feel very jealous of their togetherness, especially during the lockdown - I had never felt this isolated and alone in our beautiful home. Even though ‘M’ was in and out of ICU, at least he had her by his side. And our loving children, who looked after him so well.

  And then came the news he had slipped away. It was the 70th day of the lockdown. And Mumbai was still closed. All those checks and nakabandis with police stopping cars and asking nosy questions were still going on and on. I was as fed up as everyone else. When my son called to say ‘M’ had passed, I sighed and said nothing at all. There was nothing to say. But everything to feel. I disconnected and asked for green tea. I stroked my cat and stared at our wedding photograph. How young and happy and gorgeous we looked! I didn’t feel sad… I felt empty. And a little numb. I looked at my chipped nail polish and smiled - ‘M’ was very particular about well-manicured nails.

  I didn’t have nail polish remover in my bathroom closet. And the shops were still closed. I walked across to the large silver-framed mirror in the ante-room - this was our favourite spot for aperitifs before dinner. We would listen to Chopin, chat about a play we had enjoyed, or laugh at our relatives, before heading to the dining room. It was one ritual I missed. We made a good couple. A handsome couple. Admired and adored by many. Well… such is life, I thought, as my beautiful Persian with large geen eyes, purred and arched his back.

  ‘M’ had planned his funeral well. I was mentally prepared and all that. My children had applied for the appropriate permissions and we were told to assemble at the crematorium by 5 p.m. I wanted to look dignified, regal and beautiful. ‘M’ liked me in blue. I had kept the ice blue chiffon with a matching blouse pressed and ready for weeks.

  I would be wearing the Basra pearls ‘M’ had gifted me on our fifth anniversary, and our engagement ring, of course. Perhaps, I would skip the pearl and diamond bracelet, but definitely wear the vintage platinum Patek Phillipe we had acquired at an auction in Hong Kong. Lipstick, for sure! ‘M’ liked me wearing a particular Lancome red. He said it suited my complexion. My hair was at its worst! The soft perm had grown out, the mahogany colour had faded, and the highlights resembled nasty errors committed by a child with a paintbrush. I was looking my worst! Not joking. I was dreading to see what ‘That One’ would show up in. And I was, for the first time in my life, feeling diffident. What if her nails were perfectly painted? Her hair, trimmed and styled with no roots showing? What if she had been gymming all through ‘M’s’ illness and her body was in great shape? What if she had planned her outfit as much for him as for us? Would she wear his favourite shade of ice blue and overshadow me? I debated which shades to place on my head as I arrived… ‘M’ loved the tortoise shell Balenciagas. What if he had given her a similar pair and she decided to sport it? Oh… and the handbag… I was going to carry my old Chanel or Lady Dior. She would no doubt flash an LV or a gaudy Fendi. No heels, of course. We would all have to remove our footwear for the final goodbye. Did she have the good sense to do the same?

  The florists were shut. There was just no beauty, no dignity left in a Lockdown Funeral, was there? I would have ordered tokris and tokris of fragrant mogras - ‘M’ loved jasmines, and they were in season. I would have sourced tiger lilies and long-stemmed white roses, and draped his body in his favourite old Jamevar shawl. ‘M’ was such a bon vivant - I would have made sure he left the world in the grand style he had lived his life. It was no longer in my hands. How sad.

  Driving five odd kilometres in our adored Jag - the silver grey mark V11 - I stared at Mumbai’s deserted streets. My heart was as stripped of emotions as the roads were of crowds. I looked out at the sea as we drove past Marine Drive - no lovers sitting on the parapet. Mumbai had no love left anymore. ‘M’ had died. Hundreds of people were dying everywhere… Mumbai itself was dying. Why blame just the virus. Something much worse was corroding everything… hate! At that awful moment, I was filled with dread. . . would ‘That One’ spot me before I spotted her? I swept in, my head held high, just as I had rehearsed a hundred times at home, before the full-length mirror on my Burma teak almirah… It still bore ‘M’s’ aftershave fragrance… heaven knows how. Or maybe, my nostrils held its memory. I spotted a few familiar faces - ‘M’s’ doctor, his staff, my children, a couple of what I called ‘oldie-goldies’… in my mind, they had grown old, not me.

  I stil
l couldn’t spot her! Had she decided it was wiser and more discreet to stay away? I looked quizzically at my daughter, and she averted my gaze. Standing next to her, and being held in a light embrace, was a tiny, shrunken bag of bones - bent over with grief, and hardly able to look up. She was dressed in what we would call ‘home clothes’ - an unironed cotton caftan with block print. Her hair was in an untidy bun, with strands of fading grey framing a thin face. She was wearing bifocals much too large for her thin face. Her skin was spotted and she wore no make-up. I guessed it was her, when I recognised ‘M’s’ old watch on her emaciated wrist - the sturdy Daytona. ‘M’ called it a ‘workhorse’ and preferred it to some of his far more expensive, complicated watches. Why would this woman be wearing his watch… unless… unless…

  In that one brief moment, I was freed. I went and took my place on the other side of my daughter. The three women in ‘M’s’ life were together in grief. Finally, it was all over.

  MISS LA DI DA

  ‘Hey!’ I didn’t know what to say to her after that. She stared at me in such a hostile way while I stood there, at the head of the small garden, wondering what I had done to offend Miss La Di Da. Our kids were friends, okay? We were neighbours… sort of. I mean, we weren’t neighbours-neighbours in the old sense of having grown up together in the same complex or anything. Our kids went to the same school. We were all fucked with the home schooling shit. I needed help, man! Why would she behave like this? Goddess syndrome, or what? Glaring and ignoring me, like I was a turd she didn’t want to step on.

  Gawwwwd! These bloody women! I had met a few of her type during those boring and pointless PTAs. I hated meeting my boy’s teachers and listening to the same old shit about his inattention in class. Okayyyy, that’s why he is in your fancy, pricey school! You deal with it, na? But this Miss La Di Da was giving me serious grief, I tell you. Why? What the hell, man - the bachchas played in the sand pit together, they shared tricycles and balls, their nannies were besties, and the snacks from my kitchen were far more imaginative than those banana chips and roasted peanuts she packed for her sweeties - two lovely little girls, who had inherited their mother’s aquiline good looks, but mercifully, not her imperious temperament.

  I was back in my old bachpan ka home to take care of my parents during the lockdown. It was just me and my boy, plus his nanny. And my folks with their staff. As a single father, living with other people, even my own parents, was going to extract a huge price. I was not used to hanging with anybody these days. I preferred to be alone, with my music, poker, telescope, books. I watched old movies and kept going back to Bresson. This was my chosen world… after… never mind after what. I was not ready to accept the ‘new normal’, because frankly, nobody knew what the hell it was! All that big talk and those fake posts - rubbish. Everything these days was abnormal if you ask me. Maybe this snooty chica was also abnormal. The thing is, had she been a little nice, we could have helped each other with the home schooling shit.

  And then, there were my parents. But I had not factored in this crazy development, okay? The last time I had lived with my folks was over 20 years ago. This was awkward! But, they had nobody else to turn to - my sister lived in New York, and she was dealing with her own Covid-19 shit there. My parents were sweet people - benign drunks who minded their own business and played bridge for relaxation. Now, without their regular foursome, they were getting on each other’s nerves. And I didn’t want to play umpire. I was dealing with my own shit. The mother of my child had upped and left all of a sudden - destination unknown. She had left a poem behind. That’s it. A shitty little poem about her quest for inner peace. Horseshit! I guessed she had met a like-minded cokehead during her Rishikesh retreat and decided to hang there with him for as long as the powder lasted.

  After that? Who the fuck cares. She was gone. Leaving our baba in my care. She always used to say witheringly, ‘Isn’t it time you manned up and took some responsibility? The sperm is all yours, you know.’ So it was! So it was! I remember making our baba in Goa… right there on the sand. We were both stoned out of our skulls, the sea was crashing at our feet, and for the past week, the sex had been amazing. Our baba was created in that happy zone… which had lasted for a surprisingly long period, given our wild and wonderful, totally untamed life, which was so erratic at that point, I am still in shock at some of the stuff we did. And we did one hell of a lot of stuff, I can tell you!

  But now… it was a different story, right? I had majorly cleaned up my shit. I was clean, man! I had to take care of the old man - my grumpy dad was going to be 75, had a whole bunch of chronic ailments, and enough medical files to build a mini Qutb Minar in the compound. The old girl was not that much healthier. Both had what were referred to as ‘co-morbidities’ - the usual crap that comes with old age - hyper tension, diabetes and God knows what else. I was not an indifferent son. I loved my folks and all that. But I had been through a lot - failed marriage and a business that went south after a great start.

  My old man was generous and kind… and I was not really worried about the future. He had bailed me out - or else - man, all those bounced cheques? I’d have spent the best years of my life behind bars. Instead, I decided to invest in a shrink, after I got sorted by Dad. We had our family trusts, investments… this great home, my own fabulous apartment, homes in Mahableshwar and Pune. I was pretty much set. My little baba was a sweet chappie… we were getting to know each other during this fucking lockdown shit. There was no option - I was stuck doing that rubbish home schooling thing with him! Imagine! Me and home schooling a kid I barely knew!

  His nanny took care of everything else - I didn’t have to wash his bum, or anything. But how could she cope with home school when she’d barely been to school herself? She was one of those great, hard- working nannies from Jharkhand. My little chap loved her to death. I often felt he loved her more than he loved his mother. Or me. But Kanti could not help with this new routine. And I definitely required proper help with all those bloody work sheets and assignments. That snobby Miss La Di Da was being such a bitch! What did she think? All I needed was a few minutes to figure out the kid’s time table and then I would take it from there. Her little girls were eager to help - but not her! Such a tight ass - with her fancy gym clothes and head gear. It was yoga this and yoga that… like there was nothing more to life than attending yoga classes online and eating ragi cookies. Her husband was a decent fellow. What was her problem? Always glaring and scowling at me, like I was upsetting her equilibrium in some way.

  Anyway, since I had loads of free time, once I was done with that school shit, I used to play bat-ball with the baba in the small common area we were permitted to use, when the lockdown rules were relaxed a bit. Miss La Di Da started complaining that my loud voice was getting on her nerves, even though her girls were cheering me. I mentioned it to my mother while enjoying a cuppa in the balcony outside my room - the one baba and I shared, as he gobbled up his freshly baked mini cheese quiche and I ate those mummywala special chicken salad sandwiches. When I cribbed about that creature who threw attitude at me for nothing, mummyji smiled and said, ‘You must get her on your side, so that the children can play together a little more freely and you can get help with the homework - I hear she used to be a school teacher before she married that nice man.’ For once the old lady had come up with a good idea.

  The next time I ran into Miss La Di Da, I offered to help her carry the gas cylinder to her flat. These days our hyper paranoid security guys did not allow delivery of those monstrous cylinders to our homes, since someone somewhere had tested positive after the gas cylinder wala entered the kitchen. She was wearing a really attractive mask made out of some fancy organic fabric. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a top knot, and she had smudged kaajal in her eyes. All these details I could take in quickly, because my ex-wife used to work with a fashion magazine and was forever discussing this shit over the phone. Miss La Di Da was struggling with the cylinder, and her right wrist must have been hurting
because she was wearing a thick, black support brace. She first pretended she didn’t need my assistance, and then relented when her wrist hurt and she winced in pain.

  I felt this cylinder thing was a bit too much in this complex - what sort of crazy restrictions were these? There were senior citizens staying here, with no live-in help. Who would carry their cylinders? We reached her kitchen door and the girls squealed with delight when they saw me. Her husband was around, watching CNN. He looked up, smiled and invited me in for a beer. The girls dragged me into the house and insisted I stay. I wondered why he hadn’t helped with the cylinder. He looked able bodied and young.

  My expression must have given me away. There was an awkward silence in the large living room, next to the neat open-style kitchen. I felt really stupid - like I had dropped a huge brick. Oh shit! There goes my chance to share homework and work sheets - that was my first, entirely selfish thought. The worst thing about the bloody lockdown had been the home schooling crap - it was so much crap! What could these little children possibly ‘learn’, after being forcibly seated in front of the Ipad? Their attention spans were way too small… I felt bad for the teachers, too. Imagine ‘teaching’ kids virtually! Imagine getting up early, preparing all those lessons and sitting in front of a screen! I was a dud at all this. A total dud. I had never bothered with baba’s lessons or school assignments. It was not my department, man! I had no idea about his books or how many crayons kids required for art class. This was beginning to get to me!

  I had to fucking wake up at 7 a.m., to make sure baba was ready to sit in front of that screen by 8 a.m. His school insisted on a parent sitting through the lessons and supervising homework. The kids had to be bathed and fed before classes began. This was insane! Totally insane! Some of the other parents had it much worse. They were stuck at home minus staff. Moms had to cook and clean and hang around for the class. Some of them were full-time working moms and dads adhering to the WFH schedule. Most dads preferred to leave it to moms to keep this junk going. I was totally screwed!