^ PENGUIN BOOKS

SULTRY" DAYS
y
Shobhaa De describes herself as an 'obsessive-compulsive writer.'
Columnist, commentator, and author of fourteen books, she
lives with her family in Mumbai, a city that she considers a
'character', not just a locale, in her work.

She is currently planning her next book, a novel.

Sultry Days
SHOBHAA DE

@
PENGUIN BOOKS
PENGUIN BOOKS
P u b l i s h e d by the P e n g u i n G r o u p
P e n g u i n B o o k s India Pvt. L t d , 11 C o m m u n i t y C e n t r e , P a n c h s h e e l P a r k , N e w
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Penguin G r o u p ( N Z ) , cnr A i r b o r n e a n d R o s e d a l e R o a d s , A l b a n y , A u c k l a n d
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England

First p u b l i s h e d by P e n g u i n B o o k s I n d i a 1 9 9 4

Copyright © Shobhaa De 1994

All rights reserved

15

Typeset by V a n s I n f o r m a t i o n L i m i t e d , M u m b a i

P r i m e d ai R a j Press, N e w D e l h i

T h i s b o o k is s o l d s u b j e c t to the c o n d i t i o n t h a t it s h a l l n o t , by w a y of t r a d e o r
o t h e r w i s e , b e lent, r e s o l d , hired o u t , o r o t h e r w i s e c i r c u l a t e d w i t h o u t the
p u b l i s h e r ' s p r i o r w r i t t e n c o n s e n t in a n y f o r m of b i n d i n g o r c o v e r o t h e r t h a n
t h a t in w h i c h it is p u b l i s h e d a n d w i t h o u t a s i m i l a r c o n d i t i o n i n c l u d i n g this
c o n d i t i o n b e i n g i m p o s e d o n the s u b s e q u e n t p u r c h a s e r a n d w i t h o u t l i m i t i n g
the rights u n d e r c o p y r i g h t r e s e r v e d a b o v e , n o p a r t of this p u b l i c a t i o n m a y be
r e p r o d u c e d , s t o r e d in o r i n t r o d u c e d i n t o a retrieval s y s t e m , o r t r a n s m i t t e d in
a n y f o r m or by a n y m e a n s ( e l e c t r o n i c , m e c h a n i c a l , p h o t o c o p y i n g , r e c o r d i n g
o r o t h e r w i s e ) , w i t h o u t the p r i o r w r i t t e n p e r m i s s i o n of b o t h the c o p y r i g h t
o w n e r a n d the a b o v e - m e n t i o n e d p u b l i s h e r o f this b o o k .
For my c h i l d r e n —
Ranadip, Radhika, Aditya,
Avantika, Arundhati
and A n a n d i t a —
finally, a b o o k b y m e t h a t t h e y can r e a d .
 One

o d w a s n ' t at all w h a t I'd e x p e c t e d him t o b e .

G He s p o k e with a vernac accent and s m o k e d smelly
b e e d i e s . H e also c h a n g e d my n a m e the m o m e n t we
were introduced.
' F o r g e t it, yaar,' he said, chucking his beedi into a
half-drunk cup of tea. ' I ' m not going to call you Nisha.
It's a r i d i c u l o u s n a m e . F r o m now on, y o u ' l l be my
intoxicant, my nasha.'
I wasn't i m p r e s s e d . N o t initially, at least. But I didn't
dare say anything by way o f p r o t e s t . O n e didn't do
that with G o d .
T h e c o l l e g e c a n t e e n w a s dark and stank. It was
p o u r i n g o u t s i d e and m o s t of the p r o f e s s o r s had stayed
away f r o m c l a s s e s . T h e r e w a s nothing to d o . T h e only
o p t i o n w a s t o have a plate of g r e a s y , frilly c u t l e t s with
a m e s s y d o l l o p of c a r r o t k e t c h u p all over t h e m . The
place w a s c r u m b l i n g , with bats flying in and o u t of the
high, G o t h i c w i n d o w s .
1
 Shobhaa De

God was holding c o u r t in his favourite corner. I'd

never really liked him but I m u s t admit to a d e e p
fascination. A s o r t of infatuation t o w a r d s him that
simultaneously attracted and repelled. It wasn't just
his nine-day stubble that put m e off. It was his entire
manner. I used to wonder whether he ever attended
lectures. He was always in the canteen. Always, always.
And smoking those God-awful beedies. His friends varied.
Especially the girls who hung around his table. I couldn't
imagine what attracted them to him. Most of the time
they were the ones who paid for his special chai, bought
him his beedies and even offered to subsidize haircuts.
Oh yes—his hair. I hated that too. Matted locks—which
I was sure were full of lice-nests and other creepy crawlies.
O n e hand of his was invariably engaged in scratching.
The hand didn't stop at the head. I'd never seen a man
who itched so much. Scratch, scratch, scratch... his
hand tore inside his filthy shirt and scratched up a bloody
pool. It travelled down to his groin, up to his a r m p i t s ,
right round to his back. Sometimes he'd pause mid-scratch
to make s o m e point and then start all over again. He
really was m o s t revolting.
And I? How must I have appeared to this animal? A
prissy little good girl who carried far too many books
around. Pretty enough, I suppose. But not special.
'You look so frigid, yaar,' he told m e within three
minutes of our being introduced. 'Why don't you carry
a hot water bottle around?'

2
 E v e r y b o d y l a u g h e d , e s p e c i a l l y the g i r l s . I w a s
d u m b s t r u c k . Too taken aback to retaliate. N o t that I
could think up s o m e t h i n g s m a r t enough. T h e chai-boy
c a m e around j u s t then.
'Mushtaq, g e t the p o o r girl s o m e t h i n g hot to drink
b e f o r e she freezes,' s o m e o n e s h o u t e d .
I p i c k e d u p my s t u f f and w a l k e d stiffly o u t of
the c a n t e e n .
O n c e I'd d u c k e d into the library, I felt safe. I could
dive into my b o o k s and p r e t e n d to read. I could strike
my favourite p o s e and not be found out. T h e librarian
k n e w m e by n a m e . I fitted in here, j u s t like the other
introverts and w a l l f l o w e r s around m e . I didn't know
why I felt a w k w a r d in c o m p a n y . T h e r e wasn't anything
particularly w r o n g with m e , though you wouldn't know
it by the question that was m o s t often asked of m e .
It u s e d t o s t a r t f i r s t thing in the m o r n i n g . T h e
m o m e n t I w a l k e d i n t o the d i n i n g - r o o m f o r a cup of
t e a , my m o t h e r w o u l d l o o k at my face anxiously and
ask, ' W h a t ' s w r o n g ? '
I'd want t o yell, ' N O T H I N G , ' b u t that w a s n ' t d o n e
a r o u n d o u r h o u s e . Father w o u l d follow shortly. I'd
hear him e n q u i r i n g en r o u t e t o the k i t c h e n , 'Is Baby
up yet?' And then, on seeing m e , that irritating question,
'What's wrong?'
Was it my e x p r e s s i o n ? D i d I look troubled? In pain?
D e p r e s s e d ? Maybe it w a s that b i r t h m a r k of mine. It
had to be that. I was b o r n with w o r r y lines between
 Shobhaa De

my brows. The d o c t o r s had assured my parents that

they'd get fainter with the years and eventually disappear.
But they didn't.They grew darker and gave the impression
that I was constantly frowning or scowling. N o wonder
the teachers at school ended up writing the same remark
in the r e p o r t b o o k , year after year! 'She needs to cheer
up and take m o r e interest in extra-curricular activities.'
My best friend (the only friend I had, actually, and
I lost her as soon as I began to hang around G o d ) tried
to tell the others that I wasn't in a bad m o o d , it was
just a birthmark. N o b o d y was convinced. 'What sort
of a birthmark is that? We've never heard of anyone
born with a frown.'
I still haven't learnt to live with i t — t h e frown. And
often when I catch sight of myself in a mirror I'm startled.
I nearly ask myself, 'What's wrong?'
G o d was the only one who thought my frown was
'cute'. 'I like it, yaar,' he told m e , and for that m o m e n t ,
at least, I'm sure it disappeared. 'Hey! Where did it
go?' he asked in m o c k alarm touching my forehead.
That was the first time he had t o u c h e d m e and
I jumped.
' D o n ' t electrocute her, yaar,' his ugly friend with
the horribly stained teeth laughed.
'Leave the kid alone,' declared G o d b e f o r e picking
up his beedi packet and sauntering out. Someone settled
his bill.
'Why is he called " G o d " ? ' I asked a boy in my class.

4
 Slit t r y Day

'That's his name,' he answered.

' D o n ' t be ridiculous,' I said. ' H o w can anyone be
named " G o d " ? '
' N o t G o d - G o d . His name is Deb. D e b means G o d ,
or so he tells anybody who dares to ask.'
That m a d e sense, though he was the first D e b or
D e v I knew who had decided to be so literal about
it. I liked the name G o d . Deb. O r Dev. 1 only wished
G o d wasn't so dirty. What D e b n e e d e d desperately
was a bath.

My mother, being the eternal romantic she was, had

named m e Nisha or 'night' since that's when I was born.
My father, my sweet, doting father, insisted there was
a full m o o n out when I arrived. Thank G o d both of
them were considerate enough not to have called m e
Poornima. I've always hated that name. Nisha had a
pleasant ring to it. I liked the way it sounded. It made
me feel very sensual and sultry... but only in my fantasies.
I thought of the other girls in my class who had awful
n a m e s like M o n a or P r e m a . What would G o d have
changed those to, I wondered.
He had had (yes H A D ) several girls by the time he
got to the second year at college. 'I started early, yaar,'
he told m e . 'I was a randy little bugger at five.' His
early explorations apparently began with a neighbour's
servant girl. 'She smelt so m u c h . . . o o f . . . but so did I.

5
 Shobhaa De

It was quite a feat trying to do anything with both of

us holding our noses. It used to irritate m e that she
also held hers. I'd pull her filthy hand away from her
nose and shout, "Why are you holding your nose, you
dirty thing? You are only a servant." She, being three
years older, would pinch m e hard on my bottom and
threaten, "If you say that again, I'll go and tell my memsaab
what you were doing to m e ! ' "
God's stories used to fascinate m e , I could listen
for hours while he boasted about his exploits. In between
stories, he'd lift up his thigh and let g o , without any
embarrassment whatsoever. The first few times I was
too polite and formal to react even though I felt I was
being gassed to death. I'd just sit there unable to move
or, like the servant girl, to block my nose. I learnt to
open my mouth and breathe in through it the m o m e n t
God's leg went up. I must've looked pretty stupid with
my jaw hanging open.
'You know, you resemble an imbecile sometimes,'
God commented once. 'Why don't you shut your mouth?
It makes you look kind of stupid.'
It was years b e f o r e he found out. By then I had
learnt to anticipate the blast. I could see it coming
even before he lifted his leg. After a point, we stopped
laughing over it. I began to show my irritation.
'You are being bhari inconsiderate, you know,' I
said to him on one occasion. ' H o w would you like it if
I did it back to you?'

6
 G o d d i d n ' t feel i n s u l t e d . He s c r a t c h e d h i m s e l f
thoughtfully and said, 'Try i t . . . I'd probably not even
notice. Why do you make such a fuss over a fart, yaar?
You've t o o many hang-ups. Must consult a shrink—why
don't you?' I knew it was no use explaining to him that
a shrink had nothing t o d o with m a l o d o r o u s f u m e s
choking m e — s o it was best to forget the whole business,
as it was with almost everything else. G o d had made
that clear f r o m the start.
' L o o k , I d o n ' t want any of your fancy stuff. It d o e s
not i m p r e s s m e . If you want to hang around, it's O K .
But d o n ' t e x p e c t m e to c h a n g e - w a n g e for you. I am
what I a m — t a k e it or leave it.'
This was b e f o r e I'd even thought a b o u t 'hanging
a r o u n d ' . It was his p r e s u m p t i o n that I would fall in
line just like all the o t h e r s . But as usual G o d was right,
of c o u r s e , for that was precisely what I d i d — i n time.
In the beginning, I was nothing m o r e than a devotee.
He treated m e like one. I hated the patronizing tone,
the kindness and condescension. It irritated m e no end
when his friends would snigger as I approached their
table. 'Where are the offerings?What? N o offerings today?
H o w can you c o m e empty-handed to a temple? G o back
and bring something. Even a packet of beedies will do.'
G o d would g r i n maliciously and wave m e o f f . ' ] a o ,
Jao... kuch ley ke ao ( G o o n . . . get something).'
It was humiliating and awful. But I t o o k it. And I
l e a r n e d t o like G o d , t h o u g h I w a s p r o b a b l y m o r e

7
 Shobhaa De

fascinated by him than anything else—initially. And 1

think he liked me.

There were things about G o d which appalled m e . Like

the first time, looking at a girl in class, he had said,
'She n e e d s a c a r r o t . ' I hadn't k n o w n what he was
talking about.
Foolishly, I asked him.
'Forget it, yaar. You arc such a tell-tale that if 1 tell
you, you'll go and tell her. N o t that I care. But she'll
probably think I ' m interested in offering her mine.'
I still didn't catch on. I turned to one of his buddies,
an obnoxious person with gingivitis and asked him what
God was talking about. With a leer, he demonstrated
it using his fingers and f o r e a r m . I was too shocked
to react.
G o d turned to m e and said, ' N e x t time don't ask
silly questions, O K ? '

I learnt very quickly that I had to bury whatever little

ego and pride I had if I wished to hang around G o d .
His attitude towards girls was s i m p l e — u s e them and
leave them. There were enough takers a r o u n d — b o l d
girls whose jaws never stopped working on the thick
wads of gum in their mouths. For them G o d represented
s o m e sort of an anti-hero and they probably fancied

8
themselves as sexy molls. As for m e , 1 was plain moons-
t r u c k . And for once in my life I wasn't going to lose
out by default.
I still d o n ' t know and cannot explain w h e r e 1 g o t
the c o u r a g e to g o for G o d in such an obvious way.
I had had crushes b e f o r e — s i l e n t , b r o o d i n g ones where
the chap never ever got to know. But with G o d , my
e n t i r e b e h a v i o u r a l t e r e d . H e h a d that e f f e c t on
m e — a n d on several others. I fancied I could see beyond
the put-on m e n a c i n g facade, the strutting around, the
fake bravado. And I fancied that G o d fancied m e — i n
his o w n c l u m s y way, of c o u r s e . All 1 n e e d e d was a
s i g n — e v e n a small one.
' O p p o s i t e s attract, Nasha,' he tossed at m e airily
a b o u t a m o n t h a f t e r o u r first e n c o u n t e r . And then,
e m b a r r a s s e d by the c o n f e s s i o n , he chased m e away
saying, ' S a m o s a s — g e t four.The big ones, O K ? And don't
f o r g e t the chutney.'
I'd b e e n a c c e p t e d . And I felt deeply h o n o u r e d .

G o d ' s father w a s called C o m r a d e . At first, I thought

it w a s s o m e s o r t o f a j o k e . But n o , G o d Sr. was a
card-holding c o m m i e . Being very c o m m i t t e d , he didn't
want his son to be a f e l l o w - c o m r a d e . Neither did G o d ' s
m o t h e r . T h e y w a n t e d him t o ' m a k e ' s o m e t h i n g of his
life. W h a t p r e c i s e l y that c o u l d be w a s unclear to all
of t h e m .

9
 Shobhaa De

When G o d was sixteen he decided to be cheeky

and find out. ' D o e s that mean you've m a d e nothing of
vour
j own life... C o m r a d e ? ' he asked his father.
His brother,Toro, nearly gagged over his chai-biscuit.
But God's father was unshaken.
'Ideals, my boy, ideals. I had t h e m . . . still do. I
believed... still do. You don't. I don't know what you
value. It is up to you to find out. But the Party doesn't
need people like you. Even if you want to join it you
won't be accepted because you are a taker. The Party
wants givers.'
'So where has " g i v i n g " g o t you?' asked G o d . 'A
rat-infested hole we have to call a home? If you chose
ideals, why did you have a family? Ma and you could
have suffered in bliss by yourselves. H o w do you think
Toro and I feel about not having g o o d clothes? N o
pocket-money? N o place where our friends can come?
I'll tell you how we feel—angry.'
'That's enough. N o w go and help your mother with
the buckets.'
God said to m e that he didn't feel bitter any longer.
Only cynical. ' C o m r a d e s ! ' he'd snort while passing a
morcha. 'Lai nishan, zindabad,' he'd shout mockingly
at the protestors.
' W h o pays y o u r f e e s ? ' I'd a s k e d him once,
rather indelicately.
'I do,' he said without any self-consciousness.
'Meaning?'

10
 Su

' M e a n i n g , I w o r k as a f r e e l a n c e r e p o r t e r . . . and
d o o t h e r s t u f f . . . c o r r e c t i n g p r o o f s , g a l l e y s . . . that
kind of thing.'
'But your E n g l i s h . . . I m e a n , you went to a vernac
school.'
'That has nothing to do with it. I was reading Chaucer
and Karl Marx at ten. Don't ask m e whether I understood
any of it, but those w e r e the only b o o k s around the
place. Besides, how a b o u t your English, my dear Miss
Snooty? H o w well do you conjugate? Forget it, yaar,
all your convent c r o w d is full of crap, you p e o p l e put
on a maha accent to cover up for your p o o r language.
I bet I can w r i t e better than all the guys in your class.
O r m i n e . I'd g o t a s c h o l a r s h i p — t o C o l u m b i a . Have
you heard of that university? 1 c o u l d n ' t g o because
C o m r a d e didn't have the m o n e y to pay the air-fare.
And he d i d n ' t w a n t t o borrow. I tried telling him that
had either Toro or I b e e n a daughter he w o u l d ' v e had
to pay a d o w r y to m a r r y us off. W h e r e would he have
g o t the m o n e y f r o m then? But he i g n o r e d m e and said,
"First g r a d u a t e in India. And then show off a b r o a d . "
A f t e r that, I lost all interest in s t u d i e s , yaar. But not in
languages—I'm fluent in G e r m a n , can understand French
and r e a d Spanish. But what's the point? I'll stagnate
here like e v e r y b o d y else. S o . . . now you know where
my fees c o m e s f r o m . Any other questions?'
' Y e s — f r o m w h e r e did you g e t those fancy jeans?'
' O h these? I bought them o f f a junkie at Colaba.
You k n o w D i p t i — t h e fruit juice place? We used to go

11
 S si o o n a a D©

there for a lassi after doing bakwas in the night. Grass

dries up your throat. I m e t this g u y — h e w a s f r o m
Heidelberg. He c o u l d n ' t speak English and a pusher
was trying to con him. He k e p t m u t t e r i n g in G e r m a n .
1 felt sorry for the guy and 1 s p o k e to him in G e r m a n .
His face lit up. I told him the pusher was trying to sell
him junk. I g u e s s he felt g r a t e f u l . We started chatting.
Dipti shut shop and we strolled off towards the Gateway.
'It was a beautilul night. We sat on the parapet watching
the lights of the ships in the harbour. H e talked of his
family, his university, his d r e a m s . It was t o o m u c h , yaar.
I bought him s o m e chai. He m u s t have been t o u c h e d —
because he asked me whether he could give m e something
in r e t u r n . Poor fellow, he had hardly anything left.
Everything had been stolen—his camera, bags—-everything.
I felt b a d , yaar, but I c o u l d n ' t help it. I said, "I want
your jeans."
'He looked so happy as he s t o o d there in his chaddis.
"Here take t h e m , " he said. I t o o k off my pants and
tried them o n . T h e y w e r e n ' t a great f i t . . . but I'd always
wanted i m p o r t e d jeans. 1 knew this was the chance. If
I hadn't taken it, I w o u l d ' v e had to wait for ten m o r e
years. I didn't feel as if I was taking advantage of him
or anything. D a m n it, I'd given him my pants in r e t u r n . '

I d o n ' t r e m e m b e r the p r e c i s e day that G o d d e c i d e d

we were going t o g e t h e r ' . I think it w a s d u r i n g a c o f f e e

12
 Sultry Days

m o r n i n g at a college haunt, the Bistro. The jazz group

was playing "Take the A Train," and G o d was drumming
on the table with a lighter. 'You are O K , yaar,' he said
to m e , without breaking his rhythm, 'I mean, I don't
mind you hanging around. 1 can't stand frustrated females
generally. But you... you're all right. Stick around, baby.'
His awful friend, Guru, winked and made the victory
sign. I sort of guessed G o d ' s little speech had made
the whole thing official. I looked around the restaurant
to see whether anybody there had n o t i c e d — i t must
have been so obvious that we were 'going steady' now.
But nobody looked back at m e .
Being G o d ' s girl was challenging. It was also pretty
lonely. Most of the time G o d wasn't there and I had to
sit around with G u r u waiting for him to show up. All
the others dropped m e the m o m e n t they knew we were
on. The few friends I'd made melted away as soon as
they got the message that G o d came first. O r worse,
that G o d would probably join us. The girls would move
away hastily at the sight of him strolling up the courtyard.
I couldn't understand this. It s e e m e d so mean. God
was g o o d . And at least he wasn't boring like the other
boys who wore Wrangler jeans and chewed g u m . God
must've sensed my unease.
O n e day, while walking back after classes he said,
' L o o k , yaar, it's O K if you want to split. The scene's
getting heavy. I'm not used to having a female hanging
around. G u r u also feels funny when you are there. You're

13
a s w e e t kid and all that. But all this s t e a d y - w e d d y
business is t o o m u c h . Why d o n ' t you see other g u y s . . .
you k n o w . . . that guy w i t h s p e c s , w h a t ' s - h i s - n a m e ?
K r i s h n a — o r s o m e o n e else?You'll g e t a guy, I ' m telling
you. You haven't t r i e d , that's all.'
I didn't want to g o for other g u y s , d a m n it. G o d
was all I w a n t e d — h a d ever w a n t e d in a b o y f r i e n d . He
wasn't like the other boys. He had character—you know?
It c a m e out at d i f f e r e n t m o m e n t s . Like the t i m e he
stood up to Rakesh w h o s e sole claim to f a m e w a s being
the only son of a sugar baron.
Rakesh had b e e n indulging in a few sneaky tricks
with the g i r l s — t h e old kiss-and-tell routine. O n e of
his victims complained to G o d . T h e confrontation between
the two took place in the college canteen. Rakesh called
G o d a ' c o m m i e b e g g a r ' . G o d retaliated bv d u b b i n g
him a 'ball-less e u n u c h ' . A few punches later, Rakesh,
looking like a b l o o d i e d rat, b e g g e d for mercy. G o d
d r a g g e d him across the basketball c o u r t and flung him
at the insulted girl's f e e t .
'Say sorry to her, you dog,' he snarled.
1 thought the whole thing heroic and old-fashioned.
Rakesh w a s b i g g e r and richer. But it w a s G o d w h o
had s c o r e d .
His general attitude towards m e was one of calculated
indifference. But on days when I s k i p p e d c o l l e g e or
bunked lectures, my absence r e g i s t e r e d with G o d . At
our n e x t meeting he'd n a r r o w his eyes and l o o k at m e .

14
' W h e r e w e r e you yesterday, Nasha?' he'd d e m a n d . I'd
s u p p r e s s my secret thrill (he'd n o t i c e d ! ) and give him
s o m e vague answer. This would g e t his goat further.
And I w o u l d g e t the r e a s s u r a n c e I was looking for.
T h o u g h , I m u s t say that with G o d , it was I who wore
my heart on my sleeve. It was I w h o m a d e my feelings
clear and t o o k the initiative. N o g a m e s . N o t even an
a t t e m p t to play hard to g e t . G o d had only to say the
w o r d , and I would be his. His what? Slave, sidekick,
girl. It hardly m a t t e r e d .
O n the day he s p o k e to m e about finding s o m e o n e
else my heart sank by the second listening to him. What
w a s he saying? I w o u l d die without him. I'd g o mad
with g r i e f . H o w could he feel that way when I was so
happy? ' I ' m not looking for a carrot,' I finally heard
myself say.
G o d laughed. He actually laughed a happy laugh!
' O K , ' was all he said. ' O K . ' T h e sweetest w o r d s I'd ever
heard. And that was it. It was settled. I was God's girl.

15
 t o o k up a j o b with a m e d i o c r e ad agency straight
I after college. J u s t because I'd graduated with English
honours and didn't really want to study any further, I
had decided to g o out and g e t myself a j o b , any job. And
as everybody knows, when there's nothing better going,
join advertising. If your bullshit sells—nothing like it.
If not, you can still get by. N o t shine as a supernova, but
crawl along, j u m p i n g f r o m one agency to the n e x t , till
you join the huge firmament of senior mediocrities like
yourself. By then, you at least have the ad jargon mastered
and several cute tricks under your belt. Unfortunately,
these little n u m b e r s didn't excite m e . T h e r e were other
trainees in the same batch who had orgasms during the
so-called creative brain-storming sessions. I just couldn't
feel all a-flutter over a new brand of sanitary napkins
that the agency was out to promote. Whether the protective
shield was blue or p i n k — w h a t the hell did it matter?

16
 Sultry Days

' O h , but it does. It makes all the difference. Blue

is the colour associated with safety,' the creative director
would say, hands flapping. 'Pink? N o , dearest ones, it
cannot, but cannot, be pink.That's too close to blood.'
So, we'd all rush off to the studio and stop the final
artworks which had the pink shield.
The art director resembled a crow and was called
that, but in Marathi. In the Bombay agencies, most of
the paste-up boys and lay-out girls are Maharashtrians.
N o sin. B u t m o s t i n c o n v e n i e n t , u n l e s s you s p o k e
Marathi, since they didn't speak any English.
Kawla (Crow, the art d i r e c t o r ) was detested by
everybody. But everyone a g r e e d that he was talented.
H e c a m e up with visuals that were k n o c k - o f f s but
which didn't look like copies. That qualified him as
being an 'original ideas m a n ' . It was invariably left
to m e t o explain a client's brief to him since I was
the only Marathi-speaking p e r s o n on the 'other' side.
I d r e a d e d these e n c o u n t e r s since Kawla insisted on
carrying on a conversation in his version of English.
This would lead to s u p p r e s s e d titters as the slaves in
his galley p r e t e n d e d to align copy while listening to
us. My Marathi was pretty shaky, but it was still better
than his English. Kawla would resent my speaking to
him in his native t o n g u e since it i m p l i e d that he
couldn't e x p r e s s himself in 'Ingreji'. So, we'd struggle
o n — m e in b r o k e n Marathi and Kawla in fractured
English. It wasn't easy discussing sanitary napkins (with

17
 bhobhaa De

or without loops) or cold wax hair remover under the

circumstances.
Kawla d i s a p p r o v e d of G o d , who otten b u r s t in
on us and laughed openly at our e x c h a n g e s . H e ' d
pointedly pull out a huge handkerchief and hold it to
his nose while G o d puffed at his beedi. M o s t of the
others in the studio would stop whatever they were
doing to watch while G o d asked m e to 'lend' him a
tenner. Since 1 always left my handbag in the cabin I
shared with the trainees, the entire e x e r c i s e would
b e c o m e very obvious. Even the peons knew. After a
few months, when we'd all got used to each other,
the s m a r t e r of the two peons, D h o n d u , would rush
to my table to pick up my bag the m o m e n t he saw
G o d coming. N o b o d y liked D e b , not even Anu, the
t e l e p h o n e - o p e r a t o r - c u m - r e c e p t i o n i s t . But t h e n , I
s u p p o s e , Anu didn't like anybody. And she listened
in on all calls. She was also caught intercepting mail
on several occasions. Any r e p r i m a n d only a d d e d to
her surly behaviour. She behaved like it was outrageous
for anyone to e x p e c t privacy. I'd often walk into the
office to find her reading my letters or even just holding
them up to the light (what she hoped to see that way,
I'll never know).
'What rubbish!' she exploded when I dared to protest.
'Who's interested in you and your letters?'
'What about phone-calls? I know you listen whenever
Deb calls.'

18
 S u 11 r y D a y s

'As if a n y b o d y w o u l d w a n t to hear your stupid

conversations. In any case, all he ever calls for is money.'
' T h e r e ! I caught y o u . H o w did you know that if
you hadn't heard us?'
' E v e r y b o d y in the office k n o w s i t — w h y pick on
m e ? ' She sulked and s t o p p e d talking to m e after that.
G o d w a s n ' t at all bashful. 'Theek hai ( O K ) , yaar,'
he said to m e when I told him. 'That female has problems.
She l o o k s f r u s t r a t e d . She needs a g o o d screw.'
I hated G o d when he said stuff like that. It was his
e x p l a n a t i o n f o r everything. Any w o m a n w h o didn't
instantly fall into one of his slots was ' f r u s t r a t e d ' and
'in n e e d of a s c r e w ' .

C o m r a d e often c o u r t e d arrest at Flora Fountain or Kala

G h o d a , w h e r e all p r o c e s s i o n i s t s w e r e h a l t e d by
b a t o n - w i e l d i n g p a n d u - h a v a l d a r s . S o m e t i m e s he was
a c c o m p a n i e d by Toro. Years after I discovered who he
w a s , I saw him being d r a g g e d o f f into a waiting police
van, kicking and p r o t e s t i n g all the way. T h e agency
o v e r l o o k e d the busy square and I had a bird's-eye view
of the whole thing. Seeing G o d ' s father yelling 'inquilab
zindabad' so lustily i m p r e s s e d m e a great deal. It also
m a d e m e feel very t e n d e r t o w a r d s G o d .
In fact, by n o w a l m o s t everything m a d e m e feel
that way t o w a r d s h i m . I'd b e d o o d l i n g on a scratch
pad waiting for o r d e r s — ' G i v e m e a paragraph on plastic

19
 Sbobbaa De

mouldings... I need s o m e body c o p y ' — a n d suddenly,

I'd spot a hairy beast at the beedi shop at the corner.
' G o d ! ' I'd exclaim to myself, feeling thrilled.The thought
of writing rubbish about plastic mouldings after that
wouldn't be as awful. S o m e t i m e s , G o d would rush up
the stairs panting: 'I need s o m e beedi-money, yaar.'
There was nothing apologetic about the demand but
curiously it would actually make m e feel grateful. And
each time he touched me for money, I'd feel a stirring
of enthusiasm for my lousy job. At least it gave m e a
salary which I could use for him.
Occasionally, very occasionally, G o d ' s selfishness
would bother m e . O n c e , walking back f r o m the office,
I stopped at a sandal store (like Imelda M a r c o s , I had a
shoe fetish—and still d o ) to gaze with longing at all
the g o r g e o u s n e w styles. H e i m p a t i e n t l y p r o d d e d
m e to move on, 'Forget it, yaar. You d o n ' t need any
chappal-wappal. C o m e on, let's go get m e an umbrella.
I get drenched waiting for you to show up.'
I didn't dare tell him that one of my secret childhood
longings was to own a cupboard full of shoes in every
conceivable colour. Particularly red.
On my fifth birthday, I'd wanted a pair of bright
red p o i n t - t o e d shoes. T h e kind that t h o s e pretty,
goldilocked English girls wore in Women and Home.
I'd plucked up the courage to ask my mother for them.
But Mother being Mother thought in t e r m s of 'wasteful
expenditure'. She insisted I should buy black or white
ones so that they'd double as school shoes.

20
 Sultry Days

'But I don't want school shoes,' I'd wailed, 'I want

party shoes.'
'We don't have parties in this house on birthdays—
vou know t h a t — i t is unlucky. D o you want something
to happen to you just because of your obstinacy? Supposing
I g o t you red shoes and you had a party... supposing a
horrible thing h a p p e n e d . . . an accident or something. If
your dress caught fire on the cake candles... won't you
feel bad? All because of your red shoes. So... no red
s h o e s — y o u understand?'
N o , I hadn't understood one little bit. I was crushed
and disappointed. I didn't mind sacrificing my life for
the s h o e s . T h e candles, the cake, m e aflame... I didn't
care. I wanted the shoes.
I had tried appealing to my father. It didn't work.
H e w a s a m a m a ' s m a n . I had to s e t t l e f o r b l a c k
shoes... but my father had tried to arrange a compromise.
'Let's buy red socks,' he had suggested brightly.
I had been crying too hard to reply. In any case, I
didn't want red socks. Only red shoes.The shopkeeper,
obviously moved by the sight, had run out of the shop
and brought back a red lollipop. I had flung it on the
floor and continued to sob. Ever since that episode, I
have had a mental b l o c k . . . red shoes are associated
with trauma. Somehow, I secretly believed my mother's
prediction. I was convinced I would die a horrible death
the m o m e n t I stepped into a pair of the forbidden shoes.
Yet, I couldn't stop coveting them.

21
 I tried to share all this with G o d . But he w a s n ' t at
all interested in my childhood. 'It sounds so corny, yaar,'
he s n o r t e d . 'You m u s t have b e e n a crazy kid.'
And so, w e walked past the shoe shop and h e a d e d
for the umbrella counter in the huge d e p a r t m e n t store.
'Let's pick up o n e of those a u t o m a t i c J a p a n e s e j o b s ,
yaar,' G o d said. ' T h e desi o n e s are useless.'
G o d had expensive tastes in m o s t things. He'd spend
h o u r s looking for a p e r f e c t pair of l o a f e r s . 'If they aren't
hand-stitched, they aren't w o r t h w e a r i n g , yaar,' he'd
c o m m e n t , while I haggled with the impassive Chinese
shopkeeper over the e x o r b i t a n t p r i c e . I loved buying
things for G o d . It gave m e a sense of belonging. Gifts
were a b o n d — p e r h a p s the only o n e . G i f t s — w h i c h he
took entirely for g r a n t e d .
And although he p o u r e d s c o r n on the C o m m i e s , he
did believe in the philosophy which was understandable
given his background. I didn't mind being called a capitalist
p i g , but I didn't like his calling my father that. For his
p a r t , my father c o u l d n ' t stand the sight of G o d or the
sound of his voice on the p h o n e .
'What d o you see in that w o r t h l e s s f e l l o w ? ' he'd
ask. ' H e has no future. He has nothing. N o looks. N o
money. Nothing.'
But that was precisely why I liked him. A n d , unlike
other boys, he didn't want to w o r k . I thought that was
terrific. He actually r e j e c t e d w o r k . He had c o n t e m p t

22
for it. I told my father that with a lot of p r i d e , during
an a r g u m e n t . He nearly fell off his easy chair in anger.
'You f o o l ! H o w can you say something so absurd?
W h a t will that m a n do in life? Beg? B e c o m e a pariah?
Has he no s e l f - r e s p e c t ? '
U n d e t e r r e d by his r e a c t i o n , I m u m b l e d , 'You don't
u n d e r s t a n d , Papa, he is a genius.'
' G e n i u s at what? L i v i n g o f f o t h e r p e o p l e ? W h e n
will y o u s e e s e n s e ? You k n o w h o w y o u r m o t h e r and
I f e e l a b o u t h i m . H e ' l l r u i n y o u r l i f e . . . j u s t wait
and s e e . '
H o w c o m e both of them didn't realize how strangely
those w o r d s w o r k e d ? All you have to tell a young girl
is that s o m e boy is g o i n g to ruin her l i f e — a n d presto!
the chap b e c o m e s irresistible! I w a n t e d to say, 'I'd like
D e b to ruin my life. I want him to ruin it. I don't care
if he w r e c k s it. I love him.'
But my father's white knuckles clutching the chair
stopped m e . 'Idiot!' he said, reading my thoughts. 'Heaven
knows what you see in such a fellow? We will have to
show your h o r o s c o p e to Shankerao. T h e r e m u s t be a
mangal in the m a r r i a g e house. You were b o r n under a
bad star. This m a n has s o m e p o w e r over you. He m u s t
be a hypnotist. Filthy fellow. He stinks. He looks dirty.
And he wants t o b e a b e g g a r . Yet, my daughter, my
foolish daughter, calls him a genius.'
M o s t p e o p l e felt that way about G o d . And I thought
that there was s o m e t h i n g the m a t t e r with t h e m . H o w

23
 Shobhaa D e

c o m e they couldn't recognize his qualities? His talent?

G o d could quote f r o m the Upanishads. H e had read Don
Quixote in the original Spanish. He knew how to pronounce
and eat escargots. He could tell you all sorts of interesting
things about insects. O r rain forests. H e k n e w all the
Beatles songs by heart. And was on first n a m e t e r m s
with several painters and p o e t s . H e could c o o k and sew.
And he knew how to fix the world's best fluffy omelettes.
D o g s , cats and other animals were instinctively drawn
to him. He could tie a tiny b a n d a g e around a house
sparrow's injured leg. O r repair a torn wing with cellotape.
I'd watched him bottle-feed nine hungry b o x e r p u p p i e s
when their m o t h e r had died delivering t h e m . H e was
fantastic with electronic g a d g e t s . He enjoyed the o p e r a
as m u c h as Bade G h u l a m Ali. And he had seen Citizen
Kane f o u r t e e n times. H e ' d read Ayn R a n d when he was
twelve years old and c o u l d q u o t e e x t e n s i v e l y f r o m
Allen Ginsberg. H e had a s c r a p b o o k full of Mcluhan's
verses which he had illustrated himself using
psychedelic ink. He'd stitched m e a blouse o n c e , using
bandhni scarves and m i r r o r - w o r k pieces. While walking
down a dirty r o a d , he'd spot a g u l m o h u r t r e e in the
distance and stop to admire it. He created hair-ornaments
for m e using fresh g r e e n leaves, m a r i g o l d s and twigs.
He'd point out the patina on an old brass p o t lying under
a thick layer of grime. O r improvise on a vanilla ice-cream
cone by sprinkling B o u r n vita over it.

24
 Sultry Days

H o w could I describe all this to my father or my

m o t h e r ? T o them he was just a b u m . A stranger who'd
squeeze me dry of all that I owned. Mother would warn
m e , 'You may be the only child, but if you ever marry
that man we'll cut you off completely. You won't get a
paisa. We'll give the flat away to my brother's daughter.
I won't let you have even my old saris or the steel almirah.
G o , live with that scoundrel and suffer; if that's in your
h o r o s c o p e , what are we to do?'
G o d said he wasn't interested in wealth. He insisted
that money was only a means to an end. He couldn't
help it if he had very refined tastes in all things. He
liked beauty and as he put it, 'Beauty c o m e s with a
price tag. Q u a l i t y costs.'
While the others in his g r o u p carried khadi jholas
full of radical literature, p a m p h l e t s and magazines,
G o d p r e f e r r e d a saddle-stitched, all-leather satchel.
'It's m o r e practical, yaar. Holds m o r e things Lasts
longer,' he e x p l a i n e d .
H e was r i g h t . His f r i e n d s had to r e p l a c e their
jholas every three months.The satchel saw him through
three years. It was the same with pens and scratch
pads. 'The writing process b e c o m e s easier if you have
the right implements,' he'd say, taking out his silver
Cross pencil.
And there were other unexpected things as well. God's
hands and fingernails were surprisingly clean and neat.
O n c e , I caught him filing his nails. He was embarrassed

25
 S h o b hi a a D e

at first, but r e c o v e r e d quickly e n o u g h . 'Nails are a big

b o r e , j a a r . They g e t in the way.'
I didn't say a thing.
H e d i p p e d i n t o his s a t c h e l a n d p u l l e d o u t a
beautiful manicure set which he tossed at m e carelessly.
' H e r e . . . use it.Your nails could d o with s o m e buffing.'
O f t e n 1 'd catch him m u n c h i n g s o m e t h i n g absently.
'What are you eating?' I asked him the first time I heard
his jaws moving noisily in a theatre. We were watching
Sundance Kid and I was trying hard to p r e t e n d that
Robert Redford didn't affect m e since G o d had dismissed
him as a 'blond pansy with a w a r t ' .
' C a l c i u m , ' said G o d shortlv.
'What do you mean " C a l c i u m " ? ' I asked.
' H a v e n ' t y o u h e a r d o f it? It c o m e s in v a r i o u s
f o r m s . . . chalk, lime and so on.'
'You mean you are eating chalk?'
' N o . . . I ' m eating something m o r e refined—tablets.'
'Why?'
It's g o o d f o r the nails,' he said a n d p a s s e d m e
a h a n d f u l . A f t e r that, w e ' d m u n c h c a l c i u m t a b l e t s
companionably through a m o v i e while the others ate
p o p c o r n . It was things like this that m a d e G o d , G o d .
Only, nobody really u n d e r s t o o d or c a r e d .

In addition to his nails, G o d was particular a b o u t his

lips. Whatever be the season, G o d c a r r i e d a chapstick

26
 Sultry Days

around in his filthy pockets. This he would whip out at

the unlikeliest m o m e n t and apply evenly on his dried
lips. The first time he did it in my presence I looked
away in e m b a r r a s s m e n t . G o d looked extraordinarily
silly rubbing a chapstick on his lips. But he wasn't at
all embarrassed.
'It's O K , yaar. You'd better get used to it. My lips
start cracking if I don't use this bloody thing.'
'Why don't you try giving up grass?' I asked him.
'Maybe those ciggies don't suit you.'
'Give up grass? You must be pagal, yaar, completely
m a d . It's like asking m e to give up ... urinating.'
'Must you be so crude?'
' W h a t ' s w r o n g with pissing? It's n a t u r a l , yaar.
Everybody does it. D o n ' t you?'
'But you make the m o s t natural function sound
obscene.'
'It's all in the mind, yaar... chalo chhodo... forget it.'

God was contemptuous about almost everything. But

my parents, particularly my father, came in for special
treatment. 'What is he, yaar? Just a stooge of his white
masters. What has he done for himself, yaar? Fuck all.
Screwed the country, that's all. Selling substandard rubbish.
Things are going to change, baby, just watch out. Tell
your old man, they're coming for him. I'd like to see
him then. What will you do when that happens, Nasha?

27
 S ho b h aa D e

When the party's over, sub kuch khatam, yaar. You'll

have to travel in buses and trains like the rest of us.'
G o d j u s t hated the sight of my father's car. It was a
s m a r t , grey A m b a s s a d o r with white towelling on the
seats. O u r driver w o r e the c o m p a n y u n i f o r m with the
logo emblazoned on the epaulettes. 'Is he a slave, that
chootiya d r i v e r o f y o u r s . ' H a s he n o s h a m e ? No
self-respect? L o o k s like a b l o o d y bandar ( m o n k e y ) in
that u n i f o r m . '
I used to ignore these taunts and digs as m u c h as I
could. But s o m e t i m e s G o d could g e t terribly vicious
and cross all limits.
O n c e , he s p o t t e d my m o t h e r in the car. She was
d r e s s e d for her t w i c e - a - w e e k b r i d g e s e s s i o n at the
c l u b . H e l o o k e d at h e r l o n g a n d h a r d and finally
announced. 'Your mother, yaar—what she really needs
is a g o o d screw.'
' O h , shut up! H o w dare you?' I s c r e a m e d . 'You and
your filthy mind. What would you know about the needs
of l a d i e s — y o u w h o have no b a c k g r o u n d , no class, you
filthy bastard,' I spluttered.
It didn't faze G o d at all. ' G e t t i n g all uppity with
m e , are you? C o o l it, yaar. N o n e e d to g e t so angry. I
didn't really mean it. All I ' m saying is, p o o r w o m a n
s e e m s a lonely lady. C o l d . Thanda. G e t the picture?
N o w I know what makes you an ice-cube. Thcek hai,
yaar. Even ice-cubes m e l t at the right t e m p e r a t u r e .
R e l a x . Have a fag.'

28
 Sultry Days

I was violently angry. I thought my m o t h e r was

looking especially pretty that day. She was wearing a
fetching pink sari which suited her c o m p l e x i o n . Her
nails l o o k e d like dainty shells and her hair had been
freshly set by Lizzie.
'Is she wearing a helmet on her head or what?' God
asked nastily.
'It's called a bouffant, and it suits her beautifully,'
said coldly. 'But how would you know about such things?'
That was supposed to be a cutting remark directed
at his own m o t h e r , w h o he'd told m e r e s e m b l e d a
washerwoman or a brothel-keeper, depending on her
m o o d — ' W h e n she feels all fancy, she puts huge flowers
in her hair and kaajal in her eyes. Her tits hang out of
her choli and the paan in the mouth makes her look
like a whore. At other times, with her sari carelessly
tied, she looks like a maidservant. But it's O K , yaar,
my father looks like a handcart puller from Lohar Chawl.'
I couldn't get over how candid, even ruthless, G o d
was in his descriptions of his parents and their lives.
'I d o n ' t believe in all that reverence-sheverence shit,
yaar,' he'd explained. 'After all, parents are people too.
What's so special about them? They screwed and made
you by accident. D o e s that mean you should be grateful
to t h e m f o r e v e r ? Chhodo, yaar, f o r g e t i t — I only
hope they w e r e having fun w h i l e m a k i n g me.
Otherwise, what's the point? Hey... have you ever seen
your folks fucking?'

29
 Shobhaa De

'How can you talk like that, Deb. It's disgusting.'

'Which means you have—haven't you? C ' m o n . . .
confess, yaar. I won't tell anybody. Promise.'
' N o , I haven't. And even if I had, I wouldn't tell
you.'
'I've seen m i n e . Want t o hear a b o u t it? It was
when all of us u s e d to live in a small kholi. You know,
the type of chawls y o u r d r i v e r p r o b a b l y stays in.
T h e r e was no privacy, yaar, no s p a c e . W h a t c o u l d
the p o o r things d o ? They'd p u t m e and my b r o t h e r
on the c h a r p o y and lie d o w n on the f l o o r . W h e n
they thought we w e r e a s l e e p , they'd get on with it,
as quietly as possible. But the old guy's g r u n t s always
woke us up. I'd n u d g e Toro or he'd n u d g e m e . T h e n
it w o u l d be a f r e e show.'
'How shameless of you! D o n ' t you feel bad now?'
' N o chance, yaar. Everybody does it. Even animals.
After some time, we stopped watching.There was nothing
new. Same old stuff. It b e c a m e so b o r i n g that we'd
close our ears to stop the grunts f r o m disturbing us.
But one sight has stuck. O f t e n , we'd find our mother
on top, and that used to look quite funny.'
'I don't want to hear anything m o r e . Stop it. Just
stop it. You have no respect for anyone or anything. I
really don't know why I tolerate you.'
'That's simple, yaar-—you love me.'

30
 Sultry Days

Till I m e t G o d , my father had been the m o s t important

man in my life. He worked for a multinational which
sold a range of useless products. I loved watching him
preening in front of the m i r r o r before leaving for the
office. It was a routine that rarely v a r i e d . T h e part that
I liked best was when he carefully selected his aftershave.
My father was fixated on smell. O n e could gauge his
m o o d from the after-shave he picked. At least, my motker
could. When I was a kid, the choice of men's fragrances
was limited to just two or three popular brands like
Old Spice.To those, my father had added English Lavender
and 471 1. He m i x e d and matched p e r f u m e s skilfully
so that, depending on the combination and the ratio,
each day p r o d u c e d a fresh fragrance. He hoarded his
colognes and after-shaves, not even allowing my mother
to splash on a few drops. 'You have your own. Leave
mine alone,' he would sav.
The house used to smell heavenly in the mornings,
especially my parents' b e d r o o m . Mummy's sandalwood
soap-smell with just a hint of Miss D i o r — h e r favourite
perfume. Unlike my father, who really indulged himself
in this d e p a r t m e n t , my m o t h e r was miserly. She was
very stingy with her b o t t l e s , dabbing on a drop here
and a d r o p there. T h e heavy, e x p e n s i v e stuff she'd
reserve for the nights when they went out to company
dinners.These were obviously very important occasions
for my father, who'd be very tense while applying
the cologne-of-the-evening on the neat folds of his
Swiss handkerchief. He'd also get impatient with my

31
 Shobhaa De

mother while she adjusted the soft folds of her chiffon

sari (French for the really big events, Indian for those
in the minor l e a g u e ) .
My father's ideas of a well-dressed wife were pretty
f i x e d — s h e had to be draped in pastel-coloured chiffons
worn with a sleeveless blouse. Jewellery to be restricted
to a discreet row of pearls, a diamond ring, bracelet
watch and small ear tops. Matching shoes and handbag
were an absolute must. Also, manicured nails (fingers
and t o e s ) , and l a c q u e r e d hair. M a k e - u p , especially
lipstick, was of vital importance since he firmly believed
it was a sign of sophistication and no stylish woman
should ever be seen without it. He also had another
hang-up—but here, my mother drew the line.
' E l e g a n t w o m e n always w e a r s t o c k i n g s , ' h e ' d
tell her.
'Under saris?' she'd ask.
'Why not? I've seen many Parsee ladies wearing
them,' he'd say uncertainly.
'Well... I'm not a Parsee.'
And that would end that particular round. I'm not
sure my m o t h e r ' s ideas about w e l l - d r e s s e d w o m e n
coincided with my father's. They c a m e f r o m entirely
different backgrounds, for one. My mother was from
Gujarat. My father had been b o r n and brought up in
Bombay. My mother, in Ahmedabad.
I would've loved to know the story of how they
met and married. But my mother had never encouraged

32
i n t i m a c y t h o u g h w e g o t along q u i t e well m o s t of the
t i m e — a n d s o m e t i m e s she c o u l d even be f u n . She was
a d i f f e r e n t p e r s o n in my father's p r e s e n c e — f a r m o r e
s u b d u e d and silent. N o t that he was an o v e r b e a r i n g
man o r anything. B u t he had his o w n ways of shutting
her up. N o t rudely. J u s t firmly. I s u p p o s e they loved
each other. Sort of. I ' m sure my father loved my mother,
at l e a s t , in t h o s e days. A b o u t her, I c a n ' t say. That
w a s o n e t a b o o area. In any case, my m o t h e r w a s n ' t
p a r t i c u l a r l y d e m o n s t r a t i v e . N e i t h e r was my father,
but he d i d n ' t actually shrink f r o m physical contact
the way my m o t h e r did. She s t o p p e d holding m e when
I w a s five years o l d .
'You are a big girl now,' she'd said, 'stop behaving
like a baby.'
Papa continued to plant a vague kiss or m u s s up
m v hair a b s e n t l y till I w a s m u c h o l d e r . I m i s s e d
companionship. I m i s s e d having b r o t h e r s and sisters. I
asked my m o t h e r once why she'd s t o p p e d with m e .
T h e question had m a d e her m o s t u n c o m f o r t a b l e .
'You ask such silly q u e s t i o n s . Well-behaved girls
d o n ' t talk like this,' she'd said and w a l k e d o u t of
the r o o m .
I'd found her reaction m o s t strange. In my mind,
I'd asked a perfectly legitimate question which deserved
a straight answer. I tried again with my father.
' Well... did you ask your mother?' was his immediate
response.

33
 Shobhaa De

'I did, and she r e f u s e d to tell m e . ' Maybe I shouldn't

have said that. H e c l a m m e d up too.
'Have I asked s o m e t h i n g silly?' I c a r r i e d o n . 'Why
are both of you not telling m e ? '
'It's like this, Nisha... your mother and I were very
young when we married. Your mother was little older
than a child herself when you were b o r n . She found it
difficult to handle a baby. Your mother is not a very strong
woman... you know... physically.The strain was too much.
You took a long time to arrive. She was in bed for three
months before and two months after your birth. When
you were an infant, you used to cry a lot and keep M u m m y
awake all night. She had a difficult time, even though we
had Didi who had just arrived from Nepal. So, we kept
postponing having another baby—till it b e c a m e t o o late.'
I didn't like this version at all. I wished he'd told
me something else. Even a lie. I wished he'd said something
like, 'We loved you so m u c h , w e d i d n ' t w a n t t o share
that love with any other child.' Parents in b o o k s and
movies always said that. By being truthful (if he was
being truthful, that is) he'd m a d e m e feel guilty and
awful. As though I was to b l a m e for my mother's health.
And that it was all my fault she fell sick so o f t e n .
«

When G o d and I started seeing each other regularly, I

told him about my father's explanation.

34
 5u11ry Dav;

' H e ' s lying,' he said flatly. 'Take it f r o m m e , there

w a s s o m e o t h e r r e a s o n , yaar. He m u s t have been
t o o busy scrambling up the c o r p o r a t e ladder to screw
your mother.'
'Don't talk like that a b o u t my parents,' I
shouted.
'Why? Are their names inscribed in the
scriptures? Stop being absurd, baby. Grow
up. Reality, vaar, it's a v e r y ugly thing.'
G o d was right about reality, of course. He was right
about nearly everything. When we weren't together, I
would try and see him as he appeared to others. To my
parents, for instance, he was thoroughly detestable.
C o a r s e , unkempt, ill-mannered. He knew it and even
revelled in it.
' S o , what did Mr Multinational say about m e to
his beloved daughter, his ladli bed Hey—that's a
nice little pet name for y o u — I ' l l call you L . B . short
for Ladli B e t i — h o w about that? D o e s Daddy like his
darling's bum of a boyfriend, huh? Poor Daddy, wouldn't
he have loved to see you married off to some marketing
m a n a g e r — a man with a future and no past. An MBA
from Harvard. O r at least Ahmedabad. The sort of creep
who hands out visiting cards with his degrees embossed
in bold type. Ha-ha. I've ruined his neat little plans
for you, haven't I, baby? I love it.'
My parents soon began to pretend they didn't know
of G o d ' s existence. He was never referred to by name

35
 S h o b h a a De

and his calls were rarely taken. T h e question of giving

me his m e s s a g e s , therefore, didn't arise. The
servants caught on quickly e n o u g h . Only Didi
was sympathetic. If she ever picked up the
phone, she'd p r o m p t l y h a n d it t o m e silently.
Not the others.
'Sack those bloody chamchas (sycophants) b e f o r e
I send my goon-squad over to m u r d e r them,' G o d yelled
one a f t e r n o o n . He'd called to i n f o r m m e that our date
stood cancelled as he had to rush to the Esplanade C o u r t
to fish out his father f r o m the clink. ' T h e jailbird is at
it again,' he said. 'I had to b o r r o w d o u g h to bail him
out. Such a pain, yaar. Think of all the b e e d i e s I could
have bought with the money.'
This used to o c c u r regularly and was thought of
m o r e as an inconvenience than a disgrace. G o d had a
rich uncle. Rich by his standards that is. Each t i m e his
father got hauled in, G o d had to g o and t o u c h the uncle
for bail money. This was one thing that d e p r e s s e d him,
but there was no alternative. 'We always pay the swine
back,' he said, ' I ' m sure he swindles us. I have a feeling
he charges interest.' God's mother took all the shenanigans
in her stride and carried on like a jailed husband was
no big deal. T h e r e w e r e other aspects to her life that
she also b o r e stoically. O f t e n , she had to sleep in the
c o m m o n balcony of the chawl w h e n their r o o m was
taken over by union w o r k e r s . Toro, G o d ' s brother, was
responsible for supplying tea. O v e r a k e r o s e n e stove,

36
 Sultry Days

a huge kettle full of water would be kept on the boil,

while the m e n argued and debated late into the night.
'Such shit, yaar. All faltugiri, all nonsense. When will
my father learn that they can never lick the system?Total
waste of time. Your old man is a chaalu chap. He knows
the rules of the game all right. But tell him to watch
out. O n e day he might find himself gheraoed. I've been
hearing things. D o you know how they run that company?
Have you seen their balance sheets? No? Then go home
and take a look. Saalas think they're fooling everyone.
Selling adulterated stuff at fancy prices. We will take
care of h i m — w a r n that tight-ass father of yours.'

That tight-ass father of mine was far too busy with the
launch of a new detergent to pay the slightest attention
to union noises. He was travelling constantly, which
used to bother my mother.
'Baby, talk to Papa. Tell him about all the plane
crashes in the p a p e r s . Why is he killing himself for the
company? What has it given u s — o r h i m — b e s i d e s a
r o o f over our heads and a car with a driver? Papa will
get u l c e r s — I read in the Reader's Digest that stress
leads to intestinal ulcers. Have you noticed how often
he belches these days?'
'Maybe Papa enjoys his work,' I suggested brightly.
' H o w can a n y o n e enjoy selling s o a p p o w d e r ? '
she asked.

37
 S hobhaa D e

I didn't know what to say. H e r r e m a r k m a d e m e

w o n d e r a b o u t their relationship. M y m o t h e r d i d n ' t
r e s p e c t my father. She d i d n ' t m a k e it o b v i o u s , but she
gave herself away with c o m m e n t s like this.
She was a finicky housewife. Almost obsessive in her
attention to detail. When she wasn't ordering the servants
to dust away an imaginary speck f r o m s o m e w h e r e , she
w a s n a g g i n g D i d i t o c l e a n o u t all the c u p b o a r d s .
Jhadoo-pochcha, sweeping and s w a b b i n g — s h e woke up
each morning with that as a mantra. She thought she
was doing her duty as a housewife. A thrifty one. She
may have imagined that Papa approved of her 'involvement'
in the running of the house and c o m p a r e d her attitude
to that of the other 'company' wives who left it all to
servants. Like one of them used to remind her, 'Why
not, darling? Since the bloody c o m p a n y pays for the
servants, let them slog. You work t o o hard. You are the
only s e n i o r e x e c u t i v e w i f e w h o d o e s n o t join o u r
kitty club. O K , baba, if you d o n ' t like r u m m y , play
b r i d g e w i t h us. We a r e w i l l i n g t o l e a r n . B u t it's
important to m i x . The M.D.'s wife was saying the other
d a y — M r s Verma d o e s n ' t m i x a r o u n d . Think of your
husband's c a r e e r . . . take it seriously, yaar. P e o p l e in
Personnel are always watching.'
My mother would try to d e f e n d herself by saying
that she didn't have t o o m u c h spare time.
'Why?You don't w o r k or anything. It's different if
you were like M r s Mehta. She has a g o o d j o b . I would

38
 Sultry Days

say, even a better j o b than her h u s b a n d — p o o r fellow,

he's still s t u c k in the audit d e p a r t m e n t . That t o o ,
without a p r o m o t i o n in three years. In her case, it's
different. She has to travel a l s o — t h e n who'll stay with
the children? Like that, Mr Mehta is very co-operative.
My husband would never allow m e to attend office,
and t r a v e l — n o chance. You have only one child—that
too, a daughter. So, what's the problem? Soon, she'll
also be m a r r i e d off. Then you won't have to bother
about her.'
O n c e again my mother would start explaining the
servant problem in our area.
'Forget it, darling. Servant problems are everywhere.
But I don't bother. My kitty comes first. We are not
only h o u s e k e e p e r s , after all. If there is no servant,
then forget work, yaar. You can order food from the
c l u b — n o b o d y will notice.'
'My husband will,' my mother would say.
'That is your p r o b l e m . But if I were in your place,
I would just tell him that if he'd wanted to marry an
ayah, he shouldn't have married you. We bring a lot of
status to our husbands and they should realize it. We
also have a role to play in their careers. See the M.D.'s
w i f e — h o w active she is. Office sports, social welfare
club, officer's mess, rural development p r o g r a m m e s ,
creches and balwadis, also flower arrangement classes
and cake baking... she does so many things. It was because
of her that he b e c a m e the M.D.'

39
 Shobhaa De

On one occasion when the Managing Director's wife

was once again being held up as a shining e x a m p l e of a
corporate spouse, because of the n u m b e r of so-called
relevant activities she engaged in, my mother forgot
her customary discretion as a 'company wife' and blurted
out, 'Is that the reason? And I'd always thought it was
because of the ex-chairman. Wasn't she his mistress
for years?'
'I don't know, baba. Don't involve me in office gossip.'

40
 iim&m |

Three

o d ' s entry into the 'literary' circuit w a s through

G proof-checking. Apparently he w a s very g o o d at it.
' T h e b e s t , yaar,' he u s e d t o b o a s t .
Proof-checkers were a fast-disappearing breed.
It w a s s i m p l e r t o g e t a w r i t e r than a p r o o f - c h e c k e r .
G o d w a s s u r p r i s i n g l y r e s p o n s i b l e t o o . H e t o o k his
p r o o f - c h e c k i n g very seriously. It d i d n ' t take l o n g for
his r e p u t a t i o n t o s p r e a d . R e a m s and r e a m s of galleys
b e g a n to a r r i v e at his d o o r s t e p . G o d d e c i d e d t o hire an
assistant to help h i m . A bright schoolboy f r o m the chawl.
'Any f o o l can p r o o f - c h e c k , ' he s a i d . 'I'll t e a c h h i m
the b a s i c s in a w e e k a n d g o o v e r his s t u f f o n c e b e f o r e
s u b m i t t i n g it.'
P a p p u , the u n d e r a g e p r o o f - c h e c k e r , t u r n e d o u t to
b e an e a g e r l e a r n e r w i t h an e a g l e e y e . B e t w e e n the
t w o o f t h e m they'd clear anything b e t w e e n a t h o u s a n d
t o t w o t h o u s a n d r u p e e s a m o n t h . G o d w a s q u i t e fair
w i t h P a p p u a n d p a i d h i m p e r galley.

41
 Shobhaa De

It was around this time that G o d discovered that

he could do m o r e than read other people's p r o o f s . He
had a natural gift for writing. It started with p o e m s . I
didn't understand poetry and had always thought that
for anything to fall into this literary category, it had to
rhvme. G o d guffawed when I told him.
'Chhodo, yaar. This stuff is not your scene. You'd
better stick to reading Mills and Boon.'
I hotly denied reading Mills and Boon (though I
couldn't resist them).
'Cool it, baby. Read whatever you want to, but leave
my p o e m s alone. They'll be too heavy for you.'
' Stop being so condescending. As if I can't understand
what you write. What is so great about it, anyway?
Any fool could write something meaningless, which
doesn't even rhyme, and call it poetry.'
'Achcha? Then you'd better c o m e with m e to the
next poetry-reading session.'
And that's how I got to m e e t the grand Dirty O l d
Man of the arty-farty literary circuit.
The sessions were conducted in dingy halls where
the organizers didn't have to pay any rent. Everybody
sat around on uncomfortable folding chairs or on the
floor.The Dirty Old Man would preside over the evenings
with his cutesie-of-the-moment at his side. He liked
them young and d u m b . O t h e r s w h o w e r e p r e s e n t
regularly were a fairly motley lot of struggling w r i t e r s ,
a Grande Dame of Verse, frustrated copy-writers and

42
self-styled critics. Each session was broken up into various
stages, including one r e s e r v e d for visiting intellectuals
and another for first t i m e r s . S o m e t i m e s , a flute or a
guitar would also feature. It was at my third session
that I discovered that G o d was musicallv inclined. He
could play both the flute and the tabla exceedingly well.
'Why didn't you ever tell m e about it?' I asked,
when he suddenly pulled out a bansuri f r o m his satchel
and s t a r t e d playing it softly... beautifully.
' N o big deal, baby,' he i n t e r r u p t e d his plaving to
say, ' s o m e t i m e s I feel I am Krishna r e b o r n . '
A pretty scruffy Krishna. But that hardly m a t t e r e d
when his lips w e r e on the flute or his fingers on the
tabla. It was easy to f o r g e t his ruffian-like appearance,
his unrefined wavs, his c r u d e jokes as the m e l o d i o u s
notes f r o m the simple r e e d held with such delicacv in
those m a n i c u r e d hands wafted over our small g r o u p
and cast a spell on those listening. G o d was a naturally
g i f t e d musician but a surprisingly shy one.
'It's nothing, yaar. Just some too-too-poo-poo I picked
up f r o m the old w o m a n , ' he'd say.
It w a s much more than that but God was
uncharacteristically m o d e s t about it. Maybe he didn't
want to put himself on the line and find out just how
talented. I could u n d e r s t a n d that. And like he put it, 'I
play for myself, yaar, not to impress the fucking world.'

43
G o d had been longing to acquire a m o t o r b i k e for years.
It would enter our lives later. Along with the flute and
chapstick, this new monster was to b e c o m e a permanent
feature of God's existence. But right t h e n — ' N o dough,
baby. I ' m not a rich man's son. My old guy has always
used public transport—generally without buying a ticket.
I've d o n e the s a m e . But a m o t o r b i k e w o u l d change
my life. I'd be able to save so m u c h time.'
'And d o what with it?'
' W h o knows? G o o f o f f . . . listen to Bade G h u l a m
Ali. G o whoring.'
' D o you really?'
'Do I really—what?'
' G o . . . you know... g o to those s o r t s of places?'
'What sort?'
'You know what I m e a n . Why do you want m e to
utter bad w o r d s ? '
' L o o k , yaar, d o n ' t give m e all this bullshit. Why
don't you say i t — b r o t h e l . It's a s i m p l e w o r d — t r y . . .
bro thi'l... see? E a sjv ! '
' O K ,1 do jvou visit brothels?'

'Every night, yaar... I hope to m e e t your father there.

Ha! Ha! It's a j o k e , O K ? Relax.'
' N o . . . but seriously... have you ever b e e n ? '
' O K , seriously... I h a v e — o n c e or twice.'
'Where?'
'You know, you ask t o o many stupid q u e s t i o n s .
W h e r e ? What diff, yaar?'

44
 'I'd like to know. W h a t was it like.'
' H o n e s t answer?'
I nodded.
' H o r r i b l e , yaar. C o u l d n ' t d o a thing. T h o s e bloody
randis are such cold-blooded professionals. All
they want is to finish it o f f and g e t you out of their
filthy beds.'
' T h e n why did you g o ? '
' D o n ' t b e m a d , yaar. Everybody goes.'
'You m e a n all the chaps in o f f i c e . . . ?'
' N o t the stupid types. But the real g u y s . . . naturally.'
' W h a t for?'
'Are... it's obvious, yaar. That is the first lesson in
life to be l e a r n t . . . there's no such thing as a free f u c k .
Everything costs. U n d e r s t a n d ? '
' C o u l d n ' t you wait till you g o t m a r r i e d ? '
'Wait? For eternity? W h o knows about m a r r i a g e -
sharriage, yaar. I ' m happy as I am.'
'But you'd expect your wife to b e . . . you
know... untouched. No?'
' N o . M a k e s n o d i f f , yaar. Let her also enjoy
herself. Why make such a fuss over one square
centimetre?'
' W h a t d o e s that m e a n ? '
' L e a v e it. S o m e o t h e r t i m e . I d o n ' t w a n t your
Multinational to accuse m e of c o r r u p t i n g you.'
'Tell m e j u s t one m o r e thing. D o you still g o ? '

45
 ' O h G o d ! Even my m o t h e r d o e s n ' t ask m e so
many q u e s t i o n s ! '
' D o you? J u s t say " v e s " or "no".'
'No.'
'Thank G o d ! '
'Anything else?'
'Yes do you see other girls behind my back?'
' D e f i n i t e l y — t h o u s a n d s of them.'
'Liar.'

W h e n G o d g o t his b i k e , ( w i t h m o n e y borrowed,
scrounged or stolen, 1 never found out) our lives changed.
It m a d e him feel p o w e r f u l . And confident.
' H e r name is Bijli,' he told m e .
At first, I thought he was only joking. But no. Bijli
was a p e r s o n to G o d . She had feelings. She was the
one ' w o m a n ' w h o u n d e r s t o o d h i m . Years later, he
explained Bijli's role in his life to m e .
'She was everything, yaar. Mother, sister, lover,
d a u g h t e r . I c o u l d c o u n t o n h e r . I k n e w t h a t if I
looked after her, she'd l o o k a f t e r m e . A n d she was
faithful. N o other m a n ever r o d e my Bijli while she
was mine.'
I found the whole thing pretty crazy. Especially his
talking to her, I m e a n , it.
'I get lonely on the r o a d , yaar. I enjoy speaking
to her.'

46
 'But isn't it unnatural?'
'What's so unnatural about it? Bijli is lonely too. I
can sense it when she's feeling n e g l e c t e d . O r blue. She
p u r r s differently. She r e s p o n d s differently.'
'Like how?'
'You w o u l d n ' t understand.'
'Trvj m e '
' D i d you ever have dolls as a child.'
' O f c o u r s e I did. I still have my favourite ones.'
' D i d vou talk to t h e m ? '
'Yes, of c o u r s e I did.'
' D i d n ' t vou feel close to them? Weren't they real
to you?'
'But I was a child then. It was a childish reaction.
A universal one. But that s t o p p e d . W h e n I w a s . . . let's
s e e . . . a b o u t seven or eight years old.'
'What a b o u t dogs? Cats? D o n ' t you find p e o p l e
talking to their pets? And do their pets "talk" back?'
' H o w can you c o m p a r e B i j l i — a m o t o r b i k e — w i t h
a pet? Pets are alive.'
' D o n ' t you s e e — B i j l i is alive too? She is not just a
m o t o r b i k e . She is not j u s t a machine. Why can't you
understand that?'
' P e o p l e will think y o u ' r e m a d . Can you imagine
what the o t h e r s on the r o a d m u s t b e thinking?'
' W h o c a r e s , yaar? D o y o u ? I love Bijli and she
loves m e . . . has, m a t t e r e n d s . Why should I b o t h e r
a b o u t what all these chamchas on the r o a d m u s t be

47
thinking? Anyway... how d o e s it a f f e c t their lives? O r
yours? D o you feel j e a l o u s ? '
'It's not a q u e s t i o n o f j e a l o u s y . I j u s t think it's
not n o r m a l . '
'What i s " n o r m a l " ? W h o decides that? You? Society?
Mr Multinational? C o m r a d e s a a b ? Let's d r o p the t o p i c ,

jyaar. I don't want to discuss her. C o m e o n', I'll take

vou home.'
Maybe I was g o i n g crazy too. I thought I caught
Bijli giving m e a dirty look!

The poetry-reading sessions were getting on my nerves.

The D . O . M . ( D i r t y O l d M a n ) w a s such an o b v i o u s
phoney, I was s u r p r i s e d G o d c o u l d n ' t s e e t h r o u g h
h i m . H i s c r o n i e s a n d he c a l l e d t h e m s e l v e s the
Anglo-Indian Poets Association. Each time G o d dragged
m e to these affairs, I'd sit a r o u n d f e e l i n g hostile and
helpless. I thought the p o e t r y was p u t r i d . O f t e n , a
blousy w o m a n in her m i d - f o r t i e s w o u l d p r e s i d e over
the evening. I used to find her g r o s s and r e p u l s i v e .
She had beautiful eyes but with a t o u c h o f m a d n e s s
lurking in t h e m . T h e rest of her was bulky and awkward.
She p r e f e r r e d t o w e a r c o a r s e c o t t o n s a r i s w i t h
bush-shirt like b l o u s e s . H e r hair was m a t t e d and wild.
G o d found her divinely sexy. So did m o s t of the others.
And so did she herself. Her p o e m s w e r e p o r n o g r a p h i c .

48
O r that's how they sounded to m e . I couldn't understand
how a n y o n e c o u l d r h y m e ' o r i f i c e ' with ' G i n - F i z z ' .
She w o u l d sail into the hall, s u p r e m e l y c o n f i d e n t of
her s e x u a l i t y . M e n o f all a g e s w o u l d be d r a w n to
h e r . . . t o her w h a t . . . s m e l l ?
G o d said, 'Just go close to her and breathe in. Instant
o r g a s m , yaar.'
'What r u b b i s h ! '
' S o r r y — y o u aren't a m a n . I f o r g e t that s o m e t i m e s .
But try it, anyway. S a n d a l w o o d , c o c o n u t oil, m u s k ,
p e r s p i r a t i o n , s a m b h a r — it's all that and s o m e t h i n g
e l s e . . . maybe stale s e x . . . she's s o m e thing, vaar.'
'You fellows behave like dogs in heat. It's disgusting!
Why have m e around?You can spend the evening going
sniff,» sniff,i sniff. And if that b o r e s vou
j after a while,>
you can zip out and chat with Bijli. I really don't know
why I hang around.'
'She's old enough to be your g r a n d m a , yaar. Cool
it.'
'That's why I find the whole thing so disgusting.'
' M o t h e r - c o m p l e x . Heard of it? According to Freud,
every son wants to screw his mother.'
'Shut up! You talk like a p e r v e r t . '
' B e w a r e , I might be one.'
T h e r e was another, younger w o m a n around as well.
She was battv t o o , but in a different way. Strong white
teeth in an ordinary face. Bad skin. Straw-like hair.
And dark w i d e eyes that w e r e n ' t still for a m o m e n t .

49
She was said to be the D . O . M . ' s c u r r e n t passion. She
behaved m o r e like his servant. T h e D . O . M . and G o d
had beedies as a b o n d . T h e slave-girl carried the D.O.M.'s
in her e m b r o i d e r e d silk bag.
'I am a poet,' she'd announce dramatically to a person
she'd just been introduced to. ' I ' m working on my first
major collection.'
The D . O . M . would take a m i n u t e o f f f r o m looking
i m p o r t a n t , to tweak her cheek indulgently. 'Talent. My
girl has talent.'
Chandni (that was her n a m e , I ' m not sure whether
her parents had given it to her or the D . O . M . ) was the
chai-girl at these sessions. About thrice during the course
of the evening, all the thirsty p o e t s w o u l d reach into
their pockets for small change and hand it to her. Chandni
would rush out and c o m e back a little later with small
glasses full of o v e r - b r e w e d , over-sweetened tea.
O n a special o c c a s i o n , like s o m e o n e ' s birthday,
crisp dosas f r o m the Udipi restaurant a c r o s s the street
w o u l d be o r d e r e d s t r i c t l y by c o n t r i b u t i o n . At o t h e r
t i m e s , the sex q u e e n , S u j a t a , w o u l d g e t ' t i f f i n ' f r o m
her house. O n c e or t w i c e a year she'd invite e v e r y o n e
to her s p a c i o u s flat t o listen to v i s i t i n g p o e t s f r o m
far-flung p l a c e s , w h o ' d r e a d their s t u f f in their native
t o n g u e . T h e s e w e r e c o n s i d e r e d the high p o i n t s of
the Association's e x i s t e n c e . Sujata w o u l d play M o t h e r
Hen and gather all her chicks to her b o s o m — l i t e r a l l y .
I w a s s u r p r i s e d t o d i s c o v e r that S u j a t a had a family.

50
A v e r vj c o n v e n t i o n a l o n e at that. All o f t h e m — h e r
t i m i d h u s b a n d and f o u r d a u g h t e r s , d o t e d on her.
H o w e v e r , she had m a d e it plain that she had g o n e
b e y o n d t h e m and that she'd s t o p p e d p l a y i n g w i f e
and m o t h e r l o n g a g o .
' M y duties are over. They are on their own now,'
she would explain. 'I have played the roles I was expected
to at the a p p r o p r i a t e times. N o w . . . I ' m on my own.
And they are on their own. This is my life. I want to
live it my way.'
H e r way included a succession of lovers, both male
and f e m a l e , w h o w e r e p a r a d e d u n d e r the n o s e s of
her familv.
j
'Yes... they accept,' she would say, calmly. 'Why
shouldn't they? I've b e e n a g o o d wife and mother. I'm
still here, living in the s a m e h o u s e . They are grateful.
I could easily have left and g o n e away. So many men
have l o n g e d t o m a k e m e t h e i r s . I r e c e i v e m a r r i a g e
proposals all the t i m e . . . even now. But no. M y place is
in my own home.'
H e r h o m e was c o m f o r t a b l e in a b o u r g e o i s way. If
her d a u g h t e r s found her conduct e m b a r r a s s i n g , they
certainly hid it well. She filled the r o o m with her presence
and they followed her every m o v e , their eyes shining
with adoration.
' W h a t a f o r t u n a t e w o m a n , ' I said to G o d . ' H o w
luckv she is. Any other husband would have thrown
such a wife o u t o f the house.'

51
 'She's not just any ordinary w i f e . . . she's Sujata. She's
like an e m p r e s s or a g o d d e s s . D o n ' t equate her with
any altu-faltu, c o m m o n p l a c e female.'
'I wasn't talking about her. I was w o n d e r i n g about
them—her family. How c o m e they accept her behaviour?'
'What's w r o n g with her behaviour? She is beautiful,
man, just beautiful. She follows her instincts. She makes
her own rules. She's not a c o w a r d . She cares t w o hoots
for so-called " s o c i e t y " . I a d m i r e her g u t s , yaar.'
'But didn't her husband have a n e r v o u s b r e a k d o w n
or a heart attack or s o m e t h i n g s o m e time ago? And
didn't he nearly lose his j o b when she published her
first b o o k of vulgar p o e m s ? '
'Vulgar p o e m s ! Really, yaar. You'll never appreciate
a r t . T h o s e p o e m s were not vulgar.They were truthful.
She p e r f o r m e d a s t r i p t e a s e of her s o u l . She b a r e d
everything. She s t o o d naked in front of the w o r l d . And
you arc calling that vulgar?'
'My mother was so shocked. I r e m e m b e r her telling
my father, "That woman must be a nympho." I r e m e m b e r
this very clearly b e c a u s e that was the f i r s t t i m e I'd
heard that w o r d . S o , I asked my p a r e n t s , " W h a t d o e s
' n y m p h o ' m e a n ? " And they'd l o o k e d at e a c h o t h e r
and said, "It m e a n s . . . it m e a n s . . . a w o m a n w h o is
suffering from breathing trouble." So I said, "You m e a n ,
like a s t h m a ? " And my father r e p l i e d , "Exactly. N o w
finish vour pudding." Ever since then I've always felt
sorry for her - thinking the p o o r w o m a n can't breathe

52
properly. I m a g i n e ! Even after I found out the m e a n i n g
o f the w o r d " n y m p h o " ! '
' Y o u a r e a b s o l u t e l y r i g h t , yaar. Sujata can't
b r e a t h e . . . she is suffocating. But not phvsicallv.'

I w a s a total m i s f i t in G o d ' s a r t y c i r c l e . M o s t
t i m e s I'd try and b e as u n o b t r u s i v e as p o s s i b l e . Sujata
n o t i c e d m e a f t e r n e a r l y t e n s e s s i o n s . Suddenly, her
eyes s t r a y e d t o w a r d s w h e r e I w a s s i t t i n g , f i d d l i n g
with my d u p a t t a .
'And w h o is that sugar m o u s e in the c o r n e r ? ' she
asked imperiously.
T h e g r o u p was e x p e r i m e n t i n g with play-reading
that evening and G o d had been given s o m e dramatic
lines. He l o o k e d up f r o m his b o o k and assured Sujata,
' O h . . . she's nobody. I m e a n . . . she's just a friend.'
' W e l l , d e a r f r i e n d of D e b u s, s t a n d up and be
identified,' she c o m m a n d e d .
'You heard her,yaar,' G o d yelled out. ' G e t u p . . . she
w o n ' t g o b b l e you up.'
I d e t e s t e d him at that m o m e n t . And all the rest o f
the u n w a s h e d b o d i e s .
Chandni g i g g l e d and said, 'My, my... she's so shy.
Hey! That rhymes.'
I didn't know what to do. T h e rehearsal had c o m e
to a standstill. Everybody was waiting for m e to do
something. I laughed nervously.

53
 ' D o n ' t g i g g l e s t u p i d l y , yaar. J o i n the c r o w d , '
God ordered.
I thought I saw a c o l l e c t i v e sneer at my g a u c h e r i e .
It was the D . O . M . w h o finally r e s c u e d m e . H e b r o k e
the tension by reciting a p o e m — a n a p p r o p r i a t e one.
Everybody a p p l a u d e d as the f o c u s shifted f r o m m e
to him.
Chandni came up and sat down. ' D e b is such a talented
guy. You are lucky. Nana is thinking of giving him a big
break soon.'
'Nana' was what insiders called the D . O . M . I noticed
tiny hairs peeping out of Chandni's p e r m a n e n t l y flared
nostrils. They w e r e unattractive.
'So, what do you do, N e e t a , ' she asked, feigning
interest.
'Nisha,' I replied.
'What?'
'My name. It's Nisha.'
' O h yes... I knew it began with a n " N " — N e h a , Neeta,
N i d h i . . . something of that s o r t . '
'Nothing.'
'What?'
i do nothing. I m e a n , nothing interesting.'
'You aren't into poetry, creative w r i t i n g , paint-
ing. .. that sort of thing?'
' N o . I ' m working as a trainee.'
'A trainee what?'
' O h , they are still trying to figure that out.'

54
 'I see,' she said without the slightest interest and
t u r n e d to a young man wearing grannv glasses.
'I loved you as C l e o p a t r a . That was so c l e v e r ! ' He
g o t up and b o w e d elaborately.
'I w a n t e d y o u t o play C a e s a r , but N a n a d i d n ' t
approve.'
' N a n a . . . f o r g e t h i m , yaar. H e ' s b e c o m i n g slightly
senile. Imagine getting possessive in his old age. Too
m u c h trouble.'
Nana was staring at Chandni while she flirted with
Granny Glasses.
' H e ' s looking,' w a r n e d the young m a n .
' L e t him l o o k . What can he do? Fight a duel?'
' N o , yaar. But w h o n e e d s hassles with the old boy?'
'Tell you what? Pass m e your phone number. I'll
call you when Nana g o e s to G r e e c e for the International
Poets' M e e t . '
' A r e n ' t you g o i n g ? '
' N o t this t i m e . I had enough of them last year.'
Chandni had just enough t i m e to grab the piece of
p a p e r b e f o r e the D . O . M . c a m e across to claim her.
H e l o o k e d at m e thoughtfully through his half-moon
glasses. W i r y hair that s t o o d on end all over his head
m a d e him r e s e m b l e an ageing gollywog.
'Virgin,' he declared looking steadily at m e . 'In this
day and age. O b s c e n e . Perfectly obscene.'
Chandni stared s a u c i l y at G o d a n d giggled,
' N a n a — w h y d o n ' t you take over f r o m D e b u ? '

55
 I picked up my stuff and ran o u t blindly. I w a n t e d
to kill them all. And G o d . I heard his f o o t s t e p s behind
m e . ' C o o l it, yaar. D o n ' t be so hyper. F o r g e t N a n a . H e
tries that line with every n e w bird. Ask Chandni if you
don't believe me.'
'I don't care. I d o n ' t have to ask anyone anything.
I ' m sick ol the lot of you. P s e u d o b o r e s . You should
see y o u r s e l v e s . . . so s e r i o u s a b o u t your p r e t e n s i o n s .
So pathetic.'
' O K , O K . Have a d o s a . I'll pay for it.'
' S t u f f y o u r d o s a a l o n g with y o u r p o e m s . I may
not be a p a r t of your p s e u d - c r o w d . . . but even I can
tell that y o u r p o e m s a r e r u b b i s h . T h e y s t i n k j u s t
as m u c h as N a n a t h e B a n a n a . W h a t ' s m o r e , he
has t o e - j a m . '

The p r o m i s e d break for G o d did materialize after all.

The D . O . M . was all set to launch a literary quarterly.
He needed t w o things d e s p e r a t e l y — a s p o n s o r and an
assistant editor. G o d felt h o n o u r e d when he was r o p e d
in for the second slot.
'Imagine!' he gloated. ' M e ! An assistant editor to
Nana! Let that bitch Chandni stew. She thought he was
going to hand the whole thing over to her. But N a n a
knows she's g o o d for just o n e t h i n g — i f that. N a n a can
smell out real talent.'

56
 I d i d n ' t join in in his enthusiasm.
' J e a l o u s , baby?' he asked.
'You m u s t be joking. I ' m w o r r i e d about you.'
' W o r r i e d ? What for, yaar? You w o r r y about stupid
things. What's w r o n g with Plume? Oh yes—1 lorgot
to tell y o u — t h a t ' s the n a m e N a n a c a m e up with. Sujata
loved it. O n e of her daughters has designed the masthead
and logo. We've even found s o m e o n e who may be ready
to back it.'
'Really? W h o ? '
'That blue-haired old b a g — L a d y Kiss-My-Ass
S h i r i n b a i . R e m e m b e r , w e had m e t her at an o r g a n
recital o n c e ? Parsee loony. D o w a g e r D i n g b a t . L o a d e d .
D o e s n ' t k n o w w h a t t o d o w i t h the s t u f f . H e r late
h u s b a n d — G o d bless h i m — h a d literary aspirations.
So did their s o n , F r e d d i e , the o n e w h o d i e d a c o u p l e
of years a g o in that ghastly r o a d a c c i d e n t near Panvel.
Both the father and son had d o n e the O x b r i d g e chakkar
and u s e d to c o n t r i b u t e b o r i n g a r t i c l e s t o t h o s e r a g s .
T h e o l d g i r l is k e e n o n s e t t i n g u p s o m e t h i n g t o
p e r p e t u a t e their m e m o r y . She is s i t t i n g on a p i l e ,
as I t o l d y o u — t h e D a d a b h o y T r u s t r u n s i n t o c r o r e s .
This will b e a p i d d l y a m o u n t f o r her. I b e t she s p e n d s
m o r e on her annual d o g g i e p a r t i e s w h e r e a s s o r t e d
p o o c h e s a r e s e r v e d s i r l o i n s t e a k and caviare o u t of
silver d o g - d i s h e s . A n y w a y . . . N a n a p l a n s to take the
p r o p o s a l t o her F r e d d i e u s e d t o b e q u i t e active
w h e n he w a s at X a v i e r ' s . H e e d i t e d the c o l l e g e m a g ,

57
h e a d e d the l i t e r a r y c i r c l e a n d all t h a t . H e w a s a l s o
madly in love w i t h his J e s u i t p r o f e s s o r — b u t that's
a n o t h e r story.'

Poor Lady Dingbat. She was quite a character a r o u n d

town, dressed in nineteenth century finery, her tiny
feet shod in delicate lace shoes. She c o u l d n ' t get around
as much as she would have liked to ever since her stroke,
but when she was w h e e l e d in anywhere, it was a g r a n d
entry all right. Her heavily r o u g e d face with the h o o d e d
eyes painted t u r q u o i s e over the lids, the lips covered
with scarlet lipstick, the hair coiffed and lacquered into
place like a blue h e l m e t and the gnarled hands with
fastidiously manicured nails, all contributed to the image.
She wore stockings through every season and n o b o d y
had seen her toes in vears.
'It's terribly low class to display bare feet,' she'd
once declared at a g a r d e n p a r t y startling the g u e s t s .
Her collection of magnificent garas ( C h i n e s e silk
embroidered saris) was the envy of the Parsee community.
And her jewellery was really impressive. It was rumoured
that she dripped emeralds even when she was 'receiving'
just her solicitor. And each Wednesday when she r o d e
regally in her blue-to-match-her-hair D a i m l e r to the
Willingdon Club for her weekly b r i d g e session, all the
'boys' and bearers would line up in the p o r c h like a
guard of honour. She was g r a c i o u s and kind. And an

58
easy t o u c h . H e r generosity had b e e n well e x p l o i t e d
by all those around her and it was believed that her
p e r s o n a l m a i d had a m a s s e d a small f o r t u n e milking
her e m p l o y e r over the years.
She bathed in a large, sunken m a r b l e tub filled with
w a r m w a t e r at a precise t e m p e r a t u r e and p e r f u m e d
with half-a-gallon of her favourite cologne f r o m the
H o u s e of G r e s . In her t i m e , all her underthings were
c u s t o m - m a d e in Paris o u t o f the finest silk. It was said
that a famous couture house had once considered creating
a f r a g r a n c e n a m e d after her. Yet, Lady Dingbat was a
fierce nationalist as her late husband, Sir H o r m u s j e e ,
had been.They lived like European aristocrats and behaved
like royalty. But both of t h e m had actively participated
in the freedom struggle, giving generously to the fledgling
C o n g r e s s Party.
'We s t o p p e d short of c o u r t i n g a r r e s t , my dear,' she
was fond of saying, 'since I r e m i n d e d H o m i that the
jails here did not have thunderboxes.'
T h e r e was a time when thev had installed a French
chef in their kitchen and milady's personal maid was
an i m p o v e r i s h e d Austrian princess. Their parties, held
on the family estate atop N a p e a n Hill, w e r e attended
by maharajas and b a r o n s , dukes and d u c h e s s e s , along
with the creme de la creme of Bombay society. An English
o r c h e s t r a played waltzes on the lawns while millions
of fairy lights twinkled on the t r e e s . At these banquets
Lady Shirinbai invariably s e r v e d native f o o d .

59
 'Let them sample our splendid cuisine and g o back
and tell the p e o p l e that we Indians dine b e t t e r than
they do. S a v a g e s — w h a t would they know a b o u t the
fine art of making a p e r f e c t biryani?'
But now the old girl had b e c o m e a bit of a j o k e
even within her own community. She was e x p l o i t e d
and ridiculed by the very p e o p l e w h o lived o f f her.
The grand old h o m e was a l m o s t totally in ruins e x c e p t
for the wing in which she lived with her dogs and servants.
Apart from a faithful retainer, G o m e s , f r o m the old
days, who p a d d e d around softly in a frayed u n i f o r m ,
all the others were recruits f r o m the c u r r e n t brash
b r e e d . Their uncouth ways regularly shattered the old
girl's sensibilities, but, as G o m e s would r e m i n d her
gently, 'Things are not the same anymore, madam.' Things
certainly weren't, and Lady Shirinbai spent her days
stroking her favourite dachshund and r e m e m b e r i n g
earlier t i m e s when s e r v a n t s w e r e faithful, d i s c r e e t
and invisible.
Her weekend salon was the one social g r a c e she
hung on to, though even here the kind of p e o p l e w h o
now called on her had u n d e r g o n e such a c h a n g e . . . and
with them, so had the conversation—good conversation.
Lady S could still r e m e m b e r s o m e p r e c i o u s bon mots
dropped with genteel r e f i n e m e n t d e c a d e s ago. But she
was training herself to be m o r e philosophical about
the changing scenario. She accepted p e o p l e in her h o m e
these days, who would have earlier b e e n d i s m i s s e d by
her butlers in the a n t e r o o m .

60
 'Riff-raff,' she'd sniff privately to Fifi, her darling
dachshund. Anyway, she n e e d e d c o m p a n y — n o t just
any company, m i n d y o u — a n d how choosy could she
really afford to b e n o w ? So, they'd t r o o p in to drink
her sherry, eat c r o q u e t t e s and canapes, gossip a little
and d e p a r t , taking a whiff of Shirinbai's lavender h o m e
with t h e m .
Lady S and her w a y s — t h e s e w e r e subjects of
heightened interest as soon as the D . O . M . and his circle
had t a r g e t e d her as their g o l d e n g o o s e . As G o d told it,
it had all b e g u n at one of Shirinbai's s a l o n s — t o which
the D . O . M . had b e e n invited as a g u e s t .

61
 t was to be an evening with a little light m u s i c played
I on Shirinbai's g r a n d piano by an effete young man
recently back f r o m Juillard. B o m s i was a g i f t e d pianist
and his parents had g r e a t plans for him. They w e r e
sure that with a little e n c o u r a g e m e n t f r o m Lady S,
Bomsi would be launched in his chosen career as a concert
pianist. Shirinbai was, after all, a t r u s t e e of the onlv
decent auditorium in the city. W h a t better d e b u t could
Bomsi have hoped for?
The D. O. M. arrived at 'Windermere', Lady Shirinbai's
h o m e , for the elegant affair l o o k i n g far f r o m elegant
himself. N o t that it m a t t e r e d . N o b o d y e x p e c t e d him
to look anything but scruffy and abstracted. He had
cultivated a vagueness of e x p r e s s i o n that was m e a n t
to convey a d e e p p r e o c c u p a t i o n with m a t t e r s other
than the ones immediately o n hand. E x c e p t that his
shrewd, beady eyes behind the thick lenses o b s e r v e d
everyone and everything. He had decided to leave Chandni

62
behind, afraid that her c r u d e n e s s would pollute the
refined a t m o s p h e r e . It was a wise decision, for as soon
as he entered Shirinbai's magnificent d r a w i n g - r o o m ,
he s p o t t e d s o m e o n e . He could tell that she was feeling
lost and self-conscious. He d e c i d e d to use his infallible
p l o y — t h e one that always w o r k e d with n e r v o u s young
girls. T h e D . O . M . invariably s c o r e d a direct hit when
he played G r a n d p a .
' T r u s t m e , ' h e ' d say a f t e r a f e w m i n u t e s of
conversation. 'I was in college with your dear grandfather.'
O c c a s i o n a l l y , s o m e o n e w o u l d l o o k s t a r t l e d and
e x c l a i m , 'My grandfather never went to college,' to
which the unflappable D . O . M . would m i m e the doffing
of an imaginary hat, b o w low and p u r r :
'Pardon m e , mademoiselle, I must've mistaken you
for another lovely young lady I once dandled on my knee.'
By then he'd have this one giggling and eating out
of his grimy hands.
Sure enough, Ava wasn't any different. Within minutes
he had a p p r o p r i a t e d her f r o m right under the noses of
half-a-dozen young hopefuls who'd wasted time sniffing
around her instead of zeroing in. Ava t u r n e d out to be
Lady S's long-lost g r a n d - n i e c e f r o m England.
T h e D . O . M . g r i l l e d her discreetly till he g o t her
s t o r y o u t o f her. She w a s an h e i r e s s and r e c e n t l y
o r p h a n e d ( ' P e r f e c t , ' thought h e ) . Lady S had o f f e r e d
to put her u p d u r i n g her stay in India, which was of
an u n c e r t a i n d u r a t i o n .

63
 Ava was in search of her r o o t s after the death of
her parents in an aircrash. She had been b o r n and brought
up in L o n d o n and l o o k e d and behaved like a p r o p e r
English girl. The D . O . M . noticed her faint m o u s t a c h e
and began to salivate. He had a thing a b o u t w o m e n
with soft d o w n on their u p p e r lips. T h e o n e Chandni
s p o r t e d almost bristled. He sat through B o m s i ' s recital
occasionally patting Ava's soft hands in an avuncular
way. She didn't recoil. N o r did she s e e m to mind the
dampness of his p a l m s . When it was t i m e to ' m i n g l e '
as Lady S put it ever so sweetly, the D . O . M . a p p r o a c h e d
her with his a r m linked through Ava's.
' C h a r m i n g ! C h a r m i n g ! What a beautiful young lady
we have here,' he a n n o u n c e d .
Lady S's left eyebrow went up by half-a-centimetre
as her fan s t o p p e d in mid-air.
'And who do we have the pleasure of having with
us tonight?' she asked.
The D . O . M . i n t r o d u c e d h i m s e l f using e l a b o r a t e
phrases and exaggerated gestures. He ended up by quoting
Keats, 'Your favourite p o e t , I understand.'
Lady S didn't give a thing away. She t u r n e d t o the
bearer and asked, ' C r o q u e t t e ? '
Unfazed, the D.O.M. persisted in his efforts to impress
her. Time was rapidly running out and Ava was beginning
to look around.
'May 1 b e g five m i n u t e s o f your p r e c i o u s t i m e ,
Ladyship?' he asked, bending f r o m the waist.

64
 'You may i n d e e d , ' she sniffed and indicated the
adjoining study. T h e D . O . M . stood aside and bowed
her in.
O n c e seated at her husband's magnificent mahogany
table, Shirinbai faced the D . O . M . and raised both her
eyebrows. He pretended to be transfixed by the enormous
p o r t r a i t of Sir H o r m u s j e e behind Lady D.
'Wonderful. Just wonderful. The eyes. The
bearing... quite, quite r e m a r k a b l e . '
'You wish to state s o m e t h i n g ? ' Shirinbai enquired.
'Ah... yes... but I forgot momentarily... so
m e s m e r i z e d was I by your late husband's e x p r e s s i o n .
I had had the great p l e a s u r e of m e e t i n g him just b e f o r e
he so tragically passed away. G o d bless him. A great
man. A great city father. I p r o p o s e to start a campaign
to n a m e this r o a d after him. Perhaps we could also
erect an a p p r o p r i a t e m o n u m e n t . '
'You are a p o e t , ' said Shirinbai, ignoring his speech.
' W e l l . . . y e s . . . that i s . . . I w r i t e verse.'
'In English, I believe.'
' W h y . . . yes i n d e e d . . . in English.'
' H o w d o e s it c o m p a r e with Keats?'
' W e l l . . . Ladyship... I am e m b a r r a s s e d , a b a s h e d . . . I
d o n ' t quite k n o w how to r e s p o n d . It would be far t o o
i m m o d e s t for ' he left the sentence dangling.
'Favourably then?'
'It is for you to decide, Ladyship,' he said with a
semblance of a blush.

65
 'Recite.'
'I beg your p a r d o n , Ladyship?'
' R e c i t e what you c o n s i d e r your favourite p o e m .
You do have one, d o you not?'
'This is a rare privilege indeed,Your Ladyship. Alas!
1 am far t o o taken aback to recall even a line.'
'Try,' she u r g e d a l m o s t sadistically.
' A h e m . . . that is... I haven't b r o u g h t my b o o k with
m e . With your g r a c i o u s p e r m i s s i o n , perhaps I could
i m p o s e on your time and hospitality another day and
read out s o m e of my earlier p o e m s to you?'
'Perhaps,' she said airily. ' C o g n a c ? Port?'
' N o no, thank you, vou are t o o kind, Ladyship. What
1 wanted to see you a b o u t was this '
And without further ado he thrust a d u m m y issue
of Plume at her. She recoiled like he'd thrown a snake
at her.
'What on earth is this rag?'
'It's a literary quarterly, Your Ladyship. Your late
s o n — m a y his soul rest in p e a c e — h a d b e e n d e e p l y
interested in s u p p o r t i n g this p r o j e c t . I have taken the
liberty of setting d o w n the outline for the p r o p o s e d
publication of Plume for your kind p e r u s a l . We will
consider it an h o n o u r if you would be g o o d enough to
read the contents and agree to be the founding publisher
and chief patron. It is primarily to e n c o u r a g e young
p o e t s . T h e r e are no outlets for t h e m in this country,
you see. Most of them give up out of frustration. It is

66
in the hands of kind p e o p l e like yourself to do what
m u s t b e d o n e t o k e e p English p o e t r y alive in India.'
Lady S t o o k her time to glance through the d u m m y
issue b e f o r e reaching across the desk and picking up a
cigar. 'Indulge m e , w o n ' t you? A terrible habit My
d o c t o r s have w a r n e d m e . But I'd rather g o down puffing
when the time c o m e s . ' With that she p u c k e r e d up her
mauve m o u t h and stuck a Havana in it.

The first issue o f Plume was scheduled for a D e c e m b e r

release when the weather w o u l d be just right to hold
the function under the branches of an e n o r m o u s banvan
j
t r e e in Lady S's vast c o m p o u n d . G o d had taken the
w h o l e thing very seriously and was working furiously
on the layouts. D r a w n by Lady S's p a t r o n a g e , many
aspiring p o e t s had crawled out of the w o o d w o r k and
presented themselves to the D . O . M . who in turn directed
t h e m to G o d . And for the first t i m e since I'd m e t G o d ,
he actually i m m e r s e d himself completely in productive
activity. The D . O . M . had b r i e f e d the t e a m .
'We don't want a tacky publication printed on toilet
paper. Poetry is prayer. Treat v e r s e with the reverence
it d e s e r v e s . D o n ' t spare e f f o r t . . . or c o s t . . . g e t the best.
C o n c e n t r a t e on layouts. G e t s o m e o n e p r o m i n e n t and
controversial to design the cover. We'll try and persuade
Peter C o c k b u r n to c o m e for the release of the first

67
issue. That will please Lady D i n g b a t too. She w a s s
aying they'd m e t the bard when her dear husband was
stationed in London during the war years. It will provide
the right touch. An ageing p o e t laureate on his last
l e g s . . . his links with India... after all, he has b e e n a
sort of patron saint to us.'

G o d asked m e whether Kawla would be interested in

moonlighting.
'I can a s k . . . but he's such a pain in the ass.'
' H e ' s g o o d and he'll b e cheap. C h e a p e r than the
greedy Goans in the business. Two a c c e p t e d c a m p a i g n s
and they all think they're ready to bag the C A G awards.
Lazy b u g g e r s . Kawla is diligent and unsophisticated.
We'll be able to brief him without feeling funny about
it. I hate to deal with egotistical bastards.'
'What about the cover?'
' L e t ' s ask I q b a l — n o t h i n g like it, yaar. If he
a g r e e s — w e are made. Lady S will pay any price provided
we can convince h e r — a n d if w e g e t Iqbal, that w o n ' t
be a p r o b l e m , though she'll probably want Belu for
the job. You know, Bawaji-Bawaji and all that.'
'Belu is pretty g o o d too.'
' O K , but not in the s a m e league. Besides, Belu is
much too straightforward. N o tamashagiri with him.
With Iqbal one can be certain there will be a lot of
stuntbaa/.i. That's half the fun, yaar.'

68
 Kawla a g r e e d . . . but reluctantly. He put down just
one condition. H e w o u l d deal with m e and not G o d .
' T h a t p h e l l o w . . . sorry, m a d a m , but that phellow
is u s e l e s s . '
I w o r k e d out a fair deal for Kawla. I didn't see whv
he should b e s h o r t - c h a n g e d just b e c a u s e he, like m o s t
Maharashtrians, w a s t o o inhibited to discuss m o n e y
and s u f f e r e d f r o m low self-worth. Iqbal was a m u c h
harder nut to crack. I was n e r v o u s a b o u t m e e t i n g him
since he had such an awesome reputation. He was known
to be a r r o g a n t , t e m p e r a m e n t a l , u n p r e d i c t a b l e and
disgustingly attractive.
G o d and I used to spot Iqbal at his favourite restaurant,
the Surai, which was just across the street from Bombay's
one and only a r t gallery. W h e n he wasn't travelling
abroad, Iqbal was a permanent fixture at the Surai where
he had his table and his c r o n i e s , fellow painters, always
waiting. Iqbal was a tea addict and c o n s u m e d up t o
twenty cups in o n e session. Behind the casual front
was a shrewd man w h o had watched w o r l d trends in
c o n t e m p o r a r y art and p i c k e d up several clues.
He knew how to m a r k e t himself. He had m a s t e r e d
the art of being a hot c o m m o d i t y . Critics panned his
w o r k . . . but n o t strongly e n o u g h to s t o p the s t a m p e d e s
at his o p e n i n g s , which w e r e invariably s e n s a t i o n a l
and spectacular. He w a s also e x c e e d i n g l y h a n d s o m e
(at thirty-something) and k n e w i t . T h e Surai's regulars
would narrate the m o s t incredible stories about Iqbal's

69
exploits. The man's hunger f o r beautiful girls m a t c h e d
his thirst for tea. H e loved both equally, though often
the tea s c o r e d . He'd be sitting over his f o u r t e e n t h cup
chatting with his friends when his wandering eyes would
suddenly settle on a fresh-faced c o l l e g e girl digging
into a paratha. He'd quickly weigh the o p t i o n s — a n o t h e r
cup of tea or a quick seduction first. N o b o d y k n e w
what he said to his w o m e n and he never revealed it.
An ex-girlfriend had tried to d e m o l i s h the legend by
'revealing all' in a city glossy created precisely for such
reading. But her attempt at blowing his reputation had
only added to his appeal. His line, a c c o r d i n g to her,
was so c o m m o n p l a c e , it was really quite funny.
'Iqbal thinks he can win any w o m a n over by saying,
"You are s o b e a u t i f u l . I'd like t o paint y o u . " Pause.
" N a k e d . " ' If that was i n d e e d his line as c l a i m e d by
the t h w a r t e d g i r l , it w o r k e d fantastically. H e hardly
ever c a m e back to his table a l o n e . And w h e n he did
b r i n g the girl with h i m , they stayed a r o u n d j u s t long
e n o u g h for him t o finish his tea. R u m o u r had it that
he d i d n ' t take his c o n q u e s t s a n y w h e r e c l o s e t o his
studio. 'That's a shrine. I'd be c o m m i t t i n g s a c r i l e g e .
Studios are for s e r i o u s painting. W h e n all you want
to do is b e d the w o m a n — y o u take her s o m e w h e r e
else,' he had o n c e said. The ' s o m e w h e r e e l s e ' would
often be the s t o r a g e r o o m of the a r t g a l l e r y a c r o s s
the r o a d f r o m the Surai. T h e o w n e r s w e r e n o t j u s t
his agents but close friends too. Chitra G a l l e r y w a s

70
run by a h o m o s e x u a l c o u p l e , though that was s u p p o s e d
to b e a s e c r e t . Both the m e n w e r e such m a c h o studs
to l o o k at, it was hard to b e l i e v e that they d i d n ' t like
girls. Especially since girls liked t h e m . Iqbal w o u l d
often j o k e that he was g o i n g t o ' c o n v e r t ' both one
day by o f f e r i n g t h e m the b e s t of his w o m e n . But it
never h a p p e n e d . Billoo and ' B o x e r ' (actually Bhasker)
w e r e u t t e r l y d e v o t e d t o e a c h o t h e r and had b e e n
t o g e t h e r since s c h o o l . T h e r e w a s simplv no q u e s t i o n
of either o f t h e m l o o k i n g at a w o m a n . N o t even at
another m a n , for that m a t t e r .
Iqbal was very close to B and B and insiders of the
art w o r l d often talked a b o u t the surrealistic canvases
Iqbal had p a i n t e d of b o t h of t h e m in very intimate
postures. S o m e found these paintings unbelievablv erotic
( ' W h a t ' s w r o n g with celebrating the male body? What's
wrong with immortalizing man-man love?') Others were
shocked and r e p u l s e d by the explicit pictures. Billoo
and B o x e r g u a r d e d t h e m with their lives and only the
privileged few had ever set eyes on them. Iqbal invariably
r e f e r r e d to the d u o affectionately as ' B & B ' , 'Billoo &
Biwi' or ' T h o s e h o m o s ' .
B & B a d o r e d Iqbal and p r o m o t e d him aggressively.
It was said that they w e r e the real brains behind the
astronomical p r i c e s of Iqbal's works. 'Even his bloody
d o o d l e s cost a lakh these days,' cribbed collectors while
B & B laughed all the way to the bank. They were also
the ones with a canny eye for g i m m i c k s . E n c o u r a g e d

71
by t h e m , Iqbal cultivated an i m a g e f o r h i m s e l f that
was hollow and phoney but one that worked
b e a u t i f u l l y — a n d p r o f i t a b l y — f o r all three of t h e m .
' H e is the only painter in India w h o can g e t away
with murder,' B & B w o u l d g i g g l e . ' H e is wild and
outrageous. The sky is the limit for him.'
Iqbal g e n e r a l l y played a l o n g w i t h all their m a d
suggestions. Each time his show o p e n e d , he'd hog the
headlines for a w e e k . B & B would m a k e sure of that.
Each show worked around a theme which B & B d r e a m t
up.They 'd control everything d o w n to Iqbal's ' c o s t u m e '
for the occasion. In b e t w e e n his m a j o r exhibits, they'd
get him to do ' s t a t e m e n t ' shows that w e r e s u p p o s e d
to be artistic c o m m e n t s on events in India and the rest
of the world. Every show of his was a sell-out, despite
the crazy prices and the patchy quality of his w o r k .
B & B w e r e also s h r e w d e n o u g h to k e e p Iqbal,
m o n u m e n t a l e g o and all, in his p l a c e . T h e y had a
second-line painter in the wings w h o s e main j o b was
to act as a foil to Iqbal. Basu was a r e s e t t l e d Bengali
who lacked both Iqbal's lupine looks and his f e r o c i o u s
appetite tor publicity. C o n n o i s s e u r s insisted that Basu
was a better painter... and that was precisely the s o r t
of debate that B & B loved and e n c o u r a g e d . It m e a n t
additional sales and the maintaining of the right balance.
'It's nothing but a strategy to keep Iqbal in his place,'
critics would declare. But that w a s just what the gallery
owners were alter.

72
 Iqbal i g n o r e d Basu and p r e t e n d e d he didn't know
of his e x i s t e n c e . But Basu was o b s e s s e d with Iqbal. B
& B cashed in on this weakness and used it to e x e r c i s e
absolute control over Basu. They knew that if they wanted
to g e t a rise o u t of the B o n g all they had to do was to
goad him on about Iqbal's success, his next show, his
latest conquest. Basu, driven to inarticulate fury, would
vent his violence on canvas... painting fast and furiously.
O u t of this seething rage e m e r g e d his best w o r k , which
B & B f l o g g e d immediately, m a k i n g sure to keep Basu's
prices at least thirty per cent lower than Iqbal's. Sadistically
and only in the p r e s e n c e of a few t r u s t e d art-lovers, B
&B would chortle, 'Checks and counter-checks. Squeeze
one fellow's balls, the other fellow's e g o — a n d what
do you get? M O N E Y ! '
Basu led an isolated existence in his modest two-room
flat in Dadar. He stayed away f r o m the p r e s s and rarely
granted i n t e r v i e w s . H e was a solitary b r o o d e r without
m u c h of a personality. His other p r o b l e m was that he
didn't speak English t o o fluently. And when he did, it
was with a heavy Bengali accent. This m a d e Basu very
self-conscious and reticent. His a p p r o a c h to art was
radically different from Iqbal's. He viewed it as something
m u c h beyond a calling or a vocation. Art was religion
and he r e v e r e d it.
W h a t Basu w a s b e s t at was p o r t r a i t s . ' H e paints a
p e r s o n ' s s o u l , ' his a d m i r e r s w o u l d rave. Yet, for all
his r e v e r e n c e t o w a r d s his calling, Basu w a s driven by

73
his hunger to catch up with and g o b e y o n d Iqbal. In
t e r m s of f a m e and s u c c e s s . A b o u t the quality o f his
w o r k , Basu was never in d o u b t . It was t h e r e that his
a b s o l u t e c o n f i d e n c e c a m e t o the f o r e . 'I paint with
integrity. N o t to c r e a t e a sensation,' he'd reply w h e n
asked to explain his w o r k . W h a t Basu really n e e d e d
was a w o m a n .
And lor a few mad months, Basu decided that woman
was m e . G o d feigned indifference.
'OK, yaar,' he said to m e , chewing on an unlit beedi.
'I don't own you o r anything. It's O K if you want to
look around, e x p e r i m e n t , find out your m a r k e t value.
But il you ask m e , that bloody Bengali f u c k e r looks a
no-can-do.'
G o d had the males ol the world neatly divided: the
can-dos and the no-can-dos. To that he'd added a third
category: 'the gandus' ( h o m o s e x u a l s ) . Very few men
m a d e it to the can-do category.
His a s s e s s m e n t of Basu t u r n e d o u t to b e totally
off-the-mark as I discovered late one a f t e r n o o n at the
Surai. Basu, after weeping c o p i o u s tears into his tea,
told me dejectedly that his 'laab' for m e was driving
him crazy. Between s o b s , he recited poetry, sketched
on a paper napkin, and kissed the p a l m of my hand
noisilv. Perhaps e n c o u r a g e d by my t o l e r a n c e , he finally
reached for my other hand under the small table and
placed it squarely on his erect penis saying, 'Feel my
m e m b e r , it is thaarsting for you.'

74
 Sultry Days

I hastily withdrew my hand and looked up to see

whether any of the waiters had seen anything. 1 thought
I detected a definite gleam in that bastard Badshah's
eyes. I shot to my feet and m u m b l e d something stupid
to Basu b e f o r e fleeing. Feel my m e m b e r , indeed!
I never told G o d a b o u t this. B e s i d e s , Basu had
obviously g o t the message. H e stopped talking to me.

'He's such a weirdo, yaar,' G o d said about Iqbal after

the first meeting. 'He was excited by the idea of doing
our first cover. But he has s o m e completely mad ideas.
He wants us to find him a m o d e l who will be willing
to act as his canvas.'
'What do you mean?'
'He wants to paint all over her... calligraphy done
with a plume.'
'Body language?'
'Something like that.'
'Is it going to be hard finding s o m e o n e ? '
'Are you crazy?Who'll do it, besides some impove-
rished whore from Kamathipura... ?'
'That's an idea. Why don't we find one then? I've
always wanted to go there again.'
'Again? I'm surprised you even know about the area.'
'My school was nearby... just a couple of kilometres
away. We used to have a daredevil of a girl in my class

75
who t o o k us there. G o d ! H o w I a d m i r e d her guts! J u s t
i m a g i n e — s h e g o t thrown out in the final year b e c a u s e
she had an abortion.'
' N o w you're telling m e . . . just what s o r t of a school
did you go to anyway?'
'I hated it with all my heart. But it was the s o r t of
school favoured by multinational executives. My parents
killed themselves to g e t m e in. N o , not b e c a u s e I was
retarded or anything but we c a m e here on s o m e s o r t
of a transfer in the middle of the t e r m , after my father's
short posting in C a l c u t t a . All the children f r o m Marks
and Schmidt were in this awful s c h o o l — a Protestant
mission run bv frustrated spinsters.'
' N o wonder you are so wonky.'
'What's so wonky about m e ? '
'I don't know, yaar—don't ask m e heavy questions.'
' N o . Tell m e , please. It's i m p o r t a n t . '
'You're so r e p r e s s e d , yaar. All s e r e . \ e d - u p . '
'Thanks a lot, friend.'
'Anytime, vaar.'
'So, are we going or not?'
'Where?'
'To look for a whore.'
' O h , that. I'd almost f o r g o t t e n . Chalo, let's go.'

76
 he first thing that came back to m e as we approached
K a m a t h i p u r a was the smell. A peculiar, icky smell
which I, as a schoolgirl, associated with rotting vegetables
in an uncleared garbage d u m p . It wasn't that, of course.
Bombay's red-light area smells of dirty sex. Putrefying,
coagulating s e m e n on filthy sheets. This is the stench
that hangs over this n a r r o w stretch of r o a d in the heart
of the city.
W h e n Babli had s u g g e s t e d a c o n d u c t e d tour of the
place in our tenth standard, her idea had been received
with shock, horror, fascination and instant acceptance.
T h e r e were six or seven of us in a vague kind of gang.
Babli had always d r i f t e d a r o u n d in search of a friend
but had never found o n e she could hold on to. At the
t i m e of which I speak, she had d e c i d e d to try me out.
I was thrilled, in a way. Thrilled that s o m e o n e like her
found it w o r t h her while to cultivate m e . She was so
b o l d , f r e e and m a t u r e . She w o r e kaajal ro school and

77
defied the lizard-white missionaries. She slung her sash
low over her hips and sashayed a r o u n d the basketball
court like a stripper in a nightclub.
Babli s e e m e d to have so m u c h fun, really. At the
time 1 g o t to know her, she had a m o t o r m e c h a n i c
boyfriend who'd c o m e to the school driving a different
fancy car each day. We didn't know that he was only
' b o r r o w i n g ' f r o m the garage. O r that he'd spent m o s t
of the day on his back under one of them, oiling various
parts and replacing spark plugs. We would die in awe
as Babli scaled the wall in one graceful leap and j u m p e d
into the waiting car. She liked r o g u e s .
When Peter changed gears and left the nearby garage,
Babli replaced him with a Punjabi c a t e r e r — a m a r r i e d
man, nearly twenty years older. He was the o n e w h o
knocked her up after performing an improvised marriage
with her at the Mahalaxmi t e m p l e .
That a f t e r n o o n , she arrived after the lunch break
with a garland of flowers around her neck and a red
bindi on her f o r e h e a d . I let her in through the tiny
b a c k d o o r which was m e a n t for servants bringing tiffin
for their bahylog.
'What have you done? W h e r e w e r e you?'
' P l e a s e call m e M r s G u p t a , I ' m m a r r i e d , ' she
said solemnly.
I p u l l e d o u t a hanky f r o m my p o c k e t and h a n d e d
it t o h e r . ' R u b t h a t b i n d i o f f — s o m e o n e might
see vou.'

78
 S11 i t r y L) a y s

'Let the world see m e , ' she said dramatically. 'I have
nothing to hide. I ' m not ashamed.'
' D o n ' t b e silly. Miss Fielden will be c o m i n g on her
rounds any m i n u t e . . . she'll kill you. And m e . Let's g o
to the loo.'
'You g o if you are so scared. I will tell Miss Fielden
the truth.'
' N o b o d y will believe you. She'll send you h o m e .
You'll get a pink card.Your parents will be called. Forget
it... let's g o and take all this off.' Reluctantly, she agreed
and by the time we g o t b a c k t o the c l a s s r o o m there
were only traces of s i n d o o r in the parting of her hair.
It was three or f o u r m o n t h s after this that she began
to h a e m o r r h a g e d u r i n g the G e o g r a p h y class. At first,
all of us thought she was having a particularly heavy
p e r i o d . T h e teacher asked m e to g o with her to the
small r o o m adjoining the principal's office where there
was a b e d and first-aid kit. T h e nurse on duty t o o k
one l o o k at her and r u s h e d to s u m m o n an ambulance.
Babli's face was fast losing colour. O u r class teacher
c a m e running and r u s h e d to the school office to phone
Babli's p a r e n t s . Minutes later an a m b u l a n c e rolled up.
A l m o s t the entire school r u s h e d into the c o u r t y a r d to
see what w a s going on. Babli was placed on a stretcher
and taken away. S o m e of the smaller children chanted,
' D e a d ! D e a d ! D e a d ! She's d e a d ! d e a d ! d e a d ! '
T h e y w e r e n e a r l y r i g h t . Babli had l o s t so m u c h
b l o o d by the t i m e they g o t her t o the h o s p i t a l that

79
the d o c t o r s gave her only a s l i m c h a n c e of p u l l i n g
t h r o u g h . But pull t h r o u g h she d i d . It is a sight I'll
never f o r g e t . . . Babli lying on the s t r e t c h e r with thick,
blackish b l o o d like a m u d d y , r u n n i n g s t r e a m , leaving
a trail d o w n the m a i n s t a i r s . She d i d n ' t c o m e b a c k
to s c h o o l and that dav w a s n e v e r d i s c u s s e d e v e n
between friends.

But had it not b e e n tor Babli, n o n e of us w o u l d

have known that an area like Kamathipura even e x i s t e d .
She was the one who gave e x p e r t instructions to Minal's
driver and told him where to go. O n the way, we had
picked up ice-cream cones. W h e n we g o t t o the street
with the cages, we f o r g o t all a b o u t the ice c r e a m as
we hung out of the car w i n d o w s and g a w k e d at the
prostitutes.
In our e x c i t e m e n t , we f o r g o t about the driver, a
d o d d e r i n g old m a n who'd b e e n with Minal's family
for thirtv years. Impassively, Laxman drove the car through
the o v e r c r o w d e d lane while p i m p s and idlers j u m p e d
out at us and b e c k o n e d lewdly.
' Let's stop the car and walk around,' Babli suggested.
At this point, Laxman spoke up (he understood English
but pretended that he c o u l d n ' t ) . He told his ' b a b y ' ,
that he would certainly not stop his car in this randi
gali, the street of whores (I hadn't heard the t e r m till

80
then) and that if she insisted, he'd tell her mother. So,
we had to satisfy ourselves by driving through.
With a great deal of p e r s u a s i o n , we c o a x e d Laxman
into turning the car around and driving back. ' P r o m i s e ,
we w o n ' t ask again,' Minal 'oeseeched after a lot of
p r o d d i n g f r o m the rest of us.
L a x m a n g r o w l e d , 'If anything happens to the car
or to any of the babylog, I ' m not responsible. R e m e m b e r
that. I'll tell the seth that baby forced me.'
We absolved him o f all responsibility in the matter
and continued to gaze with unblinking fascination at
the half-clad w o m e n hanging out of the unbelievably
small cages which were their w o r k p l a c e s . They w o r e
such strange c o s t u m e s — t h i g h - l e n g t h skirts with sari
cholis or just brassieres on top.
'They stuff their bras,' Babli told us knowledgcably.
' M o s t of them d o n ' t have any boobs."
S o m e of the girls c o u l d n ' t have been m u c h older
than us. They were tiny, fragile and fair with lustrous,
long hair. 'Nepali prostitutes,' said Babli, 'they cost m o r e
b e c a u s e they are fair.'
' H o w do you know?' s o m e o n e asked her.
'Peter c o m e s here regularly. H e only g o e s to the
Nepali g i r l s — t h e y are clean and hairless. N o t like those
ugly ones f r o m Bihar. T h o s e are half-price.'
'Peter told you?'
' O f c o u r s e . H e tells m e everything. He says the
Nepali girls are the best.'

81
 Shobhaa De

'Best at what?'
'Don't ask such questions,' Laxman interrupted again,
speaking sharply to Minal. '1 will tell the sethani. Such
dirty talk! Baby log from g o o d families don't say such
things. Baap re! 1 will tell your father also. 1 will refuse
to take such girls in my c a r — i t doesn't matter if the
seth asks me to go. In thirty years I have never driven
through this place. What will your mother and father
think? I'll be held responsible.'
Babli told Minal, 'Tell him to cool it. O K , O K . Enough
of his lecturebaazi.'
Laxman was livid. He pulled up along the sidewalk
and told Minal. 'I will not drive if that baby doesn't
keep quiet. I've had enough.'
We told Babli to shut up. She hissed. 'Babies! All of
you are such babies,' making it sound like the worst
imaginable insult. 'I was going to take you to a restaurant
here which sells the best baida-roti in town. Only five
bucks. Now forget it. Let's all go home and have a bath.'
'I don't mind coming with you,' I heard myself saying.
'Let's get off.'
'Are you mad? You are wearing school uniforms.
Someone might see you and report you. What will happen
then? We'll all get into trouble.'
Babli suggested a way out. ' L o o k , why don't we
remove our sashes and badges? That way, nobody will
be able to tell which school we're from.'
I was game, but Minal put her foot down.

82
 Sultry Days

' O K , girls,' Babli brightened up once again, 'if you

don't want a baida-roti, let's at least have a fag.'
*

Going back to Kamathipura after so many years and

with God was an entirely different experience. He seemed
so much at h o m e , so familiar with the area. He even
exchanged greetings with the paan-beediwallah at the
corner and sauntered casually into a cold drinks stall
and ordered a soda.
'Relax, yaar, nobody is going to devour you. Besides,
you d o n ' t look like a potential randi even though I
look like a professional pimp. I doubt I'd be able to
get a g o o d price for you in any case, you ice-cube. The
N e p s have cornered the market. Fair skin, no hair, no
b o o b s — l i k e I told y o u — o n e N e p in the brothel and
all the other whores might as well quit.'
We walked down slowly 'surveying the merchandise',
as G o d put it.
'Why d o n ' t we g o to your usual place?' I asked
brightly.
' O h s h u t u p ! Take y o u t h e r e and r u i n the
fun f o r e v e r ? '
'Ladka chahiye ya lakdki ( D o you want a boy or a
girl)?' a dwarf with a red scarf around his thick neck
called out f r o m a dark stairway. 'Sab maal milega (You
can get anything you want),' he beckoned.

83
 'Why not?' said God, and started singing,
'I want to b e in K a m a t h i p u r a . . . e v e r y t h i n g f r e e in
K a m a t h i p u r a . . . O K by m e in K a m a t h i p u r a . . . ' to the
tune of "I want to be in A m e r i c a " .
The d w a r f t o d d l e d up and t o o k G o d ' s hand. 'Chal
hatt, bhadwa ( G e t lost, p i m p ) , ' G o d snarled and
s h o o k him o f f . U n d e t e r r e d , the d w a r f c o n t i n u e d
to trail u s , k e e p i n g up his l i t t l e chant—virgins,
N e p a l e s e , little boys, little girls, h o m o s , hijdas, blacks,
even b l o n d e s .
'Let's ask him for a blonde,' I b e g g e d of G o d . 'Are
you mad? He'll take us for such a r i d e , we'll be reeling.
It's all cash d o w n in Foras R o a d — s o , j u s t keep your
mouth shut and follow m e . '
Since it was off-duty h o u r s , the prostitutes were
lounging around on rickety charpoys parked in the middle
of the busy r o a d . H a n d c a r t p u l l e r s , b u l l o c k - c a r t s , cabs
and cyclists, negotiated their way carefully past their
prone figures. S o m e of them called out to us in a friendly
way and offered boiled eggs and tea. 'Why d o all of
them cat boiled eggs?' 1 asked G o d .
'Because they are cheap, nutritious and convenient,'
he answered shortly.
In a while, he spotted a familiar looking m a d a m .
'Hey, R u k h m a n i b a i . . . namaskar,' he g r e e t e d her.
She stopped her paan-making activity long enough
to look up at him. 'Are, C o m r a d e ka bachcha... kaisa
hai tu, saala (how are y o u ) ? '

84
 Suf t r y Days

'Sab theek ( O K ) , ' he answered and went up to offer

her a beedi. 'Phoren cigarette pila (Give m e a foreign
cigarette),' she taunted.
He sat down next to her and asked, 'Kuch naya maal
hai (Have you any new recruits)?'
For s o m e reason she thought he was o f f e r i n g her
a new recruit and that it was m e . She gave m e a quick
once-over and shook her head firmly. 'Nahi chalegi
(Won't d o ) . '
I hadn't m a d e the grade. I'd flunked! 1 felt most
insulted and humiliated. N o t g o o d enough for this
gargoyle with b l o o d - r e d t e e t h and thick furry
tongue! Indeed! G o d patted my head affectionately and
said, 'Bachchi hai—chhod do uski baat (She's just a
k i d — f o r g e t about her).'Then he got down to business.
She was suspicious. O f c o u r s e she had the right
girl, but the whole thing sounded very fishy. S o m e man
wanted to paint her naked b o d y — a l l right, but what
about screwing her? N o ? Then how could they settle a
rate? T h e r e was no separate tariff for just painting one
of her girls.
'Half-day, half-night or whole night?' she asked.
'That depends.'
' N o , no, no. That depends on me—not on you.
She's my girl.'
'Let us see her first, then we'll fix up the price
and time.'

85
 'She's resting just now. Had a busy night. French
ship in town. Chameli is very p o p u l a r with the gora
log. D a r k , thick hair e v e r y w h e r e , that's why.'
'So when can we sec her?'
' C o m e back tonight. Try t o m o r r o w . U p to you.'
Just then a young girl clad in a gaudy lungi p e e p e d
out from behind a curtain. She was w e a r i n g a bright
pink bra, five sizes t o o small f o r her. 'Chai?' she asked
flashing a set of fine white teeth.
G o d j u m p e d up. 'I want h e r — t h a t ' s her. That's the
one 1 want.'
The madam restrained him with one hand and shooed
the girl off with the other. ']ao! Jao!'
S o m e o n e f r o m inside the dimly-lit h o u s e called o u t ,
' C h a m e l i — k i d h a r hai tu? Tera bachcha ro raha hai
( W h e r e are you?Your child is crying).'
The s a m e girl e m e r g e d again with an infant on her
hip. She was s m o k i n g a Gitane.
'That's her, isn't it?' G o d said. ' L e t m e talk to her.'
The m a d a m signalled wildly to her to g o back into
the r o o m , but the girl s t o o d a r o u n d s m o k i n g , swaying
her hips gently to k e e p the baby quiet. She w a s staring
at G o d thoughtfullv. H e l o o k e d like he was in a trance.
The m a d a m spoke to her rapidly inTulu and t u r n e d to
us. 'She isn't interested, I asked her.'
God turned to the girl. She winked at him and put
out her tongue—just the tip. It was as pink as her bra.
'You're lying,' he said to the madam. 'She wants to do it.'

86
 'I j u s t t o l d you s h e d o e s n ' t . A n d if you d o n ' t m o v e
along now, I'll call Bahadur.' She w o u l d n ' t have had to
shout. The b o u n c e r was squatting nearby smoking a
h o o k a h a n d h a v i n g h i s e a r s c l e a n e d by a m a n w h o
s p e c i a l i z e d in d o i n g j u s t that. T h e girl i n t e r v e n e d at
this p o i n t a n d said s o m e t h i n g rapidly to the m a d a m .
G o d h a d n ' t b e e n a b l e t o take his eyes o f f her.
The m a d a m asked him, 'Are you going to introduce
her t o s o m e f i l m w a l l a h ? '
'Yes, s u r e . I k n o w l o t s of t h e m , ' he lied glibly.
' L o o k . . . if she j o i n s f i l m s , I will g e t a c u t . She and
I have this u n d e r s t a n d i n g f r o m t h e b e g i n n i n g . N o
n o n s e n s e . N o cheating. If y o u try and h o o d w i n k m e ,
I'll b r e a k e v e r y b o n e in your body—understand?'
G o d w a s r e a d y t o w i p e the m a d a m ' s filthy f e e t with
a s c e n t e d t o w e l bv t h e n . H e w o u l d have a g r e e d t o
anything. T h e g i r l f l i c k e d h e r c i g a r e t t e away and s t u c k
her f o r e f i n g e r i n t o the infant's m o u t h . It b e g a n t o s u c k
at it noisily. ' H u n g r y , ' s h e a n n o u n c e d and w a l k e d into
the r o o m . T h i c k , d a r k hair c o v e r e d her b a c k like a satin
c u r t a i n . G o d w a s o n the v e r g e of c o l l a p s i n g .
' S h i t ! She is so b l o o d y b e a u t i f u l , ' he said hitting
his p a l m w i t h a lighter.
' Y e s , s h e is,' I a g r e e d . A m a z i n g . I w a s n ' t j e a l o u s
at all.

87
My parents were having their annual party. They always
celebrated the.ir wedding anniversary with an elaborate
dinner. It was one occasion my m o t h e r d r e a d e d and
abhorred. But it had to be gone through. Weeks of careful
planning went into it since my father used to invite
what he called the 'big shots'. Senior executives, important
clients, advertising a g e n c y p e o p l e w h o h a n d l e d the
company's account, bank people, and a few of his juniors,
who were e x p e c t e d to help with the drinks and snacks.
When 1 g o t h o m e f r o m Foras R o a d , my m o t h e r
was in the b e d r o o m , weeping.
'What's the matter?' I asked her. I was quite alarmed
seeing her like that. She rarely c r i e d . O r laughed, for
that matter.
' O h , it's nothing. Really. Why don't you g o and wash
up?' she said in an e m b a r r a s s e d voice.
'Has the souffle c o l l a p s e d ? ' I asked, imagining that
there c o u l d n ' t be a w o r s e disaster.
' N o . . . not the s o u f f l e . But my m a r r i a g e . ' And she
burst into loud sobs that s e e m e d to e m e r g e f r o m the
pit of her s t o m a c h .
'What?' 1 s c r e a m e d and started to shake her. ' W h a t
are you saying?'
'Your father d o e s n ' t love m e anymore. H e told m e
so this morning.'
' D o n ' t be ridiculous,' I said. 'Papa told you that?
He must have been tired or tense or something.'

88
 ' N o , Baby, he was very calm. But I don't want to
discuss it right now. 1 m u s t first calm myself... and then
there's the party tonight. Papa will g e t m o s t upset if
the party flops. You know how important it is to him.'
' D o n ' t b e r i d i c u l o u s , M u m m y . H o w can you g o
through a p a r t y in this condition?'
M u m m y r u s h e d to e x a m i n e her face in the mirror,
'Oh my G o d — i s my face O K ? Look at my hair... Papa
is going to kill m e . '
'Forget y o u r face and hair, M u m m y . . . just tell m e
it's not t r u e . Tell m e it was only a silly fight.'
'I wish I could say t h a t — G o d ! I wish that it was
true. But a Sindhi w o m a n ! Can you i m a g i n e ? A Sindhi!
S o m e o n e f r o m his o f f i c e — a divorcee. T h o s e are the
worst types. Ruin their own m a r r i a g e first and then
ruin s o m e o n e else's. But what I can't g e t over is, how
could he fall f o r a Sindhi? You know how he feels about
them? He always u s e d to say Sindhis have no class.That
they are c r u d e and lacking in taste. You r e m e m b e r the
holiday in G o a t w o years ago? R e m e m b e r those p e o p l e
in the n e x t villa at the village? Sindhis? R e m e m b e r what
the w o m e n w e r e w e a r i n g — s h i n y clothes with b r o a d
plastic belts. And high heels in the sand! R e m e m b e r ,
how we laughed? Especially Papa. He even c o m m e n t e d
on their bleached m o u s t a c h e s . A n d now '
'It's not possible, Mummy. H e m u s t have been angry
with you or something. He loves you. H e loves m e .
He w o u l d n ' t d o this.'

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 Shobhaa De

'I thought he loved us too, but obviously I was wrong.

Anyway, let's not talk about it now. G o and get dressed.
Please wear a nice salwar-kameez. And don't let Papa
know that you know.'
I went back to my r o o m in a state of shock. I wanted
to phone G o d immediately. T h e whole day had b e e n
too much. And now this! I knew that G o d w o u l d n ' t
be very sympathetic. O r even interested. But I had
to tell s o m e o n e . I felt dizzy and sick and lay down
on my bed.
Didi, our old maid, c a m e into the r o o m and asked
whether 1 was unwell.
'Limbupani, Baby?' she enquired with concern.
I waved her away but she wouldn't budge. She urged
me to dress quickly before Papa got home. Obviously
she didn't know anything. O r maybe she did. She belonged
to the old school of servants, trained never to show their
reactions no matter what the provocation. I remembered
now how, years ago, I'd wanted desperately to know
why my mother was crying constantly and what the doctors
and nurses were doing in our home for nearly a month.
1 was certain Didi knew but she wouldn't tell even after
my pestering her to. Instead, she'd just make m e sit in
her lap and rock me gently, singing ancient Nepali lullabies.
This time too, I knew her lips were irritatingly sealed.
Only; this time I probably knew more than she did. I
felt strangely triumphant. I finally managed to get rid
of her and went to my parents' r o o m .

90
 I k n o c k e d on M u m m y ' s d o o r b e f o r e entering and
found her sitting listlessly in front of the dressing-table.
She r e s e m b l e d a faded r o s e and even smelled like one.
'It was nice living at M o u n t Pleasant R o a d , ' she said
in an a b s e n t s o r t of way. ' A h m e d a b a d will b e hot
now... verv hot. Ba will b e s u r p r i s e d to see me.'
'What are you talking about?' I asked.
'It's all r i g h t , Baby, y o u w o n ' t have to c o m e . You
can stay on at N i l g i r i A p a r t m e n t s . R e m e m b e r when
we u s e d to stay in Vile Parle? N o , of c o u r s e y o u c a n ' t ,
you w e r e t o o s m a l l . We d i d n ' t have a car in t h o s e
days. I u s e d t o travel by B E S T b u s e s . Your P a p a also.
O u r s o f a w a s m a d e of b l u e R e x i n e and w e d i d n ' t
have a b a t h t u b in the b a t h r o o m . N o f r i d g e , n o g a s ,
no w a s h i n g - m a c h i n e , n o a i r - c o n d i t i o n e r . . . i m a g i n e .
That w a s b e f o r e Papa j o i n e d M a r k s and S c h m i d t as
marketing manager. Then we moved to Malabar
H i l l . . . and e v e r y b o d y felt so j e a l o u s . D o y o u k n o w
I d i d n ' t p o s s e s s a c h i f f o n at that t i m e ? O n l y mill
s a r i s — K h a t a u , B o m b a y D y e i n g — t h e t y p e that D i d i
w e a r s t h e s e days. Ba w a s so p r o u d . She'd tell o u r
r e l a t i v e s in A h m e d a b a d , " V e e n a b e n has d o n e so well
for h e r s e l f . . . she lives at M a l a b a r Hill in B o m b a y .
Big b u i l d i n g with a u t o m a t i c lift. S e r v a n t s , car, driver,
everything!" And n o w it's all finished. Finished b e c a u s e
of s o m e Sindhi w o m a n . T h a t is the w o r s t p a r t . H a d
she b e e n P u n j a b i , I w o u l d have u n d e r s t o o d . M a y b e
y o u r f a t h e r m i s s e d his l a n g u a g e , his f o o d . M a y b e 1

91
s h o u l d have m a d e his t y p e of khana m o r e o f t e n . But
vou know how strict they are at Ba's h o m e — n o onions,
no g a r l i c . At least 1 d s t a r t e d eating t h o s e . . . but h o w
c o u l d 1 p o s s i b l y eat m u t t o n and c h i c k e n ? I'd t r i e d
fish o n c e — t h e s m e l l w a s so h o r r i b l e . I t h o u g h t I'd
throw u p — r i g h t t h e r e — i n f r o n t o f the b o s s e s . Your
father had l o o k e d at m e and s m i l e d u n d e r s t a n d i n g l y .
H e was a nice m a n actually,
j7 he d i d n ' t m a k e m e feel
small in f r o n t of i m p o r t a n t p e o p l e . '
' D o n ' t talk like this, M u m m y . . . all in the past tense.
Papa isn't dead or something.'
'Isn't he?' she asked vaguely. Her e x p r e s s i o n scared
m e . She wasn't really there at all.

The p a r t y w e n t o f f as all the o t h e r p a r t i e s had in

previous years. Everybody b r o u g h t ugly baskets full
of unnatural-looking f l o w e r s , or p r e s e n t s w r a p p e d in
handmade paper. My m o t h e r went through the evening
gracefully, and I felt very proud of her. She wasn't looking
her best, and her m a k e - u p hadn't c o m e out right, but
that was understandable. Mv father was far t o o animated
and jolly. I thought he m u s t have looked artificial and
a little ridiculous to the others. But n o b o d y s e e m e d
to notice. O r so I thought. My father s u g g e s t e d a ' s p o t
of dancing' and called the servants to move the furniture.
S o m e o n e started singing, "For he's a jolly g o o d fellow",
and soon everybody joined in.

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 Sultry Days

I looked at M u m m y anxiously. She looked like she

was about to faint. I went and stood by her. She clutched
my hand tightly and whispered, 'They all know.' And I
asked her how she knew.
'I can tell. Besides, Mrs Bawa came up to m e and
said, " H o w nice that you decided to have the party
this year too, we weren't sure you would.'"
'That doesn't mean a thing.'
' O f course it does. I've always hated that w o m a n . . .
lipstick all over her teeth, sweat under her armpits
and a bra two sizes too big for her. She had the guts to
say that to m e ! '
'Papa doesn't look upset.'
'Why should he look upset? He's getting what he
wants.'
And I thought to myself sadly that perhaps, in a
way, she was getting what she wanted as well... only
she didn't know it. N o t just then.
I was troubled about this depressed state and spoke
to G o d the same night. (Yes, despite his appearance
and the d u m p he lived in, he did possess a phone!)
There were times when he was thankfully receptive
to such conversations. He told m e not to worry too
much about Mummy.
'Women go through these things, yaar,' he said, 'even
the old woman at home behaves funnily sometimes.
But she settles down soon enough. Leave her alone.
It's just a damn phase. Women get into these chakkars.
Nothing serious. She must be menstruating. Ask her.'

93
 I did. And M u m m y denied it hotly. I think she was
o u t r a g e d by the s u g g e s t i o n that her low m o o d had
anything to do with her p e r i o d s . But she d i d n ' t want
to discuss it further with m e .
'It will pass,' she said coldly. And I left it at that. I
g o t the f e e l i n g that M u m m y w a s in the t h r o e s of
re-examining her life, her m a r r i a g e , her priorities. And
like G o d had s u g g e s t e d — ' G i v e the b r o a d s o m e space,
yaar.' Which is exactly what I did.

94
 isappointingly for G o d and the rest of the Poets
D Association, the encounter b e t w e e n Iqbal and the
whore didn't materialize. Eventually, they had to settle
for a naughty d o o d l e . They thought Iqbal had d o n e it
for f r e e till he p h o n e d the D . O . M . and asked to be
paid for it. ' D o n ' t you k n o w — j u s t my signature sells
these days.' The D . O . M . was t o o stunned to r e s p o n d
and d e c i d e d to take it up with the rest.
' S e r v e s us right,' g i g g l e d Chandni.
'The filthy bastard,' said Sujata. And everybody agreed
it was the m o s t m e r c e n a r y act possible.
M e a n w h i l e , Iqbal had a g r e e d to give an interview
to G o d . I w a n t e d to g o along, since Iqbal fascinated
m e (as he did nearly every w o m a n w h o k n e w of his
e x i s t e n c e ) . G o d had b e e n c o m m i s s i o n e d by the editor
of a leading fortnightly. T h e editor, Nandan Kapoor,
was a failed p o e t but an immensely successful journalist.
He was half-jealous of G o d and half-patronizing. 'Do

95
 Shobhaa De

me a great cover story and I'll make you in one stroke,'

he'd told him at his studiedly arty office.
G o d had c o m e back f r o m the m e e t i n g entirely
unimpressed. 'He's a fart, yaar,' he said decisively.
'Then how c o m e he's considered such a hot-shot
in his field?' I asked.
'Don't be naive, stupid. It's because he's such an
asshole. Nobody takes him seriously. He gets by... you
know... buttering up the right p e o p l e — s t a y i n g on the
right side of his maliks.'
'It c a n ' t be that s i m p l e . A l o t of r e a d e r s find
him very talented. He has quite a fan-following. He's
always called to address the Rotary C l u b — m y father
was telling m e '
'Fuck what your father was telling you, baby. He's
another asshole himself. What d o e s he read besides
balance sheets, huh? And the stocks and shares news?
Tell me, has that man ever read a book? O r listened to
music? Rotary Club! Who belongs to it? Social-climbing
businessmen who want to get their mugs into the evening
papers. What do they do there? Eat five star khana,
gas around, gossip and pretend they're listening to
whichever sacrificial goat they've managed to rope in
as a speaker. Nobody can hear what the fellow is saying
since all the Rotarians are busy belching and farting
after the heavy food. O n e day I'm going to rip them
apart in print.'

96
 'Are you sure your n e w f r i e n d — t h e great Nandan
K a p o o r — isn't using you? Why can't he interview Iqbal
himself?'
' O h , he thinks Iqbal will clam up with him. Nandan
has t h a t e f f e c t o n p e o p l e . H e o v e r p o w e r s them.
He thinks I'll b e able to d i s a r m Iqbal and get s o m e
g o o d quotes.'
' W h a t are you planning to ask him?'
'I haven't worked it out yet... but nobody is interested
in reading his views on art. I'll g e t him to bitch about
other artists and discuss his sex-life. Maybe p o s e nude
with his m i s t r e s s . He has o n e — n o t that he's faithful
to her. But he likes his w o m e n old and fat e x c e p t his
one-night stands who have to be virginal college kids.
He says he's a classicist w h o appreciates R u b e n e s q u e
beauty. Pendulous breasts, a big a r s e — t h a t sort of thing.
He's g a m e for stunts, so I ' m sure he'll a g r e e . We can
shoot them in s o m e m a d setting... maybe a bathtub.
O r m a y b e in Borivili Park with lions and tigers.'
Eventually, G o d had to settle for a m o r e mundane
p i c t u r e . Iqbal w a s all set to strip since he loved his
own body. But the d e m u r e lady shied off. What G o d
finally g o t was a w e d d i n g p o r t r a i t type of p h o t o g r a p h ,
but at least the w o r l d g o t to see what this m y s t e r i o u s
w o m a n l o o k e d like. Iqbal spoke about her candidly and
with r a r e , u n c h a r a c t e r i s t i c t e n d e r n e s s . H e r e s e r v e d
his v e n o m for the other painters.

97
 Sh hhaa De

'A monkey's shit is m o r e artistic,' he declared w h e n

asked to c o m m e n t on Basu. 'Let him paint ghosts. His
portraits give everybody nightmares anyway.'
G o d asked him to pick out his favourites and Iqbal
laughed, 'It's like asking m e to sift through a p o o l of
gurgling c r a p . . . f o r g e t it.'
I sat through the interview in a daze, taking it all
i n . . . drinking in every w o r d . . . hanging on to Iqbal's
p r o n o u n c e m e n t s in a semi-trance. I j u m p e d out of my
skin when he suddenly t u r n e d to m e and asked G o d ,
'Is this the little w h o r e w h o s e backside you w a n t e d
m e to paint?'
G o d was as s t a r t l e d as I w a s and f o r a m i n u t e
b o t h of us w e r e s p e e c h l e s s . ' N o , n o . . . this is m v
f r i e n d - N a s h a . . . I m e a n , N i s h a . . . she's j u s t a f r i e n d .
She helps me with the tape-recorder, lights,
r e f l e c t o r . . . that s o r t of thing.'
'Body achchi hai, yaar, pretty g o o d . Kapde utaar
do... go on, take your clothes off.'
G o d turned to m e and asked in an offhand way,
' H o w about it?'
And I heard myself saying, 'Sure. Why not?'
N o t h i n g h a p p e n e d . G o d w a s s t u m p e d and Iqbal
just s t a r e d . T h e n G o d arranged his e x p r e s s i o n carefully
and asked Iqbal to e x c u s e us. H e t o o k my a r m roughly
and p u s h e d m e into Iqbal's k i t c h e n . I n o t i c e d that
the sink was like a g u t t e r . Full o f u n w a s h e d p o t s and
paint b r u s h e s .

98
 T h e g a r b a g e pail w a s flowing with rotting papayas
and the f r i d g e d o o r was open. S o m e b o d y had scribbled
'Fuck y o u ! ' on the wall behind the gas range, in orange
fluorescent paint. G o d pushed m e against a shelf and
hissed, 'Are you mad?You want to strip in front of this
maniac and have y o u r s e l f p h o t o g r a p h e d ? '
' W h y . . . I thought you'd approve,' 1 said deliberately
and insincerely.
'I j u s t said that in f r o n t of him b e c a u s e I k n e w
you'd refuse.'
' O r did you say it only to humiliate m e ? '
' L o o k , there's no time to stand here arguing. Let's
g o o u t and tell him it's not possible b e c a u s e you have
your p e r i o d . '
'But I d o n ' t . '
'I k n o w you d o n ' t — b u t let's tell him that and finish
off the interview.'
'Coward.'
'What did vou say?'
'1 said " C o w a r d " . '
G o d raised his hand. I saw his broad, flat palm coming
t o w a r d s my face. And d u c k e d . His hand hit the sharp
s p o u t of a battered aluminium kettle and c u r s e d . I ran
out and smiled brightly at Iqbal who had started painting
a canvas conveniently mounted on an easel by the window.
'Kya hua? C h i c k e n e d o u t ? Tell your boyfriend not to
w o r r y . . . I like mine old and huge. You are cancelled

99
on both counts. N o w r u n along, the t w o of y o u . . . I
have work to do.'

!§S

Iqbal's interview created the necessary sensation and

Nandan K a p o o r was gloating over it f o r weeks. The
art world w a s up in a r m s and G o d b e c a m e a byline to
reckon with.
As for m e , I was drawn into my m o t h e r ' s sad w o r l d ,
full of self-pity and d o u b t . I didn't know what to m a k e
of the b o m b she had d r o p p e d . M y father continued to
be 'normal' and p r e t e n d e d nothing had happened. After
a point, I began to w o n d e r whether my m o t h e r had
imagined it all.
' D o n ' t be ridiculous, B a b y — o f c o u r s e it's true.'
'But has Papa brought it u p again?'
' N o , why should he? He's waiting for m e to m a k e
the first move.'
'Have you spoken to Ba?'
'Yes. She told m e to c o m e to Ahmedabad immediately.
But it will be so hot there.'
I couldn't believe this. My m o t h e r was p o s t p o n i n g
the decision to leave my father b e c a u s e the weather
wasn't to her liking! I was getting w o r r i e d a b o u t her.
Sometimes I'd go into their b e d r o o m and find her talking
to herself and folding her saris over and over again.
T h e saris she'd once told m e she c o u l d n ' t stand.

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 Sultry Days

'I hate c h i f f o n s . N o b o d y in A h m e d a b a d w e a r s
chiffons. They are such Punjabi status symbols. I've
always worn cotton saris. Handblock printed, bandhni,
l e h e r i y a — p r i n t s o f that s o r t . Your father d o e s n ' t
approve of them. He says they are meant for sweeper
w o m e n — h e thinks cottons don't g o with his new status.
He always points to the other company wives and says,
" L o o k at how Rina d r e s s e s — s o immaculately. Soft
colours. Always in silks." It's no use telling him that
silks make you sweat. Nobody wears silks in Bombay-
e x c e p t d u r i n g D e c e m b e r . But he f e e l s silks l o o k
"expensive". He doesn't know that these days good cotton
saris are equally costly.'
Beneath Papa's surface normalcy, I began to detect
some changes. And even if I hadn't, Mummy would
have pointed them out. For instance, he now came home
much later and worked over weekends m o r e often.
'It's her.That Sindhi woman.They all know black magic.
She has cast a spell on your father... jadu-mantra... I'm
sure of it. He is completely under her control. But it
can't last for long. Sooner or later he will c o m e out of
the trance and realize his mistake.'
I'd listen to her ran tings as sympathetically as possible.
And even when these took place in front of Papa, it
was obvious f r o m his vacant eyes and empty smiles
that he wasn't with us at all. S o m e t i m e s he'd rush to
pick up the phone during dinner or on a Sunday afternoon,
and my m o t h e r would look at m e significantly. 'It's

101
h e r ! ' she'd m o u t h silently and stiffen. Father w o u l d
speak with his m o u t h b u r i e d in the receiver and r e t u r n
looking distracted.
I was c u r i o u s a b o u t this w o m a n w h o had captivated
him. And told G o d that I w a n t e d to see her. 'Whatever
for? Waste of t i m e . If you really want to b r e a k it up,
think of a strategy. I'll c h e c k with C o m r a d e s a a b . H e
usually m a n a g e s to c o m e up with s o m e t h i n g or the
other. My m o t h e r t o o . I s u p p o s e they have p l e n t y
of e x p e r i e n c e '
Comradesaab came up with two suggestions. I found
o n e b r i l l i a n t and the o t h e r scary. B l a c k m a i l . A n d
r o u g h i n g up. T h e first o n e s e e m e d easy. G o d c o u l d
w r i t e a c o u p l e of d i r t y l e t t e r s t h r e a t e n i n g t o e x p o s e
her. If these d i d n ' t w o r k , he'd w a r n her that he'd send
them to the bosses. If even that ploy failed, Comradesaab
w o u l d send his f e l l o w s to g h e r a o her s o m e w h e r e and
frighten her. G o d told m e , ' J u s t leave it to the e x p e r t s ,
yaar. Sit b a c k and w a t c h the f u n . She'll g e t c o l d in
no time and that tight-ass father of y o u r s will c o m e
running h o m e . In any case, I can't see what any w o m a n
could find in an idiot like him. Such an ordinary bugger.
Have you seen him naked recently? D o e s he still have
his e q u i p m e n t ? '
' D o n ' t be disgusting. J u s t do what you have to. I
hope it works. At least for my m o t h e r ' s sake.'
'I'll o u t d o m y s e l f . . . d o n ' t worry. If w o r d s fail m e ,
I'll seek Sujata's help. By the way, have you seen the

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 Sultry Days

way she has been eyeing my crotch lately? I think the

lioness is hungry '

As a matter of fact, I had noticed Sujata's new-found

interest in God. She'd taken to being very coquettish
and physical. Her hands were invariably on his thigh when
she plonked herself next to him. Once I'd even seen
him removing her sweaty palm very deliberately from
his lap and she'd dug her elbow into his ribs and giggled.
Shameless woman. And depressing too. For I suspected
her interest in God had to do with his elevation to associate
editor of Plume. His articles and interviews had also
begun to appear here and there since his interview with
Iqbal for Nandan Kapoor. He had also been offered a
regular column in a Sunday paper, to cover the arts.
Sujata wanted desperately to be written up since she'd
been largely out of the news for nearly five years. She
was one of those who believed in direct action. Soon
enough she came to the point.
'When can you interview m e ? '
G o d hadn't been prepared for the question and was
stumped for a m o m e n t . 'I'll have to check with the
editor.'
'What for? I thought the arts page was yours.'
'It is. Even so. Besides, we have worked out a schedule
for the next six months.'

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 Shobhaa De

'Rubbish. N o paper w o r k s so m u c h in advance.

O r are you playing hard to get? Is there something I
can do for you in return?' And with that she did the
o b v i o u s — l e t her Venkatgiri sari-pallu d r o p f r o m the
shoulder. Her eyes took on the practised look of seduction.
She let one crinkly lock of hair fall over one eyebrow.
She looked pretty bizarre and far f r o m the f e m m e fatale
she was playing. 'I knew your editor pretty well,' she
added. 'In fact he and I were lovers ten years ago. He
worshipped me,' and she giggled. ' C h a m p a k blossoms.
He always brought them for m e . W r a p p e d in g r e e n
leaves and tied with a string. I could speak to him directly...
but that wouldn't be nice. Why don't you be a g o o d
boy and do this for me? I'll give you sensational quotes.'
God didn't dare tell h e r — n o t right away—that her
quotes, sensational or otherwise were of no interest
to anybody any longer. That all her candid revelations
about her conquests, real or imagined, shocked nobody
in these changed times. And that, in any case, it was
unlikely looking at h e r — b l o a t e d , ageing—that there
would be any takers either for her p o e m s or her body.
A cruel but accurate assessment of Sujata's drawing
power, in and out of the boudoir. Maybe she knew,
but pretended not to. Sujata needed her delusions, or
else she might have gone mad.
God played it gently, cautiously. While he was detached
enough to see Sujata through the eyes of the rest of
the world, he continued to lust for her explaining, 'Must

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 Sultry Days

be s o m e sort of a m o t h e r c o m p l e x , yaar. Besides, she

is still very fuckable... and her s m e l l . . . wah... it's the
same fucking smell, yaar. Can't resist it.'
He told her he'd w o r k on the editor and get back
to her. She a d d e d w i t h a final s i d e l o n g glance,
' R e m e m b e r . . . it will be an e x c l u s i v e — a n d in colour.
I have a photographer in m i n d — h e ' s young, talented
and totally in love with m e . I don't want to be clicked
by just anybody. They make m e l o o k . . . different. They
can't capture my soul. N o t that I want to look a glamour
puss. But why end up looking a hag? S o m e photographs
can be so sadistic. It's jealousy, of course. Wrong angles.
Bad lighting. The last time I allowed s o m e unknown to
click m e — I ended up looking like Medusa. S o . . . it's
done then. I'll write a couple of new p o e m s specially
for y o u . . . naughty o n e s . . . O K ? '

As Plume g o t noticed, G o d attracted many ambitious,

good and bad poets. There was one acid-dropping brooder,
Lucio, who used to waylay us no matter where we went.
'Such a fucking b o r e , that m u t t , yaar. Why doesn't
he get lost? I think he's g o t a crush on you.'
Poor fellow. I used to feel very sorry each time I
saw his emaciated figure lurching towards us. He was
also an aspiring musician, being a Goan. Everybody
from G o a strums a guitar whether or not he or she

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can sing, but Lucio was d i f f e r e n t . H e actually did sing

rather well despite having an unnaturally high-pitched
voice. He also w r o t e his own songs. But G o d d i d n ' t
have the time or the interest.
' D o n ' t e n c o u r a g e h i m , yaar.'
'Why not? I thought the p u r p o s e of this p r o j e c t
was to e n c o u r a g e budding p o e t s and w r i t e r s . '
'That's absolutely right. But this rascal is neither a
p o e t nor a w r i t e r — h e is a junkie and f r e e - l o a d e r — i n
that order. G e t it? If you want t o " e n c o u r a g e " h i m ,
take him h o m e to Pearly Shells.' Pearly Shells was G o d ' s
n a m e for my mother. 'Only, you can bet y o u r ass Pearly
Shells won't throw him even a bone.'
G o d was right. T h e first t i m e I t o o k Lucio h o m e ,
Mummy took o n e l o o k at L u c i o ' s g l a z e d eyes and
s u p p r e s s e d a s c r e a m . She asked m e in Gujarati w h o
he was. She thought he was a p i c k p o c k e t I'd r e s c u e d
from the street. I tried to tell her that he was a p o e t
and singer. She r e f u s e d to let m e g o on. ' J u s t throw
him out b e f o r e your father g e t s h o m e . '
At this point, Lucio s u r p r i s e d both of us by saying
in fluent Gujarati, 'But b e f o r e I g o , may I have a glass
of water?'

I liked Lucio. H e r e m i n d e d m e o f a stray kitten. I felt

protective and loving t o w a r d s him. I w a n t e d t o f e e d
him p o r r i d g e , clothe him in s o f t linen and shield him

106
f r o m the w o r l d . U n d e r n e a t h the layers of g r i m e , he
had a sensitive, fine-boned face with a full, sensuous
mouth. It w a s difficult to say how old he w a s . I guessed
he was twentyish. His slight f r a m e was attractive t o o ,
particularly his slim, hairless t o r s o with a silver crucifix
dangling b e t w e e n n u t m e g - c o l o u r e d nipples. G o d w a s
suspicious of L u c i o , though he didn't c o m e right o u t
and say he c o u l d n ' t stand h i m . Lucio s e e m e d to like
G o d but he very obviously p r e f e r r e d m e . I'd listen to
his a l m o s t girlish voice as he sang sad G o a n love songs.
'Bloody pansy,' G u r u would snort while G o d sneered.
S o o n L u c i o s t a r t e d leaving little notes for m e at
the agency. My reputation for attracting w e i r d o s was
fast gaining g r o u n d and Kawla's scowls of disapproval
were getting fiercer. For s o m e strange r e a s o n , I was
r e f e r r e d to as Bai by the a r t d e p a r t m e n t . What did
that m a k e the other w o m e n ? I guess it had to d o with
the Marathi connection. O n c e , I heard Kawla telling
one of his boys, 'Naik, that Bai is really weird.' Naik
s t o p p e d pasting a b r o m i d e of a w a t e r p u m p on the
a r t w o r k he was handling to look up and m u t t e r
in a g r e e m e n t .
All the artists had o n e or t w o fingernails that w e r e
at least an inch long. Generally, it was the nail of the
little finger, and often it w a s painted r e d . 1 used to
w o n d e r how their g i r l f r i e n d s or wives felt a b o u t this
funny nail. I a s k e d o n e of t h e m , w h o r e p l i e d with
d i s a r m i n g candour, 'They d o n ' t notice it.' I w a n t e d to

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 Shobhaa De

pursue the thought further but felt e m b a r r a s s e d . H o w

could they not notice a mini w e a p o n on their m a n ' s
hands? D i d n ' t it c o m e in the way? W h y did they g r o w
it? What precise p u r p o s e did it s e r v e ? 'We n e e d it for
paste-ups, Bai, you won't understand... rubber solution,
small types that fall off, this nail is very useful.' I'd g o
into the s t u d i o and w a t c h t h e m d e f t l y s l i p p i n g the
lethal nail u n d e r a b r o m i d e n o b i g g e r than half a
c e n t i m e t r e — y e s , I had t o a g r e e the nail s e r v e d a
p u r p o s e — b u t oh! how ugly it l o o k e d .
G o d wasn't interested in discussing n a i l s — o t h e r
p e o p l e ' s that is. L u c i o w a s . L u c i o was i n t e r e s t e d in
everything. H e would listen with his head c o c k e d t o
one side, fingers fiddling with the crucifix. H e w a n t e d
to know everything. Little things, and soon I s t a r t e d
treating him like the best friend I wished I'd had at
school but never did. L u c i o was involved and attentive.
He n o t i c e d w h e n my hair w a s s h a m p o o e d o r i f ,
occasionally, lipstick strayed to my teeth. H e w a s n ' t a
physical p e r s o n — n o t with m e . And if he had t o point
out a pen mark on my cheek, he'd indicate it by making
sure his fingers r e m a i n e d a m i c r o m i l l i m e t r e f r o m my
face. Lucio noticed my clothes, my m a k e - u p , even my
pre-menstrual p i m p l e s . I'd m e n t i o n this to G o d and
say, 'Isn't Lucio sensitive?' and G o d would laugh derisively,
'Sensitive, my ass. M o o n y — t h a t ' s what, stupid bugger.
Must be a q u e e r — l i p s t i c k , p i m p l e s , s a r i s . . . h a ! '

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 Sultry Days

G o d found fault with Lucio's singing voice too. ' H e

sounds like Barbara Streisand,' he c o m m e n t e d . 'Bloody
fairy—no man sings like that.'
And then I found a way of putting Lucio's musicality
to some use when I asked him to come for a recording.
The agency was in search of new voices for jingles. A
new cola was about to be launched. The client was a
fastidious old sod who'd gone through stock tapes of
voices in our stable and rejected the lot. 'Too high. Too
low.Too thick.Too deep.'The campaign was built around
a fantasy. It involved a princess held captive in a castle.
The jingle was supposed to be her song about freedom.
There was a prince involved (naturally), who hears her
beautiful voice floating past his ears as he rides through
the woods. Drawn by its dulcet sweetness, he goes in
search of her blah... blah... blah. We did a track with
Lucio singing in his charming falsetto and it clicked.
Soon Lucio was in great demand to do female voices.
This upset the two jingle-queens in the business. Lucio's
response to the war raging within the jingle-makers
was uncomplicated and open. 'Hey man! What's the
hassle about. Let them do the men's voices.'
The girls weren't amused. Especially the one with
the right connections. She'd married into the business
and it upset her no end when her composer-husband
opted for Lucio. ' H e sounds like Joan Baez, man,' he
told his stunned wife. 'His voice is romantic... soft... he
is a natural. O n e rehearsal and we are ready to r e c o r d .

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 Shobhaa De

N o fuss! N o tantrums. He hits the right note without

missing a beat. C o m e on, baby, can you match that?'
The miffed singer was in no m o o d to hear her husband
singing Lucio's praises. She considered switching to
the rival camp. It would have meant the end of her
marriage, but the other man had p r o m i s e d to stage an
extravagant musical just for her. Lucio stayed out of
the wars and continued writing m e lovelorn notes.
&

My mother was cracking up. The signs were all there.

It was the uncertainty that was killing her. Was it on
or was it off? Had she really heard my father telling
her the m a r r i a g e was over? Had he m e a n t it? And,
according to her, he refused even t o discuss the whole
business. She'd stopped wearing chiffons and I suppose
that was her way of protesting. She'd also stopped going
to the hair-dresser for her weekly facial and hair-set.
I asked her why.
'What is the use? In any case, you know how gossip
travels, particularly in that salon. Everybody goes there.
Most of the Company wives. I'm sure all the girls know.
I can't face Lizzie and the rest. What will they think?'
'Why don't you find a new salon?'
She seemed horrified at the idea. 'Don't be ridiculous!
I've been going to Fleurs de Paris for m o r e than fifteen
years. I can't start looking for a new place. I'd be so

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 Sultry Days

embarrassed! Imagine getting your armpits waxed by

some strange female. This place is clean. It smells of
antiseptic and eau de cologne. They use fresh strips of
cloth for each client. Have you seefi how filthy the
other places are? Eeks! Someone else's hair on solidified
wax. Enough to make you throw up. My friend got
such a terrible rash. You know how delicate my skin
is. I get an allergy just thinking about dirt. N o soothing
lotion. N o talcum powder. N o t even a fresh towel to
wipe oneself. And have you seen those w o m e n who
come for pedicures just to have their calves caressed
by hefty fellows sitting at their feet? So vulgar! N o ,
n o — I ' d rather stay this way.'
I hadn't realized till then just how vehemently my
mother felt about the issue. 'But what about Papa?'
'Papa can g o to hell ' T h e remark escaped before
she knew what she was saying. It was too late to retrieve
it. She looked at m e shamefacedly and said, ' I ' m sorry,
Baby. I shouldn't have said that.' The phone rang just
then. T h e r e was an agency party on Saturday to woo a
potential client. Steal him f r o m another agency as a
matter of fact. O n the spur of the m o m e n t , I asked my
mother if she'd like to come with me. And she astonished
m e by saying 'yes'.

The party was to be at the agency head's home. Roy

D ' L i m a was a strange man with an even stranger wife.

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 Shobhaa De

He held the advertising business in such o p e n c o n t e m p t

that one often w o n d e r e d what he was doing in a business
he so obviously loathed. H e loved giving i n t e r v i e w s
about his hatred for his p r o f e s s i o n ; and whenever he
was asked why he didn't quit and do s o m e t h i n g else
he had a s t o c k answer. At that p r e c i s e p o i n t in the
interview he would r e m o v e his antique, tortoise-shell
spectacles ( ' M y grandfather's... hand-crafted') and heave
a mighty sigh. The woes of the universe, the sigh conveyed,
rested on his well-exercised shoulders. 'Bread and butter.
That's it. I need the m o n e y to fund my other interests.'
That was a c u e f o r the n e x t q u e s t i o n — a n o b v i o u s
one: 'What other interests?' ' O h — l e t ' s just say, one
p r e f e r s to be discreet and m o d e s t . ' If the interviewer
was fool enough to let it g o at that, the p o o r m a n would
feel vanquished. H e ' d b r i n g u p the t o p i c tangentially
in s o m e other c o n t e x t . ' T h e r e ' s this b o o k I've b e e n
working on '
T h e b o o k had b e c o m e a j o k e in the agency. H e ' d
been working on it for a d e c a d e and a half. M o s t p e o p l e
knew that the best way to reach R o y was t o ask, 'So,
how's the b o o k c o m i n g along?' H e ' d g o through his
specs-removing-and-sighing r o u t i n e b e f o r e replying.
' O h — i t ' s getting on. I m a n a g e around five hundred
words a day. Naipaul does four.'The topic was shrouded
in mystery. Was it an a u t o b i o g r a p h y ( ' H o w b o r i n g , '
was the standard reaction, 'who's interested in his life
besides h i m s e l f ? ' ) , was it an e x p o s e on the business he

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 S u 1.1 r y D a y s

hated? Was it a novel? W h a t kind of a t o m e w o u l d take

this long?
Like all the other hot-shot ad guys in Bombay, Roy
did theatre. And he t o o k it very seriously indeed. While
o t h e r s m a y have d a b b l e d in a c t i n g f o r the love of
histrionics, R o y insisted he was in it out of a d e e p sense
of c o m m i t m e n t . " T h e a t r e as an i n s t r u m e n t of social
change," was a p e t subject that he had l a b o u r e d hard
to batter into a feature-length article that he g o t his
agency boys to p e d d l e to various publications. He liked
to think he was m a k i n g ' s t a t e m e n t s ' through the plays
he chose to sponsor, direct and act in. His articles managed
to see the light of day since m o s t p a p e r s and magazines
r e g a r d e d t h e m as fillers with a R R . angle. 'We carry
his shit and we g e t three c o l o u r d o u b l e - s p r e a d s . It's a
terrific t r a d e - o f f . ' H e didn't care if it w o r k e d that way,
so long as his n a m e (and p h o t o g r a p h — t h e s a m e one
he dished out everywhere) appeared f r o m time to time.
He was very particular a b o u t his m e d i a i m a g e . N o b o d y
was allowed to click candid shots while an interview
was b e i n g c o n d u c t e d . 'You tape on your r e c o r d e r . I'll
tape on mine,' he w o u l d state.
H e h a d his a g e n c y p h o t o g r a p h e r d o his y e a r l y
p h o t o - s e s s i o n . It was a tense day in the office when
the b o s s ' shot w a s being set up. N o i n t e r r u p t i o n s , no
calls, no disturbances. A p e o n was p o s t e d outside the
studio while R o y changed in and o u t of outfits. K u r t a s
for casual f e a t u r e s , p i n - s t r i p e s for p r e s s c o n f e r e n c e

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 Shobhaa De

handouts, open-collars for semi-formal interviews and

track suits for fitness articles. The photographer did
nothing beyond physically pressing the shutter-button.
Roy handled everything down to the props. He preferred
a Pashmina shawl over one shoulder with a potted plant
out-of-focus for the k u r t a picture; a b o o k c a s e with
leather-bound volumes for the pin-stripes; a bay window
for the open collars; and a handsome D o b e r m a n for
the track suit. Any suggestion that a few could be shot
outdoors would immediately be shot d o w n . 'You can't
control the lighting outdoors. Besides, I'd feel ridiculous.'
His wife, Karen, a s s u m e d the role of art d i r e c t o r
and supervised the photo-sessions. When she arrived,
the office froze. She was an o v e r b e a r i n g , i m p e r i o u s
bitch who had once been the office telephone operator.
A few employees f r o m those days had d a r e d to call
her by her first n a m e s o o n after her m a r r i a g e to Roy.
Karen had e x p l o d e d ! 'I am M r s D ' L i m a now,' and
that's how everyone a d d r e s s e d her (even though her
husband was known by his first n a m e ) . Roy fancied
himself as a b r o o d i n g intellectual. His theatricality
was so much a part of his personality that it was difficult
to know when he wasn't rehearsing for a r o l e . His
wife was equally self-absorbed but in a different way,
since her p r e o c c u p a t i o n s w e r e n ' t the s a m e . She was
a political junkie. Power turned her on. It didn't matter
whose. She fancied herself as a closet revolutionary
and loved making wild s t a t e m e n t s about the state of

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 Sultry Days

the b o d y politic that n o b o d y u n d e r s t o o d . 'I am for

the underdog,' she'd declare, sipping her whisky-water
thoughtfully.The two of them led separate lives, putting
in joint a p p e a r a n c e s only on the o p e n i n g nights of
his plays or at ' i m p o r t a n t ' social events in the city.
She was quite a w o m a n in her own right with e x o t i c
good looks that couldn't be traced to any ethnic group.
' I ' m one-eighth T u r k i s h — m y g r e a t - g r a n d m o t h e r was
a naughty g i r l — o n e - f o u r t h Khasi, one-sixth Goan and
o n e - t h i r d H i m a c h a l i , ' s h e ' d e x p l a i n , g e t t i n g her
a r i t h m e t i c all w r o n g . ' S h e ' s n o t h i n g m o r e than a
scrambled egg,' Roy w o u l d articulate (he never just
spoke, he always a r t i c u l a t e d ) while she crinkled up
her chinky eyes—'the Khasi part of m e . . . ' — a n d reached
for a M a r l b o r o Lite.
Their house was d o n e up in what she liked to call
an eclectic style. She'd b r a g m o d e s t l y that the duplex
didn't r e q u i r e the services of a d e c o r a t o r , as she was
a pretty talented one herself. R o y would swing away
on an e n o r m o u s Rajasthani jhoola in the bonsai-filled
t e r r a c e and stare m o o d i l y at the sea in the distance.
T h e i r p a r t i e s w e r e of t w o k i n d s — a d - a n d - a r t v or
media-and-politics. T h e latter were always m o r e fun
since Karen attracted and invited crazy b o d s on the
f r i n g e s o f s o m e a n a r c h i c p a r t y or the o t h e r . ' A s
intelligent p e o p l e and o p i n i o n - m a k e r s , ' she'd say, 'it
is our duty to s u p p o r t the O p p o s i t i o n . ' Roy didn't
think it a wise stand f r o m a business point of view,

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 S h ofah a a D e

but enjoyed the u p r o a r and c o n t r o v e r s i e s these p a r t i e s

c r e a t e d . His p a r t i e s w e r e as p h o n e y as the p r o f e s s i o n
he was in and w e r e u s e d to s o u n d o u t p o t e n t i a l clients
or flatter the old o n e s . F o r e n t e r t a i n m e n t he'd have
an audio-visual g o i n g in the ' d e n ' (all a d m e n have
dens in their h o m e s ) . Reluctant g u e s t s w o u l d be firmly
p r o p e l l e d into the s t u f f y r o o m and t o l d to o b s e r v e
how the h o t t e s t a g e n c y in t o w n f u n c t i o n e d . ' D o n ' t
you dare get bored,' Roy would whisper. 'Pay attention.
I'll ask q u e s t i o n s later. You f l u n k o n e and I m i n u s a
drink.' P e o p l e w e r e n ' t always s u r e w h e t h e r R o y w a s
trying t o b e funny o r n o t . In any c a s e , his p a r t i e s
w e r e like his c a m p a i g n s — s t o l e n and stale.

G o d and I discovered Roy's real passion at his party.

She came in rather late dressed in very little. Roy j u m p e d
up f r o m his j h o o l a and w e n t t o g r e e t her with the
mandatory t w o kisses at the door. K a r e n s t o p p e d her
conversation, but only for a s e c o n d , b e f o r e g o i n g up
smoothly and saying, ' H e l l o , g o r g e o u s ! J u s t l o o k at
y o u ! ' T h e r e was a cutting e d g e to the last r e m a r k that
escaped no one. Maitreyee flashed her n a r r o w g r e e n
eyes and blew the r o o m a kiss. H e r hair w a s streaked
gold and p u r p l e , and she w o r e a swirling ghagra with
a backless choli. 'My metrani (sweeper-woman) wouldn't
be caught dead in it,' hissed a g u e s t .

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 Sultry Days

We'd heard about ' M ' , the great love of Roy's life,
and I'd been dying to see her. Apart f r o m the eyes, she
wasn't really special, e x c e p t for her e n o r m o u s vitality
combined with that irresistible quality very few men
are immune to—flirtatiousness. She fanned and flattered
male egos shamelessly and without much pride. Her
track-record, known to all, included a crazy maharaja
who'd given her a monstrously big American car that
guzzled m o r e gas than she could afford, and a Parsee
millionaire who had shocked everybody by presenting
her with a litter of p o o d l e s when she'd been expecting
something slightly m o r e substantial—like an apartment.
There she was then, with a car she couldn't pay the
petrol bills for and hungry puppies she had nowhere
to keep. 'The story of my life,' she'd laugh brazenly.
From Roy she e x p e c t e d nothing beyond the occasional
campaign or fashion show and genuinely s e e m e d to
like him for himself. As she put it, 'He's the only man
I know who reads the Financial Times and can quote
Balzac. I feel so intelligent in his presence. Tell m e ,
f o l k s — i s intelligence infectious?'
Karen had no choice but to tolerate her. Roy had
made that very clear. Besides, M had her uses. Outstation
politicians salivated at the sight of her. She represented
the 'available Bombay w o m a n ' — b r a z e n , b o l d , brassy.
And she helped out whenever Karen needed something
s p e c i a l — a painting, a thumri singer, an Odissi dancer.
M knew everybody and she g o t around. Delhi for a

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 Shobhaa De

ghazal evening, Ahmedabad for an all-night sammelan,

Lucknow to take in a Kathak p e r f o r m a n c e , Madras to
check out the Cholamandalam scene, Bangalore for a
fashion show, Calcutta for a festival of Ghatak films,
Cuttack for Chhau in the open air and back to Bombay,
where she was into everything. Her energy-levels were
astonishing. ' U p p e r s , ' insisted the w o m e n w h o felt
exhausted just watching her.
M's interests varied with the season. She was fickle
b u t f r a n k l y so. 'Is t h e r e s o m e s p e c i a l v i r t u e in
consistency?' she asked a visiting executive f r o m N e w
York who had dared to question her. Roy loved M in
the only way he c o u l d . He was far t o o self-centred
to invest m o r e than just a p o r t i o n of himself. But if
she was sick or in need of air-fare, he'd send her chicken
broth and m o n e y — t h e e x a c t a m o u n t with a r e q u e s t
to send him the stubs. But M also knew she c o u l d
count on him in an emergency. Like the time she went
hurtling through the windscreen of a friend's car while
driving back from a party. N o b o d y came up with either
the money or the b l o o d she r e q u i r e d for transfusions.
Nobody except Roy, who gave her both. But Roy being
Roy, had drawn the line at paying for a n o s e - j o b after
she had r e c o v e r e d .
'So long as you can breathe through the damn thing,
I see no reason to fix it.'
'But, Roy darling... can't you see what's happened
to it? It looks like a squashed pakora,' she'd wailed.

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 Sultry Days

'Then dip it in ketchup and serve it to your guests,'

he'd snapped b e f o r e leaving a tearful M in the hospital
r o o m . It didn't take her long to find s o m e o n e willing
to not just finance a new nose but p e r f o r m the surgery
himself. D r Bharucha was the best-known plastic surgeon
in Bombay. M soon had him running circles around
her. 'He's willing to give m e new tits, a new b u m , a
flat turn-turn... anything... all on the house. Such a
sweetie, my Fali,' she'd giggle, but stopped with the
nose. '1 look just like Cher in Moonstruck,' she had
announced at her nose-job party.
After the party, I asked my mother what she'd made
of the evening. I had e x p e c t e d her to turn up her nose,
sniff and sav something like: 'Your father would never
approve of these p e o p l e . . . they are s o . . . so obvious
and l o u d . . . you know?' Instead she nodded her head
vigorously and b e a m e d , 'My G o d ! That was great fun,
I must say... you do work with s o m e interesting people,
don't you? Roy? Is that his name? O f course it is. Charming.
Very charming. And that other young person whose
operations he finances. Simply amusing. So lively—yes,
so livelv.'
I was frankly astonished and rather pleased by her
reaction. I decided there and then to take her along
with me to the next mad party. Mummy needed diversion.
And you could always count on ad types to provide it.
D a m m i t , that's what they g o t their fifteen per cent
for—diversions.

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 Seven

od's idea of a great time was to g o to Manori beach

and shack u p in o n e of the villas. It w a s n ' t an
inexpensive way to relax and I certainly c o u l d n ' t afford
to finance it. N o t twice a m o n t h .
Besides, my bi-monthly disappearances were causing
major p r o b l e m s at h o m e . I ' m sure my m o t h e r k n e w
what I was up to. She'd r e g i s t e r a m i l d p r o t e s t and
unconvincingly threaten to involve Papa in 'disciplining'
m e even though she knew he was far too busy scrambling
up and further up in the organization to get
overly-involved with my e s c a p a d e s . B e s i d e s , I c o u l d
always trot out an ad-shoot (caught in m o n s o o n f l o o d s ,
car breakdowns, no access to telephones, minor accidents)
e x c u s e . O f c o u r s e , I w a s n ' t fooling either of t h e m ,
but we all n e e d e d these little g a m e s to maintain the
facade of a tuned-in family.
I still felt passionately a b o u t G o d . We'd c r o s s e d the
crucial one-year mark of being together, which surprised

120
all the p e o p l e w h o knew u s — s e p a r a t e l y and as a couple.
He continued to drive m e up a wall with his d e m a n d s
and erratic c o n d u c t — b u t I hadn't m e t anybody else
who interested m e even half as m u c h . G o d knew it.
And used the i n f o r m a t i o n to manipulate m e . If he had
any genuine feelings for m e , he didn't articulate them
ever. But in his o w n r o u g h fashion he conveyed that he
c a r e d — a s m u c h as he was capable of caring for anyone.
His insensitive r e m a r k s about his parents and brother
used to b o t h e r m e — e s p e c i a l l y when he r e f e r r e d to
his m o t h e r as 'that old hag. And it wasn't as if he disliked
her or anything. Toro w a s always 'saala chootiya, while
his f a t h e r c a m e in f o r h e a v y s a r c a s m — 'Leader'
s o m e t i m e s , ' U n i o n w a l l a h ' at other t i m e s .
I often w o n d e r e d why G o d went out of his way to
p r o j e c t himself so negatively. H e w a s n ' t such a terrible
p e r s o n . I'd seen him p e r f o r m various acts of kindness
at the m o s t u n e x p e c t e d m o m e n t s . Somehow, he didn't
like m e t o s e e this side t o h i m — h e o b v i o u s l y felt
e m b a r r a s s e d and w o u l d i m m e d i a t e l y t u r n offensive.
I was u s e d to i t — h i s o n - n o w - o f f - n o w m o o d s .
T h o u g h w e w e r e s p e n d i n g a g r e a t deal o f t i m e
together, I was g e t t i n g m o r e involved in my career
than I'd bargained for when I t o o k the job. O u r 'dirty
w e e k e n d s ' provided a safety-valve. It w a s also the only
time I g o t to be with G o d w i t h o u t hangers-on milling
a r o u n d . T h i s w a s i m p o r t a n t for m e , e s p e c i a l l y our
intimacies—physical ones I m e a n . He was the first man

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 Shobhaa De

I'd known, had carnal knowledge of, as they say. And

G o d , for all his crude public conduct, was a tender
lover who took care not to hurt me.
It wasn't as if we spent all our time in b e d . I could
listen to him talk for hours. He must have enjoyed having
such an entranced audience, even though he feigned
b o r e d o m and contempt for my company.
'What yaar, Nasha. You are such a stupid female. I
don't get a kick talking to you,' he'd announce, yawning
deliberately.
' L o o k for s o m e o n e else then,' I'd reply with a
smug smile.
'Fuck i t . . . too much e f f o r t . O n e stupid female is
as good as another. Besides, your body and mine are
fit-fit.'
Whether or not he meant it as one, I took that as a
supreme compliment. I guess our bodies were kind of
'fit-fit'. I rather enjoyed our couplings in impersonal
hired r o o m s . But, even on my newly bloated salary, I
couldn't afford to give G o d a great weekend four times
a month. His beer bill alone came to three hundred
bucks. I hated paying for those awful belches later.
In any case, I wasn't a particularly physical person.
Surprisingly, neither was G o d . He talked about sex a
lot—particularly in the presence of his cronies. But
when it came down to it, he was willing to give it the
pass. Was it out of laziness, or was he as under-sexed
as I was? W h o knows. His lack of passion suited m e

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 Sultry Days

fine for I had never ever really c o m e to t e r m s with

pre-marital sex. It wasn't something I could swap stories
about with other girls either. Talking to Mummy was
out of the question too. It was left to m e to work out
this troublesome p r o b l e m — t o g o all the way with God
or stop at 'fooling a r o u n d ' . O u r first few times were
awkward and deeply embarrassing. Eager to please God
and yet terrified beyond words at actually doing it, I
was withdrawn and stiff. G o d sensed my unease and
backed off. Fortunately, he spared m e the wisecracks.
Dealing with the guilt was difficult. I'd started feeling
like one of those ' b a d ' g i r l s . I was s u r e everybody
' k n e w ' — e s p e c i a l l y p e o p l e at office. It was only after
'it' actually happened (not at Manori but in an empty
office C o m r a d e s a a b had dispatched G o d to on a minor
errand) that I found out just how overrated 'it' was
and how exaggerated my fears. Whether it was G o d ' s
ineptitude or just my guilt, but I never did learn to
enjoy 'it'.
'I'll have to find a richer broad,' he said to m e ,
when I told him I was strapped for cash one month.
'If she'll have you,' I said half under my breath.
'Getting nasty, a r e we?' he asked and j e r k e d my
a r m so roughly that I thought it had c o m e out of its
socket.
'Stop it,' I said, a sharp pain travelling down to my
fingertips. 'It's your w r e t c h e d background. How can
you be anything but low?'

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 Shofohaa De

' L i s t e n , w o m a n , d o n ' t g i v e m e any o f y o u r

u p p e r - c l a s s , multinational shit. If this deal d o e s n ' t
work for y o u — s c r a m . '
Which is what 1 did. My resistance lasted for two
weeks. A well-timed two weeks as it turned out, for I
met someone I really liked at a presentation.

Anil Bhandari was a marketing guy who'd just set up a

hot-shop of his own. I had reached his office earlier
than the others and we g o t talking. He'd just r e t u r n e d
after a long stint in one of the best marketing agencies
in America and was keen to put his e x p e r t i s e to work
back home. He spoke with a faint accent and w o r e
sexy spectacles. The sort Warren Beatty started to sport
in public after he crossed forty. Anil was in his early
thirties and mockingly referred to himself as a 'first
generation yuppie'. He was on the fast track and had
his priorities all worked out. Priority number one was
Success. He never said 'money' since that sounded 'vile'
according to him.
He started his day, yuppie-style, with an energetic
work-out at the Oberoi Health Club followed by a j o g
down Marine Drive. I asked him why he didn't drive
his air-conditioned Maruti to the Mahalaxmi Race Course
and jog there instead.
'1 am a serious jogger,' he answered solemnly. 'I
care about my waist-line as much as my bottom-line. I

124
 Sultry Days

don't want to blow kisses as I work my way round the

course. I need to conserve my energy for better things.'
Anil provided such a contrast to G o d — h e was clean,
for one; and so motivated. 'Life is a turn-on,' Anil said
soon after we met at the presentation. 'I want to make
the m o s t of i t — d o n ' t you?'
Till then, I hadn't really thought about what it was
that I really wanted to do, besides drift in a lazy kind
of way. Anil wore pin-striped, button-down collar shirts
with large a r m holes. And reverse-pleated trousers with
turn-ups. I thought he looked very s m a r t and chic.
'The big look—it's very in right now,' he said to a woman
I loathed—an account executive called Aarti, who wore
cut-away sleeved choli blouses without shaving her
armpits. She s m o k e d C h a r m s holding the cigarette
awkwardly b e t w e e n her fingers and blowing s m o k e
out of her nostrils. Her kaajal was invariably smudged
and she always wore thick handloom saris which created
puddles around her feet during the m o n s o o n s . I'm not
sure why I disliked Aarti but I suppose it was one of
those instinctive things. I'd stare at her thick neck as
she slopped around during brain-storming sessions and
wonder whether she was suffering from goitre. I'd told
G o d once that she looked like she had thyroid trouble.
'She m u s t be on the pill,' he'd said dismissively.
'Fat c o w — w h a t she needs '
' N o , don't say i t — a carrot?' I had p r o m p t e d .
'I was going to s a y — a razor.'

125
 Shobhaa De

Aarti had a thing about Anil and made it very obvious.

His market research agency had a loose arrangement
with our agency. He was at the office at least three
times a week, all slick and sexy in his Italian fit shirts
and baggy trousers. He smelt of Aramis or Drakkar
and used Studio Line gel in his hair. Behind the Warren
Beatty glasses were eyes the colour of melting chocolate.
The one thing I didn't like about Anil were his white,
cotton socks.
'But they go perfectly with tan top-siders,' he said
when I mentioned them. And then added, 'Back where
I c o m e f r o m , white socks were almost compulsory.
Only hicks wore colours.'
Anil's office was neat, m o d e r n and well-organized.
He preferred the American open system to cabins and
cubicles. His office could be rearranged in minutes
with a flick of a screen or two. The furniture was modular,
with swivel chairs and efficient filing systems.The walls
were in primary colours. ' B r i g h t s . . . they cheer one
up,' said Anil. 'Psychology of c o l o u r s — a l l designed
to lower stress and encourage concentration.' And there
were p o t t e d plants all over w h i c h l o o k e d p l a s t i c .
'Nonsense. They are living t h i n g s — t o u c h them and
see. Plastic is a real no-no, don't you know?' His attitude
towards his colleagues was informal and relaxed, but
I suspected the whole thing was a pose. ' I ' m easy about
some things,' he said, 'but I e x p e c t people to deliver.
If they d o n ' t . . . they can cheese out. I pay my guys m o r e

126
t^an they'd g e t in any other c o m p a r a b l e set-up. And I
want my returns.' I a d m i r e d straight talk like that.
Aarti w a s c o m i n g on strong at the presentation.
Her sleeves this t i m e w e r e m o r e d e e p - c u t than usual,
and she kept raising her a r m s constantly. ('It's the animal
in her,' G o d had once o b s e r v e d . 'Hair can b e quite a
turn-on if it s p r o u t s on the right p e r s o n . ' )
Anil w a s c o n d u c t i n g the s h o w in a l a i d - b a c k ,
in-control manner. His Punjabi accent slipped through
occasionally, but his slight drawl managed to overpower
it. It was g o o d to hear s o m e o n e speaking fluently, easily.
I'd got quite used to G o d ' s thick accent and the frequent
mispronunciation o f the c o m m o n e s t w o r d s but it had
taken a long time.
Aarti giggled and giggled through the presentation,
jangling the t w o hundred silver bangles she w o r e on
both a r m s f r o m w r i s t to elbow.
' A n i l — y o u ' r e so c o o l , yaar. You never get het up.'
He l o o k e d at her with a flattered g l e a m in his brown
eyes. 'You should m o d e l , yaar. You l o o k sexy. O n e of
our clients has b e e n asking for a n e w f a c e . T h i n k about
it, yaar. It's a range o f m e n ' s toiletries. Very up-market.
Suits your image. It's called Manhattan Men's Cosmetics,
with an after-shave called Fifth Avenue. What do you
think, yaar? Solid idea, n o ? '
I w a n t e d to kill her for looking at him like she was
going to lick his e a r l o b e s that m i n u t e .
Anil t u r n e d to m e and said, ' W h a t d o you think?'

127
 Shobhaa De

It was so u n e x p e c t e d and my c o n c e n t r a t i o n was so

much on his e a r l o b e s , 1 d i d n ' t k n o w what to say. So I
said, ' G r e a t . I'll be your agent.'
'Are, chhodo, NishaPYou, an agent? Leave it t o m e .
I ' m the pushy one.'
Anil s h r u g g e d and s m i l e d indulgently at both of
us. He had a s m a r t p e n in his p o c k e t and I liked the
files in his hands. But o n e detail was slightly askew.
He was wearing an ugly coral ring on the f o r e f i n g e r of
his right hand. And another o n e with a yellow stone
on the second finger of his left hand. A superstitious
yuppie? The two didn't blend.

'What's w r o n g with y u p p i e d o m ? ' Anil asked.

'Nothing. It's just... what's the word.., so derivative..
you know... so b o r r o w e d , ' I a n s w e r e d .
'Isn't that t r u e about so many things in your life
t o o ? T h e music you listen t o . T h e b o o k s you read. S o m e
o f the clothes you wear. D o n ' t kid yourself. We are all
after the s a m e thing.'
' N o t if the " s a m e t h i n g " i n c l u d e s c l i c h e s l i k e
compulsory C D ' s and PC's and m e m b e r s h i p at the right
clubs. N o t if you feel you are devastated unless you
have the right label on your T-shirt and your running
shoes cost m o r e than my salary.'

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 Sultry Days

'It's all relative. Why attach a moral to everything?

It's-a running shoes hang-up for m e and maybe it's a
fancy silk sari hang-up for you. D o n ' t tell m e you don't
feel snobbish about certain things? I've seen it so often.
Why do you criticize people who put plastic covers
on their car seats and have a showcase full of i m p o r t e d
souvenirs in their houses? Why do you look down on
Vimal saris and fake silver jewellery made to look antique?'
'That's different.'
'Oh yeah?Why? Just because you say so. Well, c o m e
and check out my pad. It isn't fancy. It isn't big. But
I'm not going to be there next year. See how I have
used the space. C o m e and look at my doo-dahs. Even
if I say so myself, I think I have a pretty neat set-up.
O K , so I can't afford Iqbal's canvases on my walls or
Chor Bazaar lamps on my ceiling. But, baby... you watch
m e . . . I'll get them soon. Big t i m e — t h a t ' s where I'm
headed. Meanwhile, it's the real thing or nothing. I
don't have cheap knock-offs to impress or fool people.
I don't have melamine tables or plastic cups and plates.
I don't give my guests paper napkins at parties. And I
don't keep cloth flowers in Taiwan porcelain all over
the place. O h y e s . . . no synthetic lace curtains, no fake
fur r u g s . . . and definitely no silly stickers on my car
that read "I am a recycled Porsche".'
N o . Maybe not. But how was a stuffed Garfield on
the rear windshield any better?

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 S h o b h a a De

Anil asked m e h o m e o n a Saturday n i g h t — s p e l t

n i t e ? — w h e n serious yuppies take t i m e o f f t o u n w i n d ,
relax and have a spot o f s e x . G o o d for the s y s t e m . T h e
y u p p i e h a n d b o o k said so. But it w o u l d b e a change
f r o m eating at s o m e c r u m m y Irani joint at C o l a b a with
G o d and paying for it. B e s i d e s , I'd never b e e n t o a
bachelor's h o m e b e f o r e . Anil had boasted that he didn't
employ any full-time servants since his place w a s full
of convenient g a d g e t s he w o r k e d h i m s e l f . 'You will
see—it's easy. I have a super food-processor, a microwave
oven, dishwasher and washing machine. I v a c u u m the
place once a w e e k . . . no hassles.'
Was this a date? A real o n e — y u p p i e - s t y l e ? W h a t
was one supposed to wear? I didn't have the right clothes.
I didn't wear designer j e a n s or R e e b o k shoes. I d i d n ' t
go to aerobics classes. I wasn't getting ahead professionally
and didn't care m u c h whether I did or didn't. I u s e d
public t r a n s p o r t and j o s t l e d my way through sweaty
crowds. I w a s n ' t living on my own and had no plans
to. I hadn't b e e n to a wine and c h e e s e p a r t y in my life
and couldn't tell a C a m e m b e r t f r o m a Brie. I d i d n ' t
own very m u c h , not even an exercycle. And I continued
to p r e f e r h o m e - c o o k e d , calorie-laden f o o d t o salads
and fruit juices. O K , I was sufficiently 'into nature' in
that I enjoyed picnics to the lakes a r o u n d Bombay, b u t
I didn't have a p e t cause t o call my o w n . I d i d n ' t c a r e
sufficiently for Bombay's street-children or slum-dwellers.
I w a s n ' t paying t o w a r d s the u p k e e p o f a p a n d a or a

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 Sultry Days

Puerto Rican orphan. My face was clean-scrubbed and

make-up free only because I was far too clumsy to apply
eyeliner or lipstick. T h e watch on my wrist was an
HMT, not a Swatch, and my underwear was Indian.
It t u r n e d o u t t o b e e d u c a t i v e . Anil i m p r e s s e d
m e with his e f f i c i e n c y and hospitality. Everything
was j u s t r i g h t in his S t u d i o as he c a l l e d the o n e
bedroom-kitchenette apartment in an ugly high-rise.
It was one of those buildings that had an idiotic name,
Pantheon, which m a d e m e giggle at the irony of it all.
It was built on a plot acquired f r o m a Bohra family
gone to ruin. Where once there had been a grand mansion
with an e n o r m o u s p o r t i c o now stood this eyesore with
a silly name. T h e view was pleasant enough. If one got
up on a chair in Anil's tiny kitchen, one could see the
harbour. O n e could also see the i m m e n s e sprawl of
slums with Dalit Panther slogans and flags all over.
The stench of rotting fish, from Sassoon Docks, increased
and decreased with the t i d e — b u t it was all-pervasive
and constantly present. Despite this, Anil had used a
great deal of imagination and talent to put his little
home together.
The d e c o r was 'ethnic' in that he had raw silk on
his settees and Shyam Ahuja throw cushions. He'd splurged
on a Ravissant silk quilt which was on one wall. There
were fresh rajnigandha flowers in ceramic vases and
Lalit Kala Akademi prints everywhere— 'Till I can afford
the originals,' he remarked confidently. A large Dhokra

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 Shobhaa De-

lamp at the entrance c o m p l e m e n t e d the s i m p l e chatai

on the floor. 'But we d o p r o d u c e such e x q u i s i t e things.
O n e has to restrain oneself f r o m buying like a maniac.
I've s t o p p e d g o i n g to the state e m p o r i u m s in Delhi
for this reason. I always c o m e b a c k l o a d e d with stuff I
don't need and have no place for. In fact, I have s o m e
beautiful O r i s s a appliques s t o r e d in the loft. And those
palm leaf fans f r o m Bengal. O t h e r things t o o What
I'd love to have one day is a G u r j a r i j h o o l a . But in this
pokey little flat I'd end up fracturing my knee just moving
f r o m one end of the r o o m to the other.'
The place was uncluttered and functional, making
the handkerchief-sized living-room a p p e a r larger than
it was. T h e dining-table was fitted into the wall and
could be pulled d o w n when r e q u i r e d . O n e c o r n e r was
his 'work station' which was like his o f f i c e — m o d u l a r .
I was curious about his bathroom, because bathrooms
reveal so m u c h a b o u t their users. Anil's w a s spotlessly
clean with a c h e e r f u l shower curtain that had a
rainbow on it. ' G o t it at M a c y ' s — t h a t and the shower
head with speed controls. A waste here, since the water
pressure isn't sufficient,' he laughed. His s h a m p o o was
i m p o r t e d — ' N e u t r o g e n a , it suits my hair t y p e ' — a s was
the gel squeeze-tube on the small shelf under the mirror.
I wanted to tell him to discontinue gel since it led to
scalp infections and hair loss. But I felt t o o shy. (I did
tell him that, when I g o t t o k n o w him b e t t e r : 'Try a
combination of water and B r i l l i a n t i n e — m u c h safer.')

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 Sultry Days

His after-shaves stood in a neat row with Dior's L'Homme

occupying pride of place. ' I ' m dying to try Fahrenheit
but it's too bloody expensive. So is Kouros,' he said.
There was no hair in the basin or in his brushes and
combs. The toothbrush was French. 'Funny that the
French who never brush their teeth should make the
best toothbrushes,' he quipped. His towels were Turkish
and there were no dirty underpants lying around. The
soap dish was dry with a Pear's cake in i t — ' I t ' s the
mildest. My skin breaks out into a rash with other brands.'
And his shaving stuff was in a leather case. ' N o electric
shavers for m e — I told y o u — m y skin is like a baby's,'
he confessed.There were other cosmetics like cleansing
creams, face scrubs and Clinique's skin freshening lotion.
He spoke unselfconsciously about his fortnightly facials
and the face packs he preferred. ' N o chemicals. Cucumber
or yoghurt works well for m e . I occasionally do a papaya
pack myself when I ' m having it for breakfast. O r I pulp
a peach and slap it on,' he told m e . I liked his being so
open about his beauty routine, when w o m e n were so
secretive and coy about theirs.
He was equally candid about his passion for cooking.
'I love trying out new dishes. I'm an experimental cook.
G o u r m e t s t u f f . . . you n a m e i t . . . I've t r i e d it. My
speciality is o m e l e t t e s , I can make over twenty kinds
with different fillings—fluffy ones, flat ones, rolled
up o n e s . . . you m u s t c o m e and have b r e a k f a s t one
Sunday. I'll give you the w o r k s — f r e s h orange juice

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 Shobhaa De

with c h a m p a g n e — h o w d o you like that? M u s h r o o m s

sauteed in butter. Eggs any which way y o u like t h e m .
Stewed p r u n e s . . . creamy p o r r i d g e with hot or c o l d
milk, fresh fruit, sausages, even steak if you have the
appetite for it. T h e n w e can laze a r o u n d and listen t o
jazz or o p e r a , I love both, or Indian c l a s s i c a l — K i s h o r i
Amonkar, J a s r a j — d o you like them? I smoke a joint... but
only rarely. O n special occasions. N o hard liquor f o r
m e . I put on an inch r o u n d the m i d d l e immediately.
Far t o o m u c h e f f o r t t o w o r k off t w o w h i s k i e s . . . not
w o r t h i t — I love g o o d w i n e — I ' v e chilled s o m e f o r
tonight. A g o o d , not g r e a t , Chablis. I've planned the
m u s i c — J e a n - M i c h e l J a r r e — f u t u r i s t i c and wild. Why
d o n ' t you relax and tell m e m o r e a b o u t y o u r s e l f while
I toss a salad and g e t the s h r i m p s g o i n g ? '
I realized that I would have t o b e a non-vegetarian
for the night but that was the least of it. I was transfixed.
He seemed to love what he was doing in such an innocent
way. He t o o k so m u c h p l e a s u r e in wiping his p r e c i o u s
l o n g - s t e m m e d wine glasses and setting the table. T h e
napkins and place mats were again f r o m Shyam Ahuja
in beige and pink shades. H e had pink carnations in a
terracotta bowl to m a t c h . T h e plates w e r e A m e r i c a n
C h i n a — ' C a n ' t afford L i m o g e s — b u t will someday.'The
cutlery w a s Scandinavian stainless steel.
The conversation was so Wall Street it w a s n ' t funny.
Anil talked about 'inter-facing' and 'doing l u n c h ' . H e
' m e t with' clients and friends and c o n j u g a t e d w o r d s

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 Sultry Days

normal p e o p l e generally considered nouns. But he was

sweet in his earnestness and deft with his fingers. I
enjoyed the m e a l , but I'd enjoyed watching him cook
it even m o r e . He talked about his American experience
with something b o r d e r i n g on awe. It had obviously
affected him deeply and in the m o s t positive of ways.
'I d i g India,' he s a i d , ' m a k e no m i s t a k e a b o u t
it... but, man, A m e r i c a ! That's another, way-out
e x p e r i e n c e . . . something else.'
G o d s e e m e d an alien at that m o m e n t . A creature
f r o m another galaxy. I i m a g i n e d him as one of the
Star Trek c r e w or a m o n s t e r f r o m one of the sci-fi
quickies. G o d had given up cooking and sewing long
a g o — i t didn't g o with his image of a macho journalist.
I couldn't wait to tell him about Anil's e x p e r t i s e in
the kitchen. It was easy to predict G o d ' s reaction.
He'd say, 'That bloody fairy... I'm not s u r p r i s e d , yaar.
The guy looks like a bawarchi. H e can't t a l k . . . have
you heard his voice? Pansy! Sissy hai saala. Hijda! He
probably e m b r o i d e r s in his spare t i m e . . . ask him.' I
personally didn't think there was anything non-macho
about c o o k i n g or sewing f o r that matter. In fact, I
found the idea rather sexy.
Anil wore an apron which said 'World's Best C o o k ' .
H e k e p t all his p o t s and p a n s within easy r e a c h ,
hanging f r o m hooks over the range. 'Heavy c o p p e r
b o t t o m s . . . they distribute the heat evenly.' H e used
wooden spoons for stirring and a fork to beat the eggs.

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 Shobhaa De

'Salad dressings are my speciality... and I m a k e s u p e r

strawberry margaritas,' he said, as the C D played Puccini.
We talked a b o u t our families and he m e n t i o n e d
his w i t h o u t any s e l f - c o n s c i o u s n e s s . ' M y d a d w a s an
accountant in s o m e c r u m m y f i r m . I was a pretty g o o d
student. Straight A's in the U S . It was g r e a t o u t there
I tell y o u . . . what a life!'
'Why did you c o m e b a c k then?' I asked.
I'm realistic. And I ' m ambitious. Sure, I w o u l d have
d o n e well enough for a f e w years and then what? I
wanted to c o m e back h o m e and set up my own shop.
Hell, I d e c i d e d , if I w a s going t o b u s t my ass, I m i g h t
as well d o it for m y s e l f . . . but let's not talk about m e .
What about you? What's a nice girl like you doing in a
sloppy ad agency?'
'Frankly, I d o n ' t know. I kind of enjoy it. It's not
too demanding. T h e pay's O K . T h e p e o p l e are fine. I
have enough time to do other t h i n g s . . . you know, see
plays and stuff.'
'And stuff? D o e s that include s o m e o n e called D e b ?
D o n ' t get m a d . . . I think I should know. This isn't the
sort of evening 1 spend with j u s t any g i r l , you know.
I've been thinking. It's t i m e t o settle d o w n . M y folks
have been at m e . T h e y ' v e even tried t o fix m e up with
s o m e highly e l i g i b l e g i r l s f r o m o u r community.
E d u c a t e d o n e s . D o w r y t h r o w n in. C a n y o u b e l i e v e
i t — I ' m worth thirty lakhs in the m a r r i a g e m a r k e t , only
because of my foreign d e g r e e s . '

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 Sultry Days

'With that kind of money, you could go places. Move

into a bigger apartment. Expand your business. How
come you are passing it all up?' I ventured.
'I've asked myself all these questions. There's just
one a n s w e r — I c a n ' t d o it. I will n o t be able to
spend my life with a stranger. T h o u g h I ' m terribly
old-fashioned about a few things—like I don't expect
you to g o to bed with m e t o n i g h t — b u t an arranged
marriage is completely out for m e . Are you surprised
to hear that?'
' N o . N o t really. I didn't think you were a raging
sex maniac or anything.'
'No. But most Indian girls have even stranger notions
about a foreign-returned fellow. They think they are
very fast and on the make.'
'Well... you're the first specimen I've c o m e across.
So I really have no idea.'
'But Deb. The guy you hang out with. D o n ' t ask
me how I know. Agency grapevine. Everybody knows.
You two seem an unlikely combination. I don't mean
to be r u d e , but he isn't your type. You don't belong to
the same class.'
'It's difficult for m e to discuss Deb. We have nothing
in c o m m o n . And yet '
'It's all right.You don't have to explain. Have another
glass of wine. I'll change the music. How about the
Beatles? I love them.'

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 S h o b h a a De

And to the familiar b e a t of "It's b e e n a hard day's

night", Anil and I finished the b o t t l e , shook hands, said
good-night, and p a r t e d .

1 saw Anil twice m o r e during my two-week estrangement

from G o d , but after that I couldn't say no to him. He
was t o o m u c h a p a r t of m e and I a g r e e d to see him
again. The next m o r n i n g Bijli and he c a m e to collect
m e . Papa had already left for w o r k . T h e r e was trouble
brewing in one of the company's toilet soap units. Mummy
was talking to herself and rearranging the contents of
her dressing-table for the five-hundredth time. I didn't
pay attention any longer. A couple of times I'd noticed
weird sadhus sitting in a trance outside her b e d r o o m .
Mummy had flipped so completely that there was no
point in even asking her what was going on. Any m o r e
mother-daughter combination at firm parties was obviously
out of the question. Didi had also taken to muttering to
herself. It was a loony-bin. Papa stayed away for longer
and longer hours. Even the sparrows that used to c o m e
in through the window each m o r n i n g s e e m e d to m o p e
and not chirp as they used to. Like my father, I hardly
hung around at h o m e . I couldn't bear the atmosphere.
Mummy would swoop down on m e the m o m e n t I entered.
Her conversation was so incoherent, I couldn't unravel
her remarks. I didn't think they were worth the e f f o r t
in the first place.

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 Sultry Days

As I climbed onto Bijli, G o d said, without turning

around, ' H o w would you like to b e c o m e a goddess?'
and revved the engine. Before the question could register,
we had z o o m e d off down the stretch in front of my
home and straight into the chaotic traffic at a roundabout
without signals.The wind was strong, God had his helmet
on, and I was still trying to make sense of that toss-away
remark. Did it mean what I thought it did? Was it a
proposal? Was G o d feeling ill? Was he stoned? He leaned
over and started his standard conversation with Bijli,
while the motorbike purred away contentedly. He always
spoke in whispers to her and it was the only time his
expression softened.
I yelled over the sound of B E S T buses scraping past
our ears and pedestrians darting daringly in front of
us, 'Are you asking m e to m a r r y you?' I must have
really been hollering since a couple in the Maruti next
to us stopped looking b o r e d for a second and actually
allowed themselves to smile a little. G o d was being
impossible. He p r e t e n d e d he hadn't heard. I tapped
on the fibreglass d o m e covering his head. And asked
again, but a little m o r e softly this time. He'd heard
m e . I know he had.
He waved his hand and shouted, 'Shut up, woman.
I can't hear you. Want to create a hungama on the street?
Let m e concentrate on getting out of this shit-hole.'
How typical of God. I couldn't resist a tummy squeeze.
I would have bitten his ear if it hadn't been covered.

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 bhaa De

I hopped off at the agency and saw Roy driving up

in his Volkswagen. He looked harassed and barely nodded
at us before going off to park.
I waited a m o m e n t , then asked, 'What did you say
near my house?'
'Nothing.'
' O f course you did. Liar. Say it again.'
' G e t off my back. You must be growing cuckoo like
your pagli mother. Hearing things.'
' G o d , please. P-L-E-A-S-E. I know you asked m e
to m a r r y y o u . Why do you feel so a s h a m e d n o w ?
Everybody gets m a r r i e d . Even communists and poets.'
'Shut up, you silly woman. W h o said anything about
marriage? I was lagaoing line, that's all, don't take it
seriously.'
'Isn't it a bit late in the day for that?'
'Marriage! Huh! You should m a r r y that pansy with
the fairy hair. He's m o r e your type. You can discuss
advertising and marketing in bed and get your orgasms
reading feasibility reports. I doubt that you'll get them
any other way.'
'So you did get jealous.'
'Jealous of that half-cock? D o n ' t be ridiculous. Tell
m e — h o w did you spend your evening at his place?
Not that I'm interested. N o . . . let m e tell you. He talked
about America and you drooled over his pizzas.'
'He didn't give me pizzas.'
'No? Then what? Hot dogs? H a m b u r g e r s ? '

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 Sultry Days

' N o . H e m a d e divine pasta with shrimps and a

superb salad.'
' G o diddle yourself... eat pasta and salad for the
rest of your life. You don't deserve real food.'
'But it is real f o o d ! '
'Yeah? Maybe for pansy b u g g e r s like him. I d o n ' t
have the time to waste discussing this behenchod's
cooking. I can't keep Sujata waiting.' And with that
he r o a r e d off with Bijli leaving a trail of exhaust for
me to choke on.

Lucio was sitting in the foyer upstairs. He glanced up

at m e and shook his head. 'Hey... what's the matter?
Old man getting tough?'
'Nothing. What's up with you?'
' O h . . . nothing really. I was free and Nitin had
mentioned s o m e new jingles you guys were planning,
so I thought I'd pop by and check the scene.'
Suddenly something snapped inside my head and I
heard myself screaming, 'Why don't you leave me alone?
I need time for myself. Why do you keep barging into
my office like this? You know jolly well there aren't
any jingles. Why can't you find s o m e other diversion?'
T h e t e l e p h o n e o p e r a t o r s t o p p e d listening in to
whichever call she was snooping on and sat up to watch.
I was beyond caring. I didn't even know what I screamed,
except that it was horribly cruel and shrill. Lucio stood

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there with this delicate fingers on the crucifix. He waited

for m e to stop.
' H e y . . . t a k e it easy. C o o l it. W h y d o n ' t w e g o
s o m e w h e r e ? Let's g o to Rhythm H o u s e and listen to
the Rolling Stones. C o m e o n . . . you n e e d a break.'
I suddenly felt ashamed of my o u t b u r s t and a g r e e d
meekly to the suggestion. Besides, it was the b e s t idea
he'd had in a long t i m e . Rhythm H o u s e w a s j u s t r o u n d
the c o r n e r f r o m the office. I ran into the studio and
told Kawla I'd be back in a while. He glared at m e .
'But w h o will check these a r t w o r k s ? U r g e n t , m a d a m .
Client meeting at 1 2 . 3 0 . '
'I'll be back,' I said. ' P r o m i s e . '
'Kamaal hai... one minute that other phellow c o m e s
here on a m o t o r c y c l e . N o w this phellow also c o m e s .
And you g o . . . is this office or a maidan?'
The other artists had s t o p p e d slouching over their
drawing boards. I noticed that Naik's long nail had broken.
'What's happened to your nail?' I asked him.
Kawla i n t e r r u p t e d : 'Why phor you want to k n o w ?
You do your work phirst, we will d o o u r s . T h a t D ' L i m a
will be c o m i n g t o check just now. I will r e p o r t the
matter to him. Why I should take responsibility? If the
artworks don't g o , I will say phrankly that m a d a m c a m e
here and bunked off. If you g e t a phiring d o n ' t ask m e .
We don't want any hassles here. I will talk at weekly
m e e t i n g . Too m u c h n o n s e n s e g o e s o n and the a r t
department gets the blame. C o m e on, boys, what you're

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 Sultry Days

staring at simply? D o your w o r k . . . do your work. Let

madam and that loafer go and drink coffee in a hotel,
how does it affect us?'
Without waiting to hear any m o r e , I picked up my
bag and ran out.
'If that other phellow comes back asking for money,
what I will tell him?' Kawla m o c k e d .
'Tell him I have gone out with s o m e other phellow
and he can look for money somewhere else,' I replied.
'Besharam... besharam (shameless),' I could hear
Kawla saying. My little scene had provided the art
d e p a r t m e n t their cheap thrill for the day. And as for
the t e l e p h o n e operator, she didn't need to listen in
on any m o r e calls that morning. She was far too busy
making t h e m .

After I returned from my little outing with Lucio, I

d i s c o v e r e d the real r e a s o n why e v e r y o n e in the
office was in such a flap. Apparently, Roy's daughter,
Janine, had run off with a sacked driver and shacked
up with him at Bombay's notorious Antop Hill. Roy
couldn't make up his mind about what had upset him
m o r e — h e r elopement with a menial or that she wasn't
located at the 'right' address. Antop H i l l — I mean, you
couldn't think of a w o r s e area. It was where all the
hoods and dons of Bombay's burgeoning underworld

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 Shobhaa De

hung out. It was a locality so n o t o r i o u s that even c o p s

and c r i m e r e p o r t e r s gave it the pass. And there was
young Janine, his p a m p e r e d , p u s s y c a t of a daughter,
b r o u g h t u p on s o f t - c e n t r e G o d i v a c h o c o l a t e s and
i m p o r t e d toilet paper, living in a ratty j h o p d i with a
rakish driver.
Roy was so c o m p l e t e l y devastated by the n e w s that
he didn't give any i n t e r v i e w s f o r a w e e k . K a r e n gave
up g o l d and bought j u s t one g r e a t outfit for herself
f r o m Ritu's B o u t i q u e . Everybody at the o f f i c e realized
that this was major.
'We w o n ' t pick up any n e w accounts at this rate,'
m o a n e d the senior accounts supervisor.
' F o r g e t n e w a c c o u n t s , yaar... we m i g h t l o s e the
old ones.'
Aarti giggled and g i g g l e d fingering her u n d e r a r m
hair disgustingly. 'It's nothing m o r e than a class war,
yaar,' she drawled. 'Terrible n e x u s b e t w e e n the haves
and have-nots. So what if he's a driver? H e ' s also a
human being.'
'So, go live with a bhangi if you want t o , yaar. Prove
your point and save us your lectures,' said R o n n i e , the
'hot' precocious copy-writer who, I was certain, couldn't
have b e e n older than f o u r t e e n . T h e t o p talents in the
business were getting younger and younger—like starlets
in Hindi films. It was very 'in' t o hire a c n e - m a r k e d
teenagers who specialized in writing hip copy, ' f o r the
growing youth market'. Ronnie's lines didn't g o beyond

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 Sultry Days

'cool it, b a b e ' , and his ideas for visuals were straight
lifts from American magazines like Taxi. But Ronnie
earned m o r e in a month than an accountant in a bank
drew annually. 'The Brat', as he was affectionately known,
was Roy's pet-of-the-moment and could do no wrong.
Soon after the e l o p e m e n t (which m a d e it to an
eveninger) Roy sent for me in his 'Creative C a b i n ' — s o
described because it was designed to distract. Roy sat
casually behind an enormous teak desk from Chor Bazaar,
which he said had belonged to his great-grandfather
(a lie!) and was originally housed in their huge family
home in a small village of G o a . His chair was a gigantic
a f f a i r — w e a t h e r e d leather in tan tones. A collection
of pipes was stacked on one side of the table, with
antique silver nut-crackers on the other. His Buddha
collection in all materials (ivory, agate, onyx, enamel,
ebony, lapis, even gold) were displayed in a high-security
cabinet at one end of the r o o m . Roy liked to disarm
visitors to his cabin by its impressive decor. 'It has been
accessorized by my wife,' he'd say easily as people gawked
in admiration.There was nothing in the r o o m to suggest
that it was either an office or an adagency's work station.
How could anybody discuss business with a magnificent
pool table occupying m o s t of the space anyway? Roy
would encourage juniors to 'toss out a few ideas' while
fooling around with the cues. I'd been told that if I
wished to c l a m b e r up the ladder of success in this
agency, I'd have to play snooker. I'd tried... but clumsily.

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 Shobhaa De

'Aah—Nisha,' he'd greet m e , ' c o m e on in... how's the

game progressing.' I'd look stupid, shuffle my feet and
confess that it wasn't. ' N o sweat,' Roy would assure
me generously and pick up a cue himself.
But this time it was different. He looked s o m b r e
and defeated as he sat slouched in his chair chewing
on a pipe. He had taken off his Gucci loafers and was
wiggling his toes in purple socks. 'Your f r i e n d . . . the
young man who keeps touching you for money,' he
began, without attempting to conceal the crudeness
of the remark. 'I hear he has a lot of influence... or
his old m a n d o e s . H e ' s s o m e s o r t of a neta or
something—isn't he? A leader... trade unionist... local
dada... whatever.'
I didn't say a thing and continued to stare fixedly
at a bronze d o g on his table.
'Well, as you know... Janine... that is... oh hell... I'm
sure everybody knows. I need your boyfriend's help
to get my darling back. My wife is completely wrecked
by this horrible affair. We t r u s t e d the r a s c a l . . . and
this is what he did to u s . . . to our honour and prestige.
A driver! It's disgraceful. I hope our clients don't get
affected by the n e w s . . . it is being circulated, isn't it?'
I still didn't say anything. 'So, my dear? Why don't you
ask that fellow to see m e , we can take care of him if
you know what I m e a n . . . there's money to be m a d e
here. I'm willing to pay... anything... within reasonable
limits, of course, to get my daughter back.'

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 Sultry Days

'I'll speak to D e b — t h a t ' s his name.'

'Yes... D e b . . . when can you arrange a meeting?'
'When he's free.'
' G o o d . But what do you mean by "when he's free"?
I was told he was a b u m . That he did nothing besides
s p o n g i n g on y o u . P a r d o n m e f o r b e i n g so b l u n t .
But that's the office g o s s i p I do get to hear things,
you know.'
'Yes. I suppose you do. It's quite all right. I don't
really care what everybody thinks of him. But Deb happens
to be a very talented writer... he's not a bum.'
Perhaps it was the sharpness of my tone, for Roy
apologized immediately. 'I didn't mean to offend you.
But you know how it i s . . . office grapevine... that sort
of thing. An image tends to stick... particularly if you
are an adman. But I do apologize.'

'What does that bastard e x p e c t m e to do? I don't care

if his precious daughter fucks herself to death with an
escaped convict, frankly. So beat it. I ' m not interested
in phoney sob stories.'
I pleaded with G o d to m e e t Roy, just once. 'It's
my job, Deb. I don't want to get the sack. What will
we d o if I ' m jobless?'
That m a d e sense. Even though G o d was earning
enough he still thought it his birthright to touch me.
'What do you do with your own money?' I'd asked

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 Shobhaa D e

him, s u m m o n i n g up e n o u g h c o u r a g e to d o so f r o m
time to time.
' O h , I keep that for i m p o r t a n t stuff.'
'Like what?'
' P r o j e c t s , ' h e ' d r e p l i e d v a g u e l y , b u t w i t h an
i m p o r t a n t , m y s t e r i o u s air. 'You k n o w . . . Narmada
Valley... B h o p a l . . . Chipko.'
G o d strutted into the office the next morning looking
officious. He asked the bitch at the b o a r d if he could
see Roy and she all but laughed out loud. 'See M r D ' L i m a ? '
she m o c k e d . ' D o you have an a p p o i n t m e n t ? '
' S c r e w a p p o i n t m e n t - s h a p p o i n t m e n t . The p r o b l e m
is h i s — d o you g e t m e . . . he n e e d s me. J u s t d o your
job and tell him I'm here.' It must have been his menacing
tone that did it.
She buzzed Roy and told him in terrified
t o n e s , ' S i r . . . it's that m a n . M i s s V e r m a ' s . . . that is,
Nisha's... er... b o y f r i e n d . H e is saying he wants to see
you.' A m o m e n t later, she waved G o d in wordlessly,
astonishment all over her m e a n face. A m i n u t e later
she s u m m o n e d the p e o n s and told t h e m the day's n e w s .
They immediately r u s h e d into the art d e p a r t m e n t and
yelled it out in Marathi. Kawla d r o p p e d his b r u s h e s
and exchanged a significant look with Naik, who was
busy chipping the ice-cream pink nail polish (his wife's)
f r o m the long nail (which had g r o w n b a c k ) o f his little
finger. D u r i n g G o d ' s b r i e f chat with Roy, no w o r k g o t
d o n e at the agency. Even I c o u l d n ' t c o n c e n t r a t e on

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 Sultry Days

the latest designer tiles in the market, which perfectly

matched the designer potties and basins (coffee-coloured)
that we'd launched six months earlier.

'What did he say?' I asked G o d the minute he emerged.

'Shit-head. S c u m . Skunk. Worm.'
'Did he call you all those names?'
' D o n ' t be m a d , yaar. H o w could he? He needs m e .
I had to stop him f r o m licking my chappals. He was
grovelling at my feet like the bloody dog that he is.'
'What does he want?'
' O h — n o t h i n g very m u c h . Simple stuff, yaar—he
wants the driver's head on a platter... like the R o m a n
e m p e r o r s or Shahjehan or someone.'
You m e a n , he actually wants it? I mean, literally?'
'Murder.That's what he has on his mind, baby. Blood.'
D o e s he think you are a m u r d e r e r ? '
'Maybe. He asked '
'Asked what? " L o o k , can you m u r d e r s o m e o n e ? "
W H A T did he ask?Tell m e ! '
' M o r e or less.'
'And what did you reply?'
' "Sure. I do it all the time," 1 said, "but what's in it
for m e , pal?" "A lot," the shit-head replied. So I continued,
" H o w m u c h is a l o t ? " He went on, " H o w much do
you... well, charge?" So, I tried Hindi film stunthaazi
and asked again, " H o w much is your daughter worth to

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 Shobhaa De

you?" "Plenty," said the dog. "Can you put a price to it?"
I said. "You do that," he replied. Can you imagine, yaar?
Finally I told him he'd got the wrong man. And he looked
as if he was going to die there and then. " D o you know
someone? I hear your father has connections " I said,
"Well, pal, you heard, wrong." He was ready to beg.
"I need a suparj-killer, a contract c h a p — k n o w what
I mean? I thought you might be able to help me. I'm
willing to pay a great deal of money. But I want that
bastard dead. I don't care how much it costs to hire
someone. Get me a contract killer, and I'll look after
you... and Nisha." I would have spit on his face. But I
thought of you... of us. We need the bread, yaar. So I
just said, "I'll see what can be done," and left it at that.'
'You mean you can organize it?You'll g e t s o m e o n e
to bump the fellow off? D O N ' T . Please don't. It's a
crime. Don't get involved.'
'Baby—don't tell me what to do. I know this business.
You want to get rid of s o m e o n e — c o m e to m e . But
bring the lolly with you. Nothing for free, remember.
Not even love.'

150
 he weather g o t all of us down but G o d had b e e n
Linusually m o o d y and listless ever since Roy tried
to hire him t o organize a hit-man for the driver.
If G o d was behaving like a swine, I w a s n ' t faring
m u c h better. It had to b e the b l o o d y weather. O c t o b e r ,
the w o r s t m o n t h of the year in Bombay, was on us.
Even a i r - c o n d i t i o n i n g d i d n ' t help. T h e sweat never
s t o p p e d — i t just evaporated faster in an icy r o o m giving
everybody the chills. H u m i d i t y levels w e r e so high, I
felt dehydrated and drained m o s t of the time. The heat
was getting t o everybody and affecting each p e r s o n in
strange ways. I found myself snapping at Didi—something
1 had never d o n e b e f o r e . And G o d was beginning to
get on my nerves. Maybe his new association with Sujata
had s o m e t h i n g t o do with it.
H e w o u l d n ' t talk t o m e , and this was frustrating
for I w a s dying t o k n o w how his e x t e n d e d interview
with Sujata (yes, he had finally a g r e e d to d a it) had

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 S h o b h a a De

gone. However, if G o d w a s u n c o m m u n i c a t i v e , Sujata

was not. At the next 'rap session' for Plume, she pounced
on m e , ' O h you s w e e t little thing... so virginal and
pure. H o w d o e s darling D e b u survive?'
I w a n t e d to say, 'With w o m e n like you a r o u n d , it
must be easy.' But I kept quiet and started a conversation
with Chandni, w h o startled m e by saying, 'I w a s j u s t
like you when I m e t M r Mascarenhas.' I always f o u n d
it funny when she r e f e r r e d to the D . O . M . in such a
f o r m a l way. W h a t h a p p e n e d w h e n t h e y w e r e in
bed? Did she squeal, ' O h , M r Mascarenhas, that felt
so-o-o g o o d ? '
Chandni nudged m e . 'You know, I didn't know what
semen was... I m e a n . . . what it looked like, when I m e t
him. I'd only read about it in books. So, one day I asked
h i m . He was so t o u c h e d by my t r u s t that he s a i d ,
"Here... let m e show you... get m e s o m e soap." And just
imagine what he did? He masturbated... right there in
front of me. It was the most beautiful thing. That is called
love. N o w do you understand how it is between us?'
I n o d d e d and tried t o change the t o p i c but Sujata
w a d e d in again, 'Men are such adorable b e a s t s , a r e n ' t
they, girls?'
Chandni smiled and said, ' G r r r r r ! '
'Take D e b u , the tiger. That's what he i s . . . a real
tiger. Nisha, I ' m s u r p r i s e d he d o e s n ' t cover you with
clawmarks and love-bites.'With that she s t r e t c h e d her
thick neck which was c o v e r e d with small black w a r t s ,

152
and p u t up her unruly hair. Purplish bruises below her
ear m a t c h e d the sari she was wearing that evening.
Two weeks later, her exhaustive interview appeared.
She was at her shocking b e s t , talking blithely about
her lovers and how they inspired her verse. It was so
pedestrian and fake that even G o d felt a s h a m e d . She'd
given him a p h o t o g r a p h of herself that was twenty years
old. Plus a p o e m — a highly erotic o n e — t i t l e d simply
"For D e b u , my tiger".
'She'll d r o p you now,' I told G o d when I saw the
piece. You aren't of f u r t h e r use to her.' He p r e t e n d e d
he didn't k n o w w h o or what I was talking a b o u t . But
Sujata didn't d r o p him. If anything she b e c a m e possessive
and demanding, hunting him down and practically tearing
his clothes off. She p r e s s e d p o e m s and lovelorn notes
on him daily and kept arranging trysts that he didn't
keep. Surprisingly, I felt detached and distant.
Unbelievably cold, in fact. It didn't affect m e , or I didn't
allow it to.
It w a s then that I wished my j o b had b e e n m o r e
enjoyable, m o r e fulfilling. The ad scene was full of creepy
characters w h o s p o k e in a language I c o u l d n ' t always
u n d e r s t a n d . I was w o r k i n g on a campaign I d e t e s t e d
wholeheartedly. It was f o r a f r u i t drink that hardly
qualified as o n e . And the client had p r e - d e t e r m i n e d
ideas a b o u t the launch.
'Let's recreate C a l i f o r n i a — l o t s of sun, surf and sex,'
he k e p t repeating in what he thought was a West C o a s t

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 S hobh aa De

drawl. He wanted the best photographer, the best models,

the best locales, the best c o p y . . . but at a cut-throat
price. 'Spare no e x p e n s e , gang,' he r e p e a t e d , with a
pocket calculator in his hand. ' K e e p it straight and keep
it oomphy.'
I was r o p e d in to find the right p r o p s and p e o p l e .
'Why me,' I m o a n e d .
'Because you don't threaten the female models. S o m e
of them have e g o s thinner than their s k i n s — y o u have
to handle them carefully, especially when you g o on
an o u t d o o r shoot.'
That w a s the big i n c e n t i v e — M a l d i v e s . N>itin, a
squeaky-voiced executive, had c o m e up with the
idea of shooting t h e r e — ' T h e closest thing to California,'
he squeaked to the client. T h e r e w a s m u c h e x c i t e m e n t
at the agency. W h o would finally m a k e it for the junket
besides Roy and K a r e n , of c o u r s e ? Kawla w a s ecstatic,
'Phree trip. Art director m u s t g o . H o w those phellows
will be able to visualize o t h e r w i s e ? Are, majaa aayega
(we'll have fun).' It was u n d e r s t o o d I'd g o . . . and that
was about the only attraction that s t o p p e d m e f r o m
chucking in my resignation.
I set up an a p p o i n t m e n t t o m e e t Pebbles Prabhu
reputed to be the world's biggest swine and the m o s t
irresistible p h o t o g r a p h e r in the business. Pebbles had
a w i l d r e p u t a t i o n . It w a s said t h a t he c h e w e d u p
half-a-dozen m o d e l s a day and still had the energy to
sample s o m e m o r e . H e w a s a rough-talking hunk with

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 Sultry Days

wolf-like eyes with absolute mastery over his m e d i u m .

He was brilliant. And impossible. The story of his colourful
life read like one of the storyboards we often worked
on at the agency. A rags-to-riches type, he had arrived
in Bombay from Singapore without a penny to his name.
An orphan who had been brought up by a benevolent
uncle, Pebbles e x u d e d a raw, rough-edged sexuality
that m o s t models in the city found impossible to resist.
He was linked with the best of the lot and in ad circles
it was r u m o u r e d that he changed girlfriends as often
as he changed bedsheets. Pebbles wasn't a conventionally
good-looking f e l l o w — t h i c k s e t and bull-like. Neither
did he speak particularly well. If anything, his low,
crudely-worded m u m b l e was practically incoherent.
But he had the girls flocking. 'He's mean and treats
them bad,' said our model co-ordinator, an Anglo-Indian
lad whose voice had never cracked. (Poor William, he'd
spent his young life dreaming of Australia and trying
his b e s t to p a s s o f f as an I r i s h w o m a n w h o ' d b e e n
accidentally b o r n in the w r o n g country with the wrong
sex. Lucio g o t along famously with Willie and they
often g o t stoned together.)
Pebbles roughed up his m o d e l s all right and they
begged for m o r e . His photo-sessions were so notorious
that m o s t first-timers took m o m m i e s and boyfriends
along for protection. They lost their careers at that
very moment. Pebbles would take one look at the escorts

155
and g r o w l , 'If you n e e d b o d y g u a r d s with m e , you can
g o fuck yourself. I d o n ' t have the t i m e to waste on
you.' The m o r e brazen ones who survived the initiation-
went on to g r a b the b e s t deals in t o w n . Pebbles w a s a
m o n s t e r in arenas other than the s e x u a l . H e got the
bread he asked for, and so did his girls.
His 'woman' at the time was the top model in Bombay,
a reserved, bespectacled, scholarly sort when she wasn't
in front of the c a m e r a s . N o b o d y could figure out this
p a r t i c u l a r h o o k - u p Malini w a s an o u t - o f - t o w n e r , a
Bangalore girl who had c o m e to B o m b a y to b e c o m e a
lawyer. It r e q u i r e d Pebbles to see b e y o n d her m o u s y
facade and discover the face of the d e c a d e . Malini had
the right b o n e s t r u c t u r e to m a k e fantastic p i c t u r e s .
' H e r calcium d e p o s i t s w o u l d g i v e a chalk f a c t o r y a
c o m p l e x , ' W i l l i e u s e d t o giggle. O n c e the glasses c a m e
off (along with m o s t of her clothes) and she had her
face painted by talented make-up wizards, Malini looked
sensational. The t r a n s f o r m a t i o n was so startling that
most times she went unrecognized on the street. Pebbles
adored her and pushed her for every campaign that
came his way. The other girls didn't feel t o o threatened
since Malini was obviously in it only for a s h o r t - t e r m
stint. She was a bit t o o bright and far t o o indifferent
to the g l a m o u r of their w o r l d to last the c o u r s e . Yet,
she was all over the place, including T V c o m m e r c i a l s ,
and within her first year, had m a d e enough m o n e y t o
buy herself a second-hand Maruti Gypsy.

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 Sultry Days

I decided to take Lucio with m e for the meeting

with Pebbles.
'Are you sure?' he asked softly. 'The guy may not
like it.'
' L o o k , Lucio, I'm only goin<T there to fix up the
Maldives s h o o t . . . not to bed him.'
' W h o knows ' Lucio said vaguely and picked up
his satchel.
We ran into Anil at the door, 'Hey, howya doin'?'
he said, and I thought he was being funny.
Lucio groaned and muttered, ' M a n . . . what a creep.'
'Say... I've been meaning to touch base with you.
N e w Year's Eve will soon be here. I thought we could
bring in the whole show together. Make a night of it.'
I was thrown for a bit. N e w Year's Eve s e e m e d so
far away, with over a month to go. 'Gosh, Anil, I can't
think that far ahead. Check with m e later.'
'Reservations. We've got to make reservations.'
'Where? What for?'
' O h ! I thought we'd do it in style. Maybe have a
drink s o m e w h e r e special, dinner at the Club or the
R o o f t o p Place. And then party the rest of the night
away I have quite a few cards stacked u p . . . clients,
friends... combine a bit of P.R.with all the fun. How
does it sound?'
'Dismal,' said Lucio close to my ear. And before I
could reply, he piped up, 'Actually, she's spending it
with m e at the Byculla Mechanics' Ball.'

157
 Anil nearly d r o p p e d his tan leather p o r t f o l i o . ' N o ,
she's not. N i s h a . . . give m e a break. Are you really going
to hang out with greasy mechanics that night?'
'Sure,' I heard myself saying. 'I d o it every year.' I
linked my a r m through Lucio's and t r i p p e d o u t .

Pebbles wasn't f o r m i d a b l e at all. I rather liked him. It

must have b e e n such a strain to playTarzan all the t i m e
when he was really Winnie the Pooh. I found him o p e n ,
accessible and surprisingly ill-at-ease. Malini was hanging
around in black leotards, her hair oiled and tied into
a tight bun. She was reading an A s t e r i x and eating a
green apple.
'Why d o n ' t we discuss the assignment with her,'
Pebbles suggested. 'She fixes up everything.' Malini looked
up from her comic book and raised her eyebrows. ' C o m e
on over,' Pebbles u r g e d , 'we have a big shoot ahead of
us, Maldives.'
She r e a c h e d for a scratch p a d , p i c k e d up a Bic and
walked over to w h e r e we w e r e . Within m i n u t e s , she'd
figured out the logistics of the e x e r c i s e and d o n e s o m e
rough costings. She told Pebbles who she thought would
fit into the ' l o o k ' of the c a m p a i g n ( b e s i d e s h e r s e l f )
and he went along with all her suggestions docilely. I
thought it very sweet that he never called her by her
name but always 'she' or ' h e r ' . Malini r u s h e d around
the s t u d i o r u n n i n g t h r o u g h their i m p r e s s i v e filing

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 Sultry Days

cabinet and showing us the p o r t f o l i o s of potential

c a n d i d a t e s — ' w e n e e d s o m e o n e with f i z z ' . ' N i c e
t e e t h — s h e has the best teeth in the business. We'll
need t h e m . Lots of laughter This one isn't great
l o o k i n g — b u t she has super legs. We can use her body
and cover her face.This chap... let m e see... dandruff... we
can take care of that. W r o n g jaw. That can be fixed
too. O h — h e r e ' s A a r t i — s h e ' s c u t e — l o o k s great in a
bikini. N o bikinis? O h , of c o u r s e , the new government
cover-up policy. O K . How about this one... yeah... good
tits, nice eyes. She looks like a younger version of
D i m p l e . . . same sort expression. Too much g u m , we
can't have her. That one has chopped off her hair, she
looks like a shorn p u p p y — f o r g e t her. O K , let's go with
this bunch. They look g o o d together. Muscles, boobs,
biceps—everything fits. A couple of them are enthusiastic
m o d e r n d a n c e r s . Maybe we could w o r k in a small
sequence at a disco or the beach.'
Terrific, Maldives was on. Maldives was happening.

G o d was even m o r e sarcastic than usual about the

Maldives trip. 'What are you going there for? If you
think you'll make it with Pebbles or whoever that sham
is, forget it. You aren't a m o d e l or a starlet.'
'Why don't we change the subject and talk about
you? How's the n e x t issue of Plume coming along?
What's happening on the arts page? Have you met Iqbal?'

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 Shobhaa De

'The very fact that you have to ask m e all these

questions shows how indifferent you are to my life.
It is all you, you, you. You and your fairy b o y f r i e n d s ,
you and those foolish m o d e l s , you and that bastard
boss of yours.'
'Don't be unpleasant, Deb. What's the matter? Broke?'
'Chhodo, yaar—I make m o r e than you do these
days.'
'Then why are we fighting?'
'Fighting? Who's fighting?'
' D e b . . . you haven't played your flute for such a
long time. Why don't we spend a quiet evening catching
up and listening to your melody?'
'I don't know, yaar. I'm not free in any case. Have
to go to the Lala's house to see his cars and paintings.
You can tag along if you want to. But don't bring Lucio.'
' W h i c h Lala? You m e a n the g u y w h o lives in
that a b s u r d - l o o k i n g b u n g a l o w and behaves like an
eighteenth-century feudal lord? What's a good
commie like you doing with him?'
'I've been asked to work on a profile. He's quite a
character. Just like a Hindi phillum, yaar. Aa jao, you'll
enjoy yourself. I'll tell him you are my chamchi.'
'I'm surprised at you, Deb. These were the p e o p l e
you used to detest at one time. Didn't your father organize
a lock-out at the Lala's factories three years ago? And
now you are accepting all sorts of invitations... I don't
know. You have c h a n g e d . You a r e b e c o m i n g like

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 Sultry Days

everybody else. N o wonder you don't have the time

to play the flute. I wouldn't be surprised if you've even
stopped talking to Bijli.'

It was t r u e that G o d had changed m o r e than he cared

to admit. He was out at s o m e five star clip joint or
the other night after night. O f t e n , he'd begin his day
with a breakfast-meeting at the Shamiana, with a quick
lunch at China G a r d e n , a cocktail party in an opulent
setting and, if he had r o o m f o r dinner after stuffing
himself with chicken tikkas and shami kababs, then a
bite at an all-night c o f f e e shop (with b e e r ) , b e f o r e
g o i n g h o m e t o his shabby c h a w l . I f o u n d all this
very disturbing and difficult to u n d e r s t a n d . G o d was
selling out.
'I have always been a sponger, yaar,' he admitted.
'But that's different, Deb,' I said.
'In w h a t w a y ? I c o n s i d e r these outings as
p e r k s . . . fringe benefits of my job. Frills, Nasha, frills.
Why make such a tamasha out of it? These people need
m e — d o you think I don't know that? They want to
use m e . They get what they w a n t — a n d I get to have a
good time. It's O K , yaar. N o lecturebaazi, understand?'
] wasn't convinced. Only, I didn't want to g e t into
an a r g u m e n t . G o d was behaving like a m o r t a l , like
all the other journalists in town, a b u m who shamelessly
sold his pieces for a f e w p e g s of Scotch and a five-star

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 Shobhaa De

evening. H e ' d s t a r t e d d r e s s i n g d i f f e r e n t l y — f l a s h y
horrible clothes that looked absurd on him. He carried
Dunhill packs around which I knew he hadn't paid
for. H e d r o p p e d n a m e s constantly, particularly one
n a m e — a n d that scared m e .
Yashwantbhai D a w a n i w a s a p o w e r f u l p o l i t i c a l
broker, known for his ruthless wheeling and dealing.
In the right circles, he was r e f e r r e d to simply as the
Collector. H e controlled the purse-strings of his party
and arm-twisted huge 'donations' out of industrialists
and businessmen. Everybody knew about his m o d u s
operandi, yet nobody dared take him on.Yashwantbhai
courted and p a m p e r e d the press since he was aware
that the right m e n t i o n s in the right p a p e r s w o u l d
consolidate his image within the party.
G o d had c o m e into contact with him at one of
Iqbal's art openings. ' C o m e and see my collection,
yaar,' Yashwantbhai had said to G o d , throwing his a r m
over G o d ' s shoulder. 'I think you are the best reviewer
in town.'
1 was sure he hadn't even heard G o d ' s n a m e till
then but G o d had been immensely flattered.
'Did you hear what he said?' he asked m e later
that evening.
' D o n ' t fall f o r i t , D e b . I ' m s u r e he says that
to everybody.'
'Rubbish! You are such a wet blanket, yaar. Always
pouring cold water on everything.'

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 Sultry Days

I r e m i n d e d G o d that C o m r a d e s a a b andYashwantbhai
had b e e n l o c k e d on a collision c o u r s e for over a decade
and that G o d ' s father w o u l d be h o r r i f i e d to learn that
his son w a s h o b n o b b i n g with this hateful m a n .
'The times are changing,yaar. Comradesaab is against
the w h o l e w o r l d . W h a t ' s w r o n g with Yashwantbhai?
H e was so charming.'
'Wait till he finds o u t w h o s e son you a r e — h e ' l l
be even m o r e charming.'

N o , I d i d n ' t like what was happening t o G o d at all. We

were beginning to see less and less of each other now
that he d i d n ' t n e e d t o t o u c h m e for cash that often.
He was getting ahead professionally, m e e t i n g all the
V I P s in t o w n , i n t e r v i e w i n g c u l t u r e - v u l t u r e s and
generally being w o o e d by 'all those w h o m a t t e r e d ' in
the high-life of the city.
T h e Lala w a s a h a r m l e s s m a n . An e c c e n t r i c and
self-styled connoisseur for w h o m t i m e had s t o p p e d a
century and a half ago. H e lived so c o m p l e t e l y in the
past that he s e e m e d far r e m o v e d f r o m today's realities.
E x c e p t w h e n it c a m e to money. N o b o d y knew w h e r e
and how he had m a d e it and he certainly wasn't very
f o r t h c o m i n g a b o u t its o r i g i n s . H e r a r e l y g r a n t e d
i n t e r v i e w s and even the business p r e s s hadn't m a n a g e d
to f e r r e t o u t any telling details about his vast wealth.
He s u r r o u n d e d himself with his fine art pieces, j e w e l s ,

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 Shobhaa De

paintings and antiques, rarely venturing beyond the

portals of his palace-like residence. A lonely, unusual
man, his only 'friends' were faithful family retainers
and the pedigreed dogs that r o a m e d his estate. There
were stories galore about his single status, since it seemed
such a waste that s o m e o n e like him should die without
an heir. People wondered who he was going to leave
his fortune t o — t h e servants, the d o g s or charity. The
Lala could be wildly generous with total strangers and
miserably stingy with those around him, especially his
office staff. Most days, he d i r e c t e d his w o r l d - w i d e
operations from the privacy of his e n o r m o u s b e d r o o m .
On the rare occasions that he did deign to step out, he
carefully selected a car that matched his cufflinks. He
struck terror in the hearts of his executives but was
kindness itself to his countless drivers and their children.
What was the point in amassing so much when there
was no one to either share it with or pass it on t o ,
people wondered, when they caught a glimpse of him
cruising down the Bombay roads in a stately fashion.
The avaricious w o m e n of Bombay had not given up on
him even though he had made it perfectly clear he wasn't
i n t e r e s t e d . T h e m a t c h m a k e r s f r o m his c o m m u n i t y
tried to find him a suitable partner month after month,
but the Lala wouldn't budge. 'I will enjoy my wealth
m y s e l f — h e r e and now. After I d i e . . . who knows what
will become of it? And who cares? I don't, so why should
anybody else?'

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 Sultry Days

It was w h i s p e r e d that he had once been in love

with a close cousin back in their village in Rajasthan.
The t w o of t h e m had m a d e a pact as children to get
m a r r i e d when they w e r e older. But it wasn't to be.
As was c o m m o n in their part of the world, Padminidevi
had b e e n m a r r i e d off at the age of fifteen to a man
f r o m the neighbouring village. It was a r o m a n t i c tale,
and the f e w who had actually visited his h o m e , swore
that he had her n a m e engraved on every m a r b l e slab
and brick of the house. And that all the fabulous jewellery
he kept buying f r o m the vaults of now impoverished
maharajas, was m e a n t for h e r — f o r the day that she
would c o m e back into his life and b e c o m e his. It wasn't
c o n f i r m e d but p e o p l e also claimed that he had the
weavers of Benaras spin g o s s a m e r - f i n e saris of the
sheerest kind every year d u r i n g D i w a l i . T h e s e t o o
would be lovingly stored in gigantic Chinese camphor
chests, never to be w o r n or seen again.
God was very intrigued by him. 'He's like a character
out of a movie, yaar; or a cheap novel. I ' m glad I've
got the opportunity to interview him. Saala dekh lega
kya baat hai.'
I was fascinated too. He reminded m e of Jay Gatsby.
'Forget it, yaar. He's only a nut. A rich nut. If I can
get him to adopt m e — j u s t think how much money
there would b e ! '
'I thought you weren't interested in it.'

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 Shobhaa De

'In what?'
'Money.'
'It's O K , yaar. It has its uses. I'd buy myself a luxury
yacht like that Khashoggi fellow and sail around the
world. All the chicks would flock to me.'
'Then what would you do with Sujata?'
'What's the matter with you, yaar? Why bring that
old hag into this? Anyway, these days she's seeing s o m e
poet-shoet from Botswana. Could be Zaire. Don't know.
He looks like a gorilla.'
'So does she.'
'He wears huge robes.'
'So does she.'
'He writes horrible poetry.'
'So does she.'
'Stop saying that all the time, yaar, you really piss
m e off.'

Lucio was having problems at home. He didn't want

to discuss them, b u t I could tell he was troubled. ' T h e
usual Goan story,' he smiled, 'drunk father, oppressed
mother, t o o little money and t o o many children.'
'What are you planning to do?'
'Nothing. Any ideas?'
'Why don't you sing professionally—I mean, not
just jingles, but you k n o w — s o n g s and things.'

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 Sultry Days

'Yeah! Who'll give m e a break?'

'You have to make a start somewhere. Let m e talk
to a couple of jingles t y p e s — t h e ones who sing at the
Taj and O b e r o i in the night. G o o d money there.'
'Sure but such long hours. I'll collapse.'
'No, you won't. N o t if you eat well and stop hashing.'
'I wouldn't be able to face life without hash. You
know that.'
'Try it. It might surprise you.'
It was that very night that Lucio was told by his
father, ' T h e r e is a huge sea around Bombay. Why don't
you g o and j u m p in it?'
H e did just that. Only, p o o r Lucio didn't succeed
even in this. W h e n he was fished out of the sea at
N a r i m a n Point, he had a lot of w a t e r in his lungs,
but he wasn't dead.
G o d and I went to see him at the municipal hospital.
He looked like a ten-year-old urchin, his tiny frame
curled up on an ugly aluminium cot, his small wrists
dangling over the edge lifelessly. 'Hey, man,' he said,
'I blew it again. Didn't I?'
My heart went out to him, lying there so pathetic
and helpless. I wanted to help him, I really did. But
what could I have d o n e — I had none of the contacts
that I built up later, nothing to call my own. And I had
enough p r o b l e m s to deal with. I couldn't take on the
role of friend, philosopher and guide. I couldn't even
play m o m m y temporarily to the sickly waif.

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 Shobhaa De

A c o u p l e of days later I went to see him again, this

time to tell him about the Maldives. H e l o o k e d so weak
and d e p r e s s e d that I w a s strongly t e m p t e d to cancel
the whole trip.
' L u c i o , please, for my sake, hang in there till I g e t
back. It'll just be for t w o w e e k s , ' I p l e a d e d .
H e j u s t l o o k e d at m e w i t h t h o s e sad e y e s , and
said nothing.
When I got back f r o m the Maldives, all tanned and
looking healthy, Lucio had left. H e had left the city,
carrying his guitar and his t o r n clothes, and no one
knew where. And I never heard f r o m him again.
*

'You know, if you w e r e n ' t so s t u c k up and snooty,

we c o u l d m a k e a d a m n g o o d pair, yaar,' G o d said
thoughtfully, as we sat at ' o u r ' table in the Surai drinking
pudina chai.
'What do vou m e a n ? '
'You could c o m e to all the parties-sharties, yaar.
Have a ball.'
' D e b , I ' m not interested. I w o u l d feel o u t of place.
It's not my scene. D o n ' t you feel awful? Like a C h e a p
Charlie, eating and drinking at other p e o p l e ' s e x p e n s e ,
all the t i m e ? '
'I've explained that t o you, yaar. T h e s e p e o p l e will
lick my chappals for publicity. You d o n ' t k n o w h o w
they beg m e for j u s t a line, a p a r a g r a p h , a m e n t i o n . '

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 Sultry Days

'These very people will readily spit on you if you

ever lose your arts page or the other stuff you do.'
'Forget it, Nasha.You don't understand power. Todav
that's all that counts. Power. And we who wield the
pen, have it.'
'Fine. But be careful. That s a m e pen can b e c o m e
a jack-knife. That m a n — Y a s h w a n t b h a i — h e gives m e
bad vibes. He is d a n g e r o u s . Watch out for him. Ask
your father.'
'Father, huh! What does that toothless tiger know
of the Politics of today. He only d o e s bak-bak and
organizes gate-meetings. N o b o d y takes him seriously
any m o r e . He is finished.'
'Wasn't it Yashwantbhai who broke all his strikes
last year?'
'So what? That feud is between them. It doesn't
concern m e at all.'
' H o w can you trust a man like that?'
'It's not a question of trust. Haven't you heard of a
lovely phrase that goes you-scratch-my-back-I-scratch-
yours?Two-way traffic, baby. I believe in that. He needs
m e , the chaalu fucker. And I need him. N o t now. But I
will some day. I want to build up a bank of favours... and
then ask him to pay up when the time comes.'
'What makes you think he isn't thinking along the
same lines himself?'
'He probably is.'
'Then?'

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 Shobhaa De

'Then what? O n e of us will have to call the bluff.

Right n o w we are playing blind and the stakes a r e
high... next year, when the election fever is at its height,
Yashwantbhai's ass will be t w i t c h i n g . T h a t ' s w h e n he'll
c o m e crawling. 1 have a lot of d o p e on him and he knows
it. With C o m r a d e s a a b ' s contacts and my own in the
u n d e r w o r l d , there is e n o u g h t o nail the fellow. T h e
land-scam scandal is just beginning to hot up. H e thinks
nobody knows about his involvement in it. C r o r e s , baby,
crores. I have the details. D o s s i e r u p o n dossier. Taped
conversations, notes, everything. His biggest ally is that
s m u g g l e r in the G u l f — I s a m i a . That's w h e r e the m o n e y
c o m e s f r o m and g o e s to. Yashwantbhai has j a c k e d up
the p e r c e n t a g e of his pay-off. Isamia isn't happy. T h e r e
is sure to be a showdown soon.That's when Yashwantbhai
will need my services. And my father's.You'11 see. H e ' l l
c o m e to us. Meanwhile, he has asked m e t o send him
a c o u p l e of new chicks. " S e n d m e g o o d stuff, yaar,"he
told me. I said I wasn't a pimp. He laughed, "Communists,
p i m p s . . . s a m e thing, bhai. In o n e way, or the other,
you are a bhadwa." I will show him what a s m a r t bhadwa
can do. I'll g e t the bastard.'
' O r he'll get you.'
' N o t a chance,' said G o d and lit a Benson and Hedges.

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 Nine

y yuppie friend, Anil, w a s still around looking

M like a Benetton ad. His dressing was getting sharper
and s h a r p e r and he h a d k n o c k e d o f f his s i d e b u r n s
altogether. He l o o k e d a little like Charlie Sheen in a
baseball m o v i e I had j u s t seen or m a y b e like Sheen in
Wall Street, I ' m not sure. We'd exchange a self-conscious
' H o w y a d o i n ? ' and carry o n . I still liked him, but I also
knew I wasn't ever going to fit into his scheme of things.
I was surprised he had thought I might in the first place.
I often saw him rushing o f f t o 'take in a spot of t e n n i s ' ,
with all the right gear.
O n e day, I saw him w i t h a girl d r e s s e d like Steffi
G r a f in a tennis skirt that barely c o v e r e d her shapely
b o t t o m . H e w a v e d his g r a p h i t e r a c k e t at m e jauntily
b e f o r e c l i m b i n g into a s m a r t j e e p . I c o u l d see Kawla
and his boys c r o w i n g f r o m u p s t a i r s . I c o u l d r e a d their
t h o u g h t s . ' T h e r e g o e s a bakra and h e r e c o m e s a f o o l .
She will l e a r n the hard way w h e n the b r o k e b u m s in

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 S hobhaa D e

her life ruin her c o m p l e t e l y . ' I d i d n ' t feel any r e g r e t

at all.
I plodded up the agency stairs (we were in a dilapidated
building that threatened t o collapse each m o n s o o n ) .
The bitch at the b o a r d signalled s o m e t h i n g with her
eyebrows. I followed her glance and found one of the
m o s t beautiful girls I'd ever seen sitting in the tiny
lobby ; her long legs stretched o u t languorously in front
of her, she was s m o k i n g in a lazy s o r t of way.
'Hi-yee,' she said. Her voice was high and childlike.
I thought she was j o k i n g , so j u s t to b e friendly I
said, 'Hi-yee,' back to her.
' I ' m Shona. I was asked to see you.'
' O h Jv e s — t h e m o d e l f r o m L o n d o n . '
She continued her baby-speak. 'Yeth,' she lisped, 'I
only got here a c o u p l e of w e e k s ago.'
It w a s b e c o m i n g a s t r a i n f o r m e t o c a r r y o n
baby-speaking back to her. It was only a few sentences
later that I discovered she w a s n ' t f o o l i n g — t h a t it w a s
actually the way she s p o k e ! Amazing. H e r e was this
s t a t u e s q u e w o n d e r w o m a n w e a r i n g an enormous
buckled belt that would do a buggy h o r s e p r o u d and
she was stuck with a lisp plus an irritating, infantile,
sing-song accent that shattered the i m a g e of a c o l d ,
aloof, alabaster g o d d e s s .
Shona was one of the girls we w e r e c o n s i d e r i n g
for a new campaign as yet quite hush-hush. But I realized
immediately that she looked far t o o sophisticated and

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soignee for it. Willie took one look at her and squealed,
'Divinity!' He had to stand up on the settee to kiss
her. Shona was nearly six feet tall in her stockinged
feet. They loved each other on sight (Shona was an
Anglo as well, though she insisted she was the product
of a Bengali mother and a ' p r o p e r ' British father). They
m a d e a c o m i c c o u p l e — W i l l i e with his squeak and
ear-stud, Shona with her lisp and sexy m o l e . Willie
wanted Shona for every ad the agency was handling.
At their first meeting itself, he quickly recognized that
Shona was wearing a skilfully cut wig. Shona's major
beauty flaw was a forehead that was as large as a papad.
She always wore wigs. Willie thought of it as a plus
rather than a minus. 'She can look so d i f f e r e n t — f r o m
Cleopatra to Sridevi. The m o s t versatile face in the
business.' And with a great body too.
Shona shot to the t o p of the heap in no time at
all. H e r face was everywhere. About her body, she
was very coy. I thought that was strange, considering
she claimed she'd been m o d e l l i n g in London b e f o r e
c o m i n g here.
'I'm an old-fashioned girl,' she simpered when Willie
asked her. 'My mother's family is very traditional. You
know she's distantly related to theTagores.'
I s n i g g e r e d at that one since every p r e t e n t i o u s
Bengali claimed a kinship with Bengal's first familv.
Willie reasoned with m e . 'You people think all Anglos
are chaalu. As if our girls have no morality or something.

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 Shobhaa De

If Shona d o e s n ' t want to show, let's n o t f o r c e her. She's

a well-brought-up, m o d e s t girl. So m a n y o f the other
females are far m o r e c h e a p — w h a t a b o u t that Sindhi
chick? And that Gujju maniben—the one w h o has joined
the movies? And that o n e — t h e Punjaban w h o p o s e d
under a waterfall? Forgotten?You people feel so superior.
You really believe all Catholics are f a s t . T h a t their girls
can only m a k e g o o d typists, air-hostesses, shop-girls,
crooners and m o d e l s . We have our own r u l e s . N o b o d y
sleeps a r o u n d like you think '
He w o u l d have g o n e on b u t I p u t a r e s t r a i n i n g
h a n d o v e r his m o u t h a n d s a i d , ' S s s h h ! Someone
will hear y o u — a n d then w h a t will h a p p e n t o the
model market?'
He was still livid, ' M o d e l m a r k e t ! See how you talk.
As if our girls are c a t t l e . . . sheep. You d o n ' t r e s p e c t us.
Anytime you want a girl for s o m e shitty n u d e ad, you
ask m e to round up my friends. Well, at least Shona
has shown you that we also have our dignity. D o n ' t
think I h a v e n ' t n o t i c e d h o w N i t i n and y o u d i s c u s s
m o d e l s . " O h that one, L o r r a i n e — s h e ' l l d o anything.
Susannah—she'll d r o p her knickers for anyone. Jessie?
Did you see the shots she has d o n e for the n e w soap?
The pictures s t o p p e d at the pubic line.'"
Just to make him feel better I said, 'Well, Willie,
it's true we b a d m o u t h s o m e of the dare-bare girls, but
it doesn't have a c o m m u n a l bias t o it. W h a t can w e do
if girls f r o m your c o m m u n i t y have the b e s t f i g u r e s ? '

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 Sultry Days

Willie snorted and s t o r m e d off to the peon's r o o m

to s m o k e a joint. I went back to doodling meaningless
headlines for a television company.

Anil m e t Shona quite by accident. It was at a major

presentation.
The agency was all keyed up with the Ad Club Awards
right round the corner. It was the time of the year
when competition was at its keenest. Everybody wanted
to slit everybody else's throat. It was believed that every
big agency had a m o l e in it, that is, a sneaky s o m e o n e
who leaked campaign strategies to rivals and orchestrated
hostile takeovers of prized accounts. We were being
paranoid at ours since we had lost two major clients
in the past six months. Five of our best speculative
campaigns had also found their way into the creative
d e p a r t m e n t s of o t h e r a g e n c i e s . This w a s to b e a
do-or-die presentation with all stops pulled out. The
Brat Pack in the c o p y d e p a r t m e n t was j i t t e r y and
chewing m o r e g u m than usual. Roy had temporarily
forgotten about Janine and the driver. I still had G o d
on my mind, but he was on hold.
Anil had handled the in-depth countrywide survey.
The product? A new newspaper which had the backing
of one of the largest industrial houses in India.
There had been internal debates galore about the
need for another daily. Hours spent on arguments about

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 Shobhaa De

its f o r m a t and target audience. A c c o r d i n g to Anil,

there was a definite r e a d e r s h i p f o r a Paper of this
k i n d — u p - m a r k e t , monied, educated and yuppie: like
him. He had r e c o m m e n d e d a campaign that appealed
to this segment. The copy had to be sleek and false—like
Madison Avenue in its heyday. O n e creative chap had
c o m e up with something snappy but couldn't decide
on whether or not to use a m o d e l . 'Graphics d o n ' t
work in India,' the account exec had declared, his voice
sounding like M o s e s ' m u s t have while bringing the
C o m m a n d m e n t s down from the mountain.
A c o m p r o m i s e was finally reached. We'd do two
approaches, one using a model (Shona), the other, an
i l l u s t r a t i o n . R o y w a n t e d S h o n a to sit in on o u r
run-through, since he claimed we'd need her for the
whole package (TV spots, etc.) if the deal went through.
I thought otherwise. Roy wanted to ogle her and to
impress the client who was known to have a glad eye.
Anyway, there she was, all d e m u r e and elegant in
a tailored pant-suit with e n o r m o u s shoulder-pads that
made her look like a Martian. O r a vintage Joan Collins.
Anil was in yuppie f o r m a l s , unstructured khaki jacket
with the sleeves r o l l e d up and b a g g i e s held up by
polka-dotted suspenders. He looked rather dishy.
Aarti nudged m e in an obvious way and said, ' L o o k
at that! You lucky thing!'
'Don't "lucky thing" m e , he isn't mine.'

176
 ' N o ? ' she a s k e d l o o k i n g d e l i g h t e d and relieved.
'Then it's o p e n season.'
' G o o d luck,' I said sincerely.
Shona d i d n ' t say a w o r d to anyone. She c o n t i n u e d
to smoke and look dreamy. Anil was at his
A m e r i c a n - m a r k e t i n g - w h i z b e s t as h e p u l l e d o u t
charts and graphs and finally z a p p e d us all with a sleek
audio-visual, c o m p u t e r g r a p h i c s , r o c k m u s i c and all.
A big r o u n d of a p p l a u s e g r e e t e d him w h e n he finished
with a f l o u r i s h and s t o o d t h e r e b a s k i n g in all the
a t t e n t i o n , his t h u m b s s t u c k into the c u t e s u s p e n d e r s .
Shona w a s busy a d j u s t i n g her s h o u l d e r p a d s . It m u s t
have b e e n her c o m p l e t e lack o f i n t e r e s t ( a p a r t f r o m
those l o o k s , of c o u r s e ) that g o t Anil.
H e walked up t o her and b o w e d : 'We couldn't have
done this without you.' She smiled and blew s o m e smoke
in his face.
W e l l . . . to each his own way of falling in love.

Anil and Shona b e c a m e the b i g ' i t e m ' in g l a m circles.

H e w a s t h e r e at all her s h o w s and she flitted in and
o u t of his o f f i c e if only t o b o r r o w the car and m a k e
e n d l e s s p h o n e - c a l l s . A f e w m o n t h s into the affair Anil
sheepishly s t o p p e d by my table f o r a c u p o f c o f f e e .
Unusual for him since c o f f e e was a no-no in the yuppie
h a n d b o o k . H e f i d d l e d with the lucky bunny on my
d e s k and g e n e r a l l y l o o k e d m o o n y . ' W e are thinking

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 Shobhaa De

of getting m a r r i e d in May... I w a n t e d you to hear it

from me.'
'Congratulations!' I said. 'Shona will get to eat the
best omelettes in town.'
'Oh that... you r e m e m b e r , huh?'
' O f course I do. I'm glad for you, Anil. You two
look great together. Like an ad for velvety enamel paint.'
'That sounds snide.'
'Sorry. Couldn't resist it. But seriously... you ought
to consider a side career in m o d e l l i n g — y o u fit today's
role m o d e l completely. In a year f r o m now, you can
produce a cute kid and then we can have the whole
family on our files. Between the lot of you, you'd capture
the entire market.'
'It wouldn't go with my clients at all. In fact, I'm
going to ask Shona to give up modelling once we're
married. She won't need the money anyway.'
'Maybe there's m o r e than money in it for her. Maybe
she loves her career. She is right at the top now. Have
you discussed it with her?'
'Not yet. I'm sure she'll agree. She's such an innocent,
docile girl. And what better time to give it all up than
when you are at the top?'
'What will she do with her time?'
'What does any housewife d o ? T h e r e ' s so much to
do around the house.'
' N o t yours. You d o everything y o u r s e l f anyway.
At least, all the tasks your machines d o n ' t do. She

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 Sultry Days

can't s p e n d all day w a t e r i n g your h o u s e plants or

making c o n v e r s a t i o n with your P C no m a t t e r how
intelligent it is.'
'This is a minor matter. She can take classes... learn
something new. I'd like her to do that. She could even
open a g r o o m i n g s c h o o l — w i t h her image and all that,
she could do it successfully... and from the house itself.'
Perhaps I l o o k e d s c e p t i c a l . Anil hastily a d d e d ,
'It's n o t that I d o n ' t trust her or anything. She's a
wonderful girl.'
' D o you love her?'
'Yes... she's... she's a nice person,' he ended weakly.
'What about your parents?'
'Well, I haven't broken the news to them, yet. But
I'm sure there won't be any problems. She's beautiful,
s m a r t . . . so what if she isn't f r o m our community? They
didn't e x p e c t m e to m a r r y one of the behenjis with
oily hair, I'm sure. They must have been prepared for
this.They should thank their g o o d fortune that I didn't
c o m e back with some flakey blonde.There were enough
of them ready to j u m p , I can tell you.'
'I believe that... the Indian Prince, with his dark,
g o o d looks.'
'You've g o t the picture.'

U n f o r t u n a t e l y , it d i d n ' t q u i t e w o r k o u t that way.

S o m e t h i n g yucky h a p p e n e d which involved us all.

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 Shobhaa De

S o m e t h i n g m e s s y w h i c h n o b o d y c o u l d have s e e n
coming. L e a s t of all Shona h e r s e l f . T h e w e e k b e f o r e
they were to get officially e n g a g e d (with the blessings
of Anil's p a r e n t s , c l i e n t s and f r i e n d s ) , a l e a d i n g ,
mass-circulation weekly published n u d e p h o t o g r a p h s
of Shona culled f r o m a foreign photography magazine.
It was her all right. T h e r e was n o m i s t a k i n g that. It
was Shona minus her c r o p p e d w i g , p o s i n g like Venus,
with a few l o c k s of her o r i g i n a l , long hair f l o w i n g
across her p e r f e c t b o s o m , her l o n g , t a p e r i n g f i n g e r s
placed coyly over the p u b i s . She l o o k e d like a
M a d o n n a — c h a s t e , p u r e and virginal. It was a feature
on international b e a u t i e s , s o m e in the b u f f and s o m e
s e m i - c l a d . T h e m a g a z i n e itself d i d n ' t fall into the
nudie c a t e g o r y but was a p r e s t i g i o u s j o u r n a l that
acted as a showcase for leading photographers. Shona's
p i c t u r e s had b e e n d o n e a c o u p l e of y e a r s ago when
she was struggling to find a foothold in the cat-eat-cat
world of m o d e l l i n g in L o n d o n . T h e m a g a z i n e itself
was nearly a year old. But obviously s o m e o n e spiteful
had ferreted it out and sat on the p h o t o g r a p h , waiting
for the right m o m e n t to e m b a r r a s s her.
Anil was at our office when one of the executives
flipped the complimentary copy of the weekly open
and gasped. Everybody in the r o o m crowded around,
including Anil. 'Bastards!' he said. 'The bloody bastards!
It's not her picture at all. C a n ' t you p e o p l e see that?
It's a doctored photograph. S o m e o n e jealous wants to

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 Sultry Days

ruin h e r — s o m e o n e wants to finish our happiness.

Poor Shona. What will she do when she sees this? And
my p a r e n t s — O h G o d ! — m y parents!'
'Think coolly,' I said to him. ' D o n ' t fly off the
handle. Let's get in Kawla, Willie and the studio boys.
Let's c h e c k this out. If it is a d o c t o r e d picture, you
can send the weekly a legal n o t i c e and have them
apologize t o Shona plus pay her d a m a g e s . Besides,
D e b has e x c e l l e n t contacts there. Let m e reach him
and w e ' l l take it f r o m there.'
Anil had slumped into a chair. He was ashen-faced
and motionless. 'Just what I needed! What will my clients
think? I'm going to be a laughing-stock. Every time
we go out now, I'll imagine that p e o p l e are mentally
undressing my wife-to-be.'
' C o m e on, man,' Willie offered, 'it's not the end
of the world. Shona is a g o r g e o u s chick. She has a great
body. Let the world admire it, man! Be proud of your
woman. How many Indian girls would have m a d e it to
such a feature? L o o k at it that way.'
' D o n ' t talk shit, man. It d o e s n ' t work like that.
N o t in my world. It's O K for you Anglos. O u r women
don't show even their toes to strangers.'
' T h e n , m a n , you p i c k e d the w r o n g c h i c k . You
should've stuck to one of your behenjis with a ghungat
down to her navel.'
' D o e s Shona know about this?' I asked Anil.

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 ' W h o k n o w s ? ' he said and walked o u t , leaving a
trail of Aramis behind.
Shona m e s s e d it up for herself still further by g o i n g
to town with the d o c t o r e d p h o t o g r a p h story. 'That isn't
m e ! ' she p i p - s q u e a k e d . 'It's my face but s o m e other
woman's body.'
Her statement a p p e a r e d in the eveningers, which
added to her troubles by publishing the offensive picture
on the front page, along with her hysterical statements.
'She's m a d , ' G o d d e c l a r e d . 'If only she had kept
her trap shut the controversy would have died d o w n
in a month or so. N o w let that pansv stew. T h e asshole
deserves it.'
' D o n ' t be m e a n . Please help t h e m . At least go and
see the editor and ask him to show you the original.
Find out if there is s o m e truth in this doctored business.'
'Listen, muttonhead, I don't mind going there.
I ' m s c h e d u l e d to d r o p o f f a p i e c e anyway. But I d o n ' t
want to make a c h a m p i o n ass of m y s e l f bv asking for
s o m e foolish " p r o o f " . F o r g e t it. B e s i d e s did you ask
those f o o l s w h o they think has d o n e a c u t - a n d - p a s t e
job on S h o n a ? T h e phirangs or the local lech w h o edits
the rag?'
'That's a g o o d question. Let m e call her up.'
Shona was asleep and it was close to n o o n . 'Tell
her it's urgent,' I told her landlady. She c a m e on the
line sounding groggy and even m o r e kiddish than usual.
She lapsed into tearful m u m b o - j u m b o when I asked

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her to clarify and kept repeating, 'It's not m e . It's not
m e . Help m e , Nisha. Anil's so angry. What shall I do?'
' H a n g in there,' I advised. ' L e t D e b check this out.'
He d i d . T h e editor showed him not just the original
picture published in the foreign magazine but also a
set of reject prints f r o m the same shoot. They were all
of Shona all right. 'What's m o r e , ' the editor said, 'I
have actually d o n e her a favour. H e r e . . . take a look at
this.' And he threw a video cassette at G o d . It was one
of those triple X - r a t e d p o r n o g r a p h i c films shot in a
hotel r o o m in Hamburg. ' Q u i t e a girl, that Shona,' the
editor added with a wicked laugh. 'Talented too.
Very t a l e n t e d . You s h o u l d see her in the " l o l l i p o p "
s e q u e n c e . . . if you get what I m e a n . '
'What are vou planning to do with this?' asked G o d .
' W e l l . . . ' the e d i t o r s a i d d e l i b e r a t e l y , ' t h e r e ' s
alwavs a price for everything... m a s t e r p r i n t — y o u r s .
C o p i e s — m i n e . Ho jayel We'll both m a k e a buck out
of it.'
'Stuff it, you old sod,' said G o d b e f o r e walking out.
He didn't leave his article behind. I liked him for that.

Shona called m e up after a few d a y s . T h e r e was nothing

I could do e x c e p t advise her to lie low and wait for
the w h o l e thing to b l o w over.
'But, Nisha, what do I do about Anil? He's too decent
to b r e a k off the e n g a g e m e n t b e c a u s e of this. And at

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the same time he can't m a r r y m e and leave his family
forever,' Shona lisped.
'Then what do you think you should do?' I asked her.
'Maybe 1 should b r e a k it off. Maybe I should g o
back to England. I d o n ' t know, Nisha, I ' m so c o n f u s e d
and lost.'
I didn't feel like u t t e r i n g inanities like 'It'll be O K '
and I finally told her that if she n e e d e d any help she
could turn to m e , and rang off. In the end she did do
what was best lor her. She b r o k e off the e n g a g e m e n t ,
packed her bags, and caught the first flight to L o n d o n .
G o d and I f o u n d o u r s e l v e s b e i n g d r a w n i n t o the
lives of the unlikeliest p e o p l e . G o d , b e c a u s e he was
now c o n s i d e r e d i n f l u e n t i a l — ' S u c h g o o d c o n t a c t s
( p r o n o u n c e d cunt-acts) and all, yaar,' p e o p l e would
whisper to each other before clearing their throats and
coming right out with the favour they w e r e after. And
me? Well, initially I was a p p r o a c h e d only b e c a u s e I
h u n g a r o u n d w i t h G o d - - ' L e t ' s f i r s t t r y the g i r l
f r i e n d . . . and then ' Later, these s a m e p e o p l e assumed
I had great 'cunt-acts' of my own. Like M . She actually
worked on m e - M E — f o r w e e k s trying to wangle an
a p p o i n t m e n t with a lat-cat client w h o s e a c c o u n t I
serviced. Later she told m e to put in a w o r d for her
with R o y — ' S i n c e he really values your opinion.'
M wasn't sure what she wanted to do with herself.
'Trv p.r., yaar,' G o d s u g g e s t e d carelessly, adding, 'but
don't add an " o " a n d an " s " after that.' If M g o t the j o k e

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she d i d n ' t let o n . Instead, she t y e a f e s ' d . ^ o d ' s H o s e
playfully and r u b b e d her breasts on h+s K i a d

But I did speak to Roy on her behalf only to discover

that I could have saved myself the e f f o r t . Roy had plans
of his own for M . He got her a job as an upscale hostess
for the s u p e r exclusive executive club started by the
plush A p o l l o H o t e l .
It was s u p p o s e d to be so u p p e r crust that even s o m e
of the m o s t p r o m i n e n t 'captains' of industry in Bombay
had failed in their endeavours to be 'invited' to join
the club. An 'invitation' that cost over a lakh annually
f o r the d u b i o u s p r i v i l e g e of w i n i n g and d i n i n g in
surroundings that resembled an old English hunting-lodge,
c o m p l e t e with appropriate prints on the wood-panelled
walls.The menu was verv 'nouvelle' (everybody starved)
and the cellar boasted rare vintages (though m o s t of
the pot-bellies present p r e f e r r e d to stick to 'isk-otch').
T h e w a i t e r s , wine stewards and maitre d' d r e s s e d like
the staff of any d e l u x e E u r o p e a n hotel and spoke with
matching accents.
M ' s j o b w a s t o m a k e the m o n i e d c l i e n t e l e feel
' c o m f o r t a b l e ' , that is, pat bald heads and flash a little
c l e a v a g e a r o u n d . She w a s e x c e l l e n t at it, and her
appointment was considered a coup of sorts. Industrialists
a s k e d f o r her by n a m e w h e n they c a l l e d t o m a k e
reservations, and she was there waiting to receive them

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 Sfiobhaa De

when the elevator glided up to the mezzanine and let

its occupants out, straight into the carpeted luxury of
the club.The place smelt rich and M loved the fragrance.
'I feel like a geisha,' she laughed when I ran into
her at the h a i r - d r e s s e r s . H e r s t y l e had c h a n g e d
dramatically. N o m o r e purple and pink punk streaks
in her hair. She wore it in a low chignon that accentuated
her neck. The sari was sedate and draped around her
shapely figure in a way that was sexy (a hint of navel)
but not vulgar. Q u i t e a d e p a r t u r e f r o m the days she
wore it at crotch level and people stared surreptitiously
to see if they could spot the hairline. ' N o way. Sorry
guys. I wax my bikini line,' she would say. M's make-up
had also altered and she looked less of a classy call-girl
now with just a hint of kaajal, blush-on and lip gloss.
She minded not being allowed to load herself with
jewellerv, since she insisted she felt naked without
i t — ' G o l d and diamonds make m e feel so w a r m . ' T h e
hotel was very strict about conduct. She was instructed
to be friendly but not familiar. She could extend her
hand for a handshake with m e m b e r s but stop them if
they tried to kiss her. Under no circumstances was she
to be caught smoking or drinking on the job. 'I don't
mind the drinking... but I hate rushing to the loo every
half an hour for a fag,' she confessed.
Roy was very proud of her. It hadn't been easy to
fix her up at the A p o l l o b u t then w h a t are g o o d
client-relations for? He had been handling the Apollo

186
account for years and very successfully at that. It was
one a c c o u n t he was p o s s e s s i v e a b o u t and which he
serviced himself . He approved everything personally,
f r o m the copy to the visuals. He m a d e the presentation
and naturally, he p i c k e d the m o d e l s (M earlier, Shona
later). H e knew everybody f r o m the top d o w n w a r d s
and was on first n a m e t e r m s with the big b o s s — a n
elusive, low-profile man w h o was always r e f e r r e d to
as ' T h e B o s s ' , n e v e r by n a m e , even by his c l o s e s t
lieutenants. S o m e w h e r e d o w n the line there were two
dragon ladies (Vampire O n e and Vampire Two, as thev
were called) who actually managed the day-to-day running
of the show. Each of them was a f e a r s o m e creature,
highly motivated, alarmingly ambitious and unbelievably
ruthless. Roy had managed to steer M past them without
ruffling too many feathers. In the trade this was considered
to be nothing short of a miracle.
O n c e she g o t in, M used her considerable charm
and c o m m o n sense to w o o the witches over to her
side. They w e r e s m a r t enough to recognize an asset
when thev saw one. It was d e c i d e d that M was to be
handled with velvet gloves and allowed to do her job
her way.
K a r e n , understandably, w a s n ' t o v e r j o y e d by this
d e v e l o p m e n t . She felt u p s t a g e d and cheated. O v e r the
years, Roy had m a n a g e d to wangle a neat deal for Karen
with Apollo. A deal that included Karen's 'talents' as a
discerning buyer of doo-dahs and objets for the hotel.

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 bbaa Oe

Naturally, Karen made a fat commission on every piece

she flogged, plus she managed to get quite a few exclusive
objets for her own personal collection in the bargain.
It was a great deal. Karen managed to hold her own
despite the antagonistic vibes sent out by the two
vampires. She went on extensive buying trips or had
the local dealers crawling around her splayed feet, hoping
to hawk something to the group. This was big bucks
territory. Karen enjoyed the clout this provided her
with and didn't let go a single occasion to show off
the latest acquisition. Since she had managed to stash
away so much for their personal use, Roy decided to
buy her a godown to store the stuff. Karen shrewdly
calculated that there was just no point in hanging on
to everything. But if she had to flog her wares, she
wanted to do it in style, though Karen's ideas on class
and style were even tackier than the ghastly visiting
card she flashed around (black with g o l d - e m b o s s e d
lettering).
Everybody knew that Karen had a side-business going
from the godown. There were catty c o n t e m p o r a r i e s
who insisted there was nothing Karen wouldn't sell
(for a price, naturally) including the kurta off her back.
I'd overheard s o m e o n e talking about Karen's m o d u s
operandi once.
'Really now... how crass can that woman get. She
uses her home like a showroom. I'm certain all her
furniture has price tags on it. And those false antiques

188
too. A g u e s t has m e r e l y to c o m m e n t that something
looks g o o d and Karen p r o m p t l y j u m p s on the person
and o f f e r s to t r a n s p o r t the p i e c e h o m e . "It's y o u r s ,
darling," she says grandly, m a k i n g out as if it's a gift.
The n e x t m o r n i n g her t e m p o is at the d o o r s t e p with
the desk, chair, cupboard, statue or whatever. She phones
a little later and asks sweetly whether the person received
the g o o d s . "By the way, darling," she adds, "you owe
m e eight-and-a-half g r a n d . " D o n ' t know why p e o p l e
continue to fall for her hard sell. She tried it with m e
once, and I said, "Thanks a lot, darling. The painting's
g r e a t . But really, I'd rather have the o r i g i n a l . " You
should've seen her face! She thought she could pass
off a k n o c k - o f f at s o m e ridiculous price. Forget it. N o t
all of us are such idiots.'
O f f i c e g o s s i p had it that R o v ' s new beach house at
Marve was furnished entirely with stuff flicked by Karen.
They'd g o t the m o s t amazing bargains for a pittance.
E n o r m o u s stained-glass w i n d o w s f r o m an old Parsee
h o m e , old jharokas and c a r v e d wood scrccns from a
demolished haveli in Jaipur. Magnificent miniatures from
a Rana w h o had run up m o n u m e n t a l gambling debts
in M o n t e C a r l o , bronze bulls f r o m a sculptor who had
run into hard t i m e s and of c o u r s e , Iqbal's best works
f r o m his ' b r o w n p e r i o d ' when he only painted whores
d r e s s e d in b r o w n , with eyes that l o o k e d like they'd
b e e n g o u g e d out by wild dogs. Karen had had a minor

189
thing with Iqbal in the days she'd w o r n her hair long
and her b o o b s hadn't b e g u n t o sag.

Vampire O n e and Vampire Two detested Karen's constant

interfering in their d e p a r t m e n t s at the hotel but since
the boss seemed so fond of her, and since she did manage
to deliver in her own way, there wasn't m u c h either
could do about her s k i m m i n g the c r e a m off m o s t of
their deals.
Vimla or Vampire O n e was a w o m a n f r o m Madhya
Pradesh who had an intimidating p r e s e n c e . She w a s
physically g r o s s and m o v e d with all the g r a c e o f a
battle-tank over rough terrain. She'd made it from bottom
up, starting in the housekeeping department and moving
on to banquets, public r. lations and finally the t o p o f
the heap, in p e r s o n n e l . Since she did all the hiring and
firing for the g r o u p , nobody dared cross her. She moved
through the p r e m i s e s with minions falling along the
wayside, her h o o k - n o s e and beady eyes m a k i n g her
resemble a hungry vulture in search of prey. She w o r e
flowing frocks to work ('nighties' as the front office
girls dubbed the strange tent-like g a r m e n t s ) and didn't
have a single known friend. Her private life was a mystery.
Hotel gossips said she sometimes summoned a particularly
smart-looking waiter f r o m one of the restaurants to
her house, a house she shared with half-a-dozen smelly,
vile-tempered stray cats and a mentally retarded brother.

190
Determinedly single, she referred to herself as a 'bachelor
girl' and hated it when anyone tactlessly called her a
widow, which she w a s .
V i m l a w a s an a r c h e t y p a l w o r k a h o l i c , with the
c o m p u l s o r y ulcer to g o with the tag. She lived on milk
and antacids, which she swallowed round-the-clock.
Her o f f i c e h o u r s j u s t stretched and stretched, which
was hard on her staff, particularly the male, south Indian
secretary, who w o r s h i p p e d her. She c o u l d n ' t stand the
sight of him and had forbidden the poor man from eating
his idli-sambar at the d e s k . ' M y o f f i c e smells like a
bloody Udipi restaurant,' she told him. ' G o to the loo
and finish your lunch. O r eat s o m e t h i n g d e c e n t , like
sandwiches.'Vasudevan didn't dare tell her that his wife
didn't know how to m a k e sandwiches. In fact, she'd
never h e a r d of t h e m . 'She is c o m i n g straight f r o m
Madurai,' he c o n f e s s e d t o colleagues. ' H o w she will
k n o w a b o u t s a n d w i c h e s ? In M a d u r a i they only eat
idli-dosas for tiffin. But simply M a d a m is getting angry
with m e . '
M a d a m g o t angry with everybody. She was a stickler
for p e r f e c t i o n and with all those years in housekeeping
behind her, she could s p o t a c o f f e e stain on a tablecloth
from two miles away. She didn't actually carry a general's
baton or a h e a d m a s t e r ' s cane but she m a n a g e d pretty
well with her sharp t o n g u e and hard fingers.
' C o m e on, c o m e on,' she'd u r g e her staff. ' L o o k at
those roses in the lobby. Fading. L o o k at the menu-cards

191
 haa De

in the coffee-shop. Dog-eared.' Her interviewing tactics

left few survivors. T h o s e w h o m a n a g e d to g e t past her
grilling stayed the c o u r s e and r e m a i n e d eternally loyal
to her and the g r o u p . That was her b i g g e s t asset. That,
c o m b i n e d with her reputation as a w o m a n of integrity,
if no c h a r m .
Manju or Vampire Two, w a s scary, but in a totally
different fashion. For one, she was voluptuous in a Punjabi
sort of way; overweight, fair and flashy, she u s e d her
wily charms to u t m o s t advantage. She had been m a r r i e d
twice over. O n c e to the hotel which she had j o i n e d as
a management trainee twenty years ago, and the second
time round to an effeminate executive w h o had been
a lobby manager at the hotel b u t had had to switch
jobs once it b e c a m e clear that the wife was the one
w h o was s l a t e d f o r the b i g t i m e a n d n o t h e . ' N o
personality, yaar,' she'd say straight to his face. 'Vikki
is a s w e e t i e . . . but you know what I m e a n ? He has the
s o r t of l o o k s that m a k e p e o p l e m i s t a k e h i m f o r
a bartender. So often at p a r t i e s , even our o w n , p e o p l e
tell him to fetch them a drink. But I ' m not complaining.
He's reallv such a doll. L o o k s after the kids.Takes leave
when I travel to stav h o m e . Vikki even c o o k s us all a
great meal when the servant d o e s n ' t show up.You know
how I hate entering the kitchen. I can't m a k e a cup of
tea... forget that, yaar, I d o n ' t even know how to light
the bloody gas.'

192
 Vikki was j u s t the s o r t of m i l k s o p s o m e o n e like
Manju n e e d e d She was a driven careerist w h o cared
f o r just t w o things in the w o r l d — h e r j o b and her bank
account. 'I r e f u s e to spend on ghar-ka-kharcha, yaar,'
she'd say. 'That's my Vikki's responsibility. What's the
point of having a husband if he can't pay all the bills. 1
don't mind buying an item or t w o s o m e t i m e s . I got us
a V C R and I c o n t r i b u t e d t o w a r d s our holidays last year.
If I d o n ' t save now, w h o knows what will happen later?
Vikki could leave m e for another woman.' At this point,
she'd stop to hear the suppressed giggles and add, ' D o n ' t
laugh, yaar. H e ' s a m a n , r e m e m b e r ? All m e n are the
same. Fools. Someday he might m e e t s o m e o n e he prefers
to m e . But I d o u b t it. In any case, he'd never leave the
kids. I ' m candid, yaar. I d o n ' t do anything for them.
Vikki d o e s e v e r y t h i n g — b a t h - s h a t h , breakfast, potty,
d r o p p i n g , fetching. He's the one w h o g o e s for O p e n
Day, s p o r t s , d r a m a t i c s , all that nonsense. W h e r e do I
have the t i m e ? T h e kids are fast asleep when I get h o m e .
And I w a k e up after they've left for s c h o o l . But my
m o t h e r ' s also at h o m e , so Vikki d o e s n ' t have to m a n a g e
all by himself. Thank G o d for that. It's a j o k e , yaar.
The teachers in my kids' school ask them if their parents
are d i v o r c e d since they've never seen m e . I ' m thinking
of putting them in that b o a r d i n g — y o u know that one
in the hills that's called " T h e D i v o r c e School". But it's
a bigger hassle, yaar. H o w will Vikki g e t leave to go
there twice or thrice a year? I didn't want kids at all.

193
 .j b h a a D e

But V i k k i — s u c h a huddhu—he told m e , "Darling,-you

just bear them for nine m o n t h s , that's all. T h e r e s t is
upto m e . " i had them only to k e e p him happy. N o w
Bittu and Mini ask m e , " B u t M u m m y , why d o n ' t you
spend time at h o m e like other m u m m i e s ? " And I tell
them, " B e c a u s e your daddy d o e s that.'"
Manju was slightly m o r e p o p u l a r than Vimla. She
handled projects and m a r k e t i n g , and w a s said to be a
tough negotiator. Her m o n e y - s e n s e was p h e n o m e n a l
and she could reel off statistics w i t h o u t the help of
m e m o s or a calculator. B u s i n e s s m e n doing deals with
the h o t e l d r e a d e d c o m i n g u p a g a i n s t h e r . " T h a t
w o m a n can chew the lot of us up,' they'd say after a
harrowing meeting. Yet, Manju m a n a g e d to stay ahead
of the pack without sacrificing her s e x - a p p e a l . 'I d o n ' t
believe in behaving or looking like a m a n in a man's
world,' she often said. 'I think being a w o m a n has its
a d v a n t a g e s — a n d I m a k e the m o s t o f t h e m . ' T h a t
would be pretty obvious at high-power m e e t i n g s o r
presentations when Manju p u l v e r i z e d p e o p l e at the
table as m u c h with her tantalizing pallu-play as her
manipulation of figures.
These two were a b r e e d a p a r t . T h e y w e r e c o r p o r a t e
w o m e n all right, but they didn't fall into the ' N e w
Woman' category.They missed that label by a generation.
But they had enough representatives of the tribe working
for them either directly or indirectly. M o s t of the n e w
recruits fell into this slot. They carried the a w e s o m e

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 Sultry Days

weight of an MBA d e g r e e (IIM Ahmedabad or any of

the better American business schools like Wharton or
H a r v a r d ) on their p a d d e d s h o u l d e r s . T h e s e w e r e
no-nonsense women who had 'take me seriously' written
all over them. They even wore business suits to work
and carried burgundy-coloured briefcases (Csango's
in Bombay or Gucci f r o m Hong K o n g ) . T h e y took their
jobs with an earnestness that was almost terrifying in
its intensity. Even the m a r r i e d ones insisted on being
addressed as ' M s ' or stuck to their maiden names. Their
male colleagues were not p e r m i t t e d to crack jokes or
flirt lightly, which made several of them complain, 'What's
the point of having females in the office if one can't
fool around a little?'These sorts of remarks were taboo
around these girls with their sensible haircuts, sensible
make-up and sensible jewellery. 'All copied m a a / f r o m
old issues of Cosmo, yaar,' the other girls would joke
in the l o o , but that didn't stop the hep lot from going
ahead with their 'look' and their ambitions.
Workaholism for women had become very
fashionable. 'If m e n can p u r s u e careers ruthlessly, so
can we,' w o m e n declared at seminars and workshops
for senior managers. ' N o guilt-trips allowed here,' their
instructors would tell t h e m . 'Postpone babies or ask
your husbands to share h o u s e w o r k . ' T h e p o o r husbands
were caught entirely unprepared. There were a few
token ' N e w Men' around the place but, by and large,
the ' N e w Woman' was forced to make do with the same

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 S h o b h a a S3 e

old man. The s o r t who e x p e c t e d his h i g h - p o w e r e d wife

to make him his evening cup o f tea and even sing an
occasional ghazal in the kitchen while stirring a dekchi
full of mutton-do-piazza.
' N o t all of us are m a r r i e d to n e r d s like Manju's
husband,' the w o m e n at the e x e c u t i v e centre w o u l d
say, contradicting t h e m s e l v e s . 'I have t o deal with a
mother-in-law w h o e x p e c t s m e to sit for an hour-long
m o r n i n g puja with her, and all the other botherations.
I ' m the one who has to m a k e the b r e a k f a s t — i m a g i n e ,
alloo parathas first thing in the morning. N o — m y family
r e f u s e s to switch to c o r n f l a k e s and t o a s t . D i n n e r is
the same thing—heavy greasy f o o d d r o w n e d in masala.
My mother-in-law eats m o r e than all of us put together.
I have to hear lectures about what I should feed g r o w i n g
children. It's no use telling her or my husband that
the last thing a d o l e s c e n t s n e e d is fried p a k o r a s . N o
wonder my son's skin is covered with acne. I stick to
my salads and dahi. Feel so d o p e y at w o r k o t h e r w i s e .
D o n ' t know how I ' m going to attend the H y d e r a b a d
convention. Husband is already acting up. So are the
children. As for the mother-in-law, she has threatened
to ditch me and g o off to her daughter's h o u s e just at
that time. Bitch! That's her way of sabotaging my career.
Jealous bitch. Who'll look after the servants and children
if she g o e s ? As it is, the ayah has b e e n stealing my St.
Michael's bras and p e r f u m e s . But I can't say anything.
I'll be sunk if she leaves. My n e i g h b o u r — r e m e m b e r

196
the slovenly fat cow w h o d o e s nothing but watch video
all day? She's been trying to steal my servants for years.
Everv m o n t h she o f f e r s t h e m h u n d r e d b u c k s m o r e .
And she tells t h e m that she'll show them one Hindi
film a day. Terrible! That's why we keep our V C R in
our b e d r o o m . So e m b a r r a s s i n g to watch these Mithuns
and Sonams prancing and dancing and raping each other,
with the servants sitting in the s a m e r o o m . '

G o d and I l a u g h e d over these s t o r i e s while telling

ourselves they didn't really t o u c h us. We weren't like
t h e m . We w e r e d i f f e r e n t . We had d e p t h . A sense of
p u r p o s e . We were real p e o p l e .
G o d actually believed this bullshit. 1 on the other
hand was w r a c k e d by self-doubt.
' D o n ' t be m a d , yaar,' he'd say dismissively. 'You
aren't like these other bitches.You have... what d o you
call i t . . . character, you k n o w ? '
N o , f didn't know. And I w a s n ' t at all sure. It didn 't
need m u c h 'character' to d o what I was d o i n g — e a r n i n g
a salary b a s e d on re-positioning semi-colons. G o d was
l u c k y . H e r a r e l y q u e s t i o n e d h i m s e l f . To h i m the
Maitreyees, Karens,Vimlas and Manjus were collectively
seen as self-seeking w h o r e s . And I? I dared not ask.

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 Ten

od was really getting around and moving up. He

G seemed to enjoy every m o m e n t of his newly-acquired
status. Plume was all the rage and his arts column in
the paper had expanded into a w h o l e section (including
a page on art cinema, which m e a n t that he n o w g o t
courted by all the pseud film makers in town).
1 asked him, ' D o e s anybody see their films?'
H e l o o k e d at m e w i t h e r i n g l y . ' N o t the s o r t of
p e o p l e you know. But c e r t a i n l y — a film like Ghosh's
latest—the one about a woman married to a holy s t o n e —
is seen by a wide audience of discerning f i l m - g o e r s .
He's entering it for the Berlin Film Festival. If I hadn't
picked him up and p r o m o t e d h i m — f o r g e t it, yaar. H e
would have still b e e n hanging a r o u n d Mandi H o u s e
trying t o g e t s o m e bekaar television work.'
'But is the film any g o o d ? ' I w a n t e d to know.
' G o o d ? It's b r i l l i a n t ! W h a t c a m e r a w o r k . W h a t
concept. What acting. He's one of u s — h e hasn't sold
his soul to the system.'

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 Sultry Days

'You mean he's also a pseudo-leftist?' I said.

' G o to hell, yaar. You and your two-bit views. D o
you know he made a brilliant documentary a couple
of years ago about the plight of migrant labourers in
Bombay? It was fantastic. Revolutionary. Sensitive. But
the government refused to show it.They called it "slanted".
I tell y o u — i t is their c o r r u p t , bourgeois mind that
suppresses the real creative talents of this country. Finally
Ghosh smuggled one print out. It was shown in Bucharest.
The critics loved it. His next project is with that sexy
chick from France. What's her name?That Muslim female
who smokes ganja all the time and is hooked up with
s o m e G e r m a n — h e ' s a photo-journalist I think.'
'Are you talking about the one who made the famous
film on the exploited hotel boys in Udipi restaurants?'
'Hahn! That female. Very sexy, yaar. What a woman!
Are! That film got raves internationally. When she went
to Cannes, all the foreign presswallahs were sniffing
around her. She's too much She and that film festival
female from Delhi. With these two around our film
festivals are made. They know how to get ahead. They
know what will click with the phirang media. Both of
them are good at stuntbaazi. D o you know Fatima came
to one of the shows wearing a sari without a blouse?
She d i d n ' t show her tits or a n y t h i n g — b u t all the
photographers rushed to click her and forgot all about
the topless starlets in the fountain outside the Palais.
That vear was terrific. O u r other c o m m i t t e d actress

199
was also there. She's also sexy, yaar. She'd c o m e all
dolled up carrying so many ethnic c o s t u m e s and gajras
with her. Bindi-shindi, j h u m k a s - w u m k a s , kaajal-waajal,
whatever it takes, these w o m e n make an i m p a c t . C o m e
o n — w h y d o n ' t you c o m e along for Ghosh's screening?
Few people—just us—critics, friends, other film makers.
We are planning to make a big noise over this f i l m ,
yaar. Take the p r o t e s t to the street. It m u s t be seen.
Ghosh used to work as Rav's third assistant. Uska oeuvre
pakka hai. C o m e on, yaar. It will be a lot ol fun. We'll
g o lor c o f f e e - s h o f f e e later and discuss Bhoj. What a
title! Symbolic. Simple. Straightforward.'
The tilm was so intensely b o r i n g that I switched
off after the first twenty m i n u t e s when nothing had
happened beyond the o p p r e s s e d w o m a n washing piles
and piles of clothes on the banks of a river. The tiny
auditorium was filled to capacity. T h e r e were p e o p l e
sitting cross-legged in the aisles. Ghosh himself was
in the projection r o o m , running his fingers through
matted hair. His beard looked like it h o u s e d roaches
that crawled out at night and w a n d e r e d all over his
body in search of sticky c r u m b s of leftover meals. His
kurta from Khadi Bhandar could b e smelt in the theatre.
He'd left his satchel full of foreign art film magazines
with G o d .
The woman next to m e , M a n o r a m a , w o r k e d as a
f i l m c r i t i c f o r an e v e n i n g e r . She w a s w e a r i n g a
mix-and-match salwar-kameez in vegetable dye prints.

200
Her bindi s t a r t e d on her nose and ended at her hair
line. Chunky silver jewellery was strung all over her
frail b o d y which was weighed d o w n by a huge cloth
jhola with Banni e m b r o i d e r y . She took her j o b very
seriously, G o d told m e . She went for film appreciation
courses to the FT1I at Pune and read books onTarkovsky
and Eisenstein. She'd o n c e w o r k e d for s o m e o b s c u r e
magazine, a quarterly, devoted to the cause of promoting
' m e a n i n g f u l ' c i n e m a in India. She'd also once b e e n
m a r r i e d to the biggest b o r e in 'alternative c i n e m a ' , a
director w h o had m a d e t w o or three disgusting films
on chapattis, tube-wells and g o b a r gas. He'd left her
for the actress w h o had played a raped Harijan belle
in one of the films. This had been particularly shattering
for Manorama, since the actress had been her r o o m m a t e
in the working w o m e n ' s hostel a few vears ago.
At Ghosh's screening she was holding a pencil torch
in her m o u t h to light up the pad on which she was
scribbling notes furiously. N o b o d y u n d e r s t o o d a word
of what she wrote, but it was generally considered 'serious
criticism' as o p p o s e d to 'frivolous reviews' by amateurs
w h o knew nothing about the 'other c i n e m a ' . Her only
rival in the field was Rishi, a v e n o m o u s viper of a critic
who everybody knew was on the take. But he concentrated
on reviewing c o m m e r c i a l Hindi films, writing about
t h e m in a style that s u g g e s t e d he was doing the film
m a k e r s and r e a d e r s a great big favour by deigning to
c o m m e n t on such garbage in the first place. G o d detested

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 Sfiobhaa De

Rishi and it was mutual. Rishi felt m i f f e d that G o d

had never asked him to contribute and G o d in turn
thought Rishi should have volunteered to do so in the
first place.
'Saala—what does he think? That I'll g o and beg
for his shit? He should pay m e to publish him. In any
case, he makes enough money out of his reviews. J u s t
the other day that fellow, p r o d u c e r - d i r e c t o r — w h a t ' s
his n a m e — G u l a b — w a s telling m e how Rishi c a m e and
asked him for a packet to write a favourable review
for Disco Lover.'
'But why do these people pay him? Are Rishi's reviews
that important? W h o reads them?'
'Don't know. He writes such crap anyway. All his
silly jokes and play on words. That isn't what's called a
review. But his paper is powerful. It reaches m o r e than
five lakh people daily, yaar. That's why he can blackmail
the industry. But one actor refuses to play ball with
the bastard. And I tell y o u - he'll be the one who'll
fix him. Woh to kya supers tar-ka-baap hai.'
'You m e a n — A r d h e n d u ? '
'Who else? Rishi's tricks don't work with him. In
any case, nothing Rishi writes can affect A.D.'s market.
He's in a class of his own. He rang up that day. I recognized
his voice immediately. But I didn't want to give him
much importance, yaar. So I played it cool.'
'What did he want?'

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 Su111 y Days

'His new release is c o m i n g up. This is going to be

a crucial film for him. If it flops, his price will plummet.
He's been through a rough patch last year. Bad health.
T h r e e f l o p s in a row. I n c o m e tax p r o b l e m s . But R a m ,
Rahim aur Robert, '
will reallyJ decide his fate. If it's a
hit, he's made. Otherwise, distributors will think again
b e f o r e shelling out one crore per t e r r i t o r y for his
next film.'
'What did he say to you?'
'He was very charming and w a r m . Called me home
to his bungalow. Said, " M e e t my wife and family, no
party-sharty, yaar. Just an informal evening.'"
'Are you going?'
'Why not? Definitely. You c o m e along too.'

In time people got used to seeing me with God. I suppose

we m u s t have m a d e a reasonably ' c u t e ' couple and
therefore party-worthy. Bombay society was perpetually
starved for new faces. Anybody with novelty value was
welcome. Gatecrashing was so common-place that at
m o s t big parties, twenty or m o r e unknowns drifting
in and s o m e t i m e s taking the s c e n e over, was not
considered odd or even undesirable. Hostesses would
boast about the number of 'crashers' after a party. It
was an indication of their social popularity.
Another unusual aspect of these flashy affairs, we
discovered, was the soliciting for invitations to parties

203
 Snobhaa De:

that were considered T H E events of the season. Weeks

before such evenings, the host and hostess would be
deluged with calls from long-lost 'friends' asking blatantly
to be invited. 'You haven't forgotten us by any chance,
have you?' they'd ask, reducing the recipient to laughing
nervously and hastily extending an invitation. Others
adopted m o r e aggressive tactics. 'We were there for
your anniversary last year. Why haven't you g o t us on
your list this year?' And then there were regulars like
God who were on everybody's lists.
God came under the critics / presswallahs category.
Journalists had acquired a glamour of their own. N o
'do' was complete without a sprinkling f r o m the fourth
estate. Not just the editors of city glossies and other
glam publications, but the big boys from the big league.
Those who wrote thundering first edits about the state
of the nation, the need to review our foreign policy
and our antiquated taxation laws.These were the chaps
who m a t t e r e d and a r o u n d w h o m little c l u s t e r s of
glittering people formed to hear firsthand at night what
the nation would wake up to .the next morning. G o d ,
on the other hand, r e p r e s e n t e d the elite c o t e r i e of
'opinion makers' .The scruffier this lot looked, the more
seriously it was taken. G o d ' s special t a l e n t lay in
dropping the right names at the right time. He knew
when to bring up the topic of his cosy lunch at the
Windsor (the ritziest hang-out in t o w n ) with
Yashwantbhai, or lightly mention the Lala's phone call
and joke about Iqbal's invitation to a biryani party at

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 Sultry Days

which only his favourite whores were present.This way,

God managed to keep his stock up. His conversation
with the pseud-crowd had a certain pattern to it. Here
he talked of rare books, first editions, Godard's imagery,
Kinski's kinks, Ghatak's follies, Ray's genius, Mrinalini's
footwork and Bhimsen's bhairavis.
'Where do you find the time to m u g up all these
names?' I asked him, half-nastily.
'I don't mug them up, yaar. They happen to be a
vital part of my liberal education,' he answered, shutting
me up effectively.

At one of these interminably boring (for m e ) evenings

at a loud-mouthed industrialist's h o m e , I ran into a
liberated Marwari lady. I'd first met Bindiya five years
ago, when she'd arrived in Bombay from Calcutta, with
an oaf-like, paan-chewing husband in tow.They'd stayed
with rich cousins at Worli sea face for months while
their own penthouse was being done up by Bombay 's
m o s t high-profile socialite designer. It was during this
time that Bindiya had had a quiet affair with the cousin's
husband. An affair that hadn't created any ripples even
within their close-knit, conservative community. How
c o m e , I'd w o n d e r e d . The explanation was that such
little indulgences were fine so long as they were all
kept in the family.

205
 'Anything g o e s n o w a d a y s , ' a n o t h e r M a r w a r i lady
had told m e ' P o o r Bindiya. She m u s t b e so b o r e d .
L o o k at her h u s b a n d . . . such a s t u p i d fellow. She's so
clever. E d u c a t e d also. That's why there's a p r o b l e m .
He j o i n e d the family b u s i n e s s w i t h o u t even finishing
s c h o o l . N o w he's g o o d at only o n e t h i n g — m a k i n g
money. But Bindiya is f o n d of t r a v e l l i n g , r e a d i n g ,
music. Naturally, o n c e she c a m e to B o m b a y , she l o s t
her senses. In C a l c u t t a , the m o t h e r - i n - l a w c o u l d k e e p
her in check. T h e r e she c o u l d n ' t try any of her t r i c k s ,
though we'd heard she u s e d to flirt with her y o u n g e s t
b r o t h e r - i n - l a w — t h e o n e w h o went to c o l l e g e . But
the saas k e p t an eye on her. She w a s n ' t a l l o w e d to g o
anywhere w i t h o u t s o m e o n e f r o m the family. It was a
known fact that the driver w a s a spy. He r e p o r t e d all
her movements to the mother-in-law. In Bombay, Bindiya
found f r e e d o m . She should never have b e e n a l l o w e d
to c o m e here. And no children! That's another p r o b l e m .
A w o m a n with children has a s e n s e of responsibility.
At least they tie her d o w n to the h o u s e . But Bindiya
was f r e e , and she t o o k full a d v a n t a g e of it. S h o p p i n g
trips, hair-dressers, jewellers, f r i e n d s — i n Bombay
vou can find any n u m b e r of e x c u s e s and alibis. She
b e c a m e . . . what is that you p e o p l e say... f o o t - f r e e and
fancy l o o s e . . . s o m e t h i n g like that. H e r husband d i d n ' t
suspect anything. He was so busy setting up his factory.
He used to be away f r o m m o r n i n g till late at night.
But that other chap had all the t i m e since his b u s i n e s s

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 S u (try Days

had collapsed. His wife? What could she do? Complain

and create a scandal? Na baba, our community wives
don't behave like that. Anyway, she knew her husband
was never going to leave her for Bindiya. Whether
he w e n t t o b e d w i t h h e r o r s o m e p r o s t i t u t e in
L o n d o n — w h a t difference does it make?'
The affair had certainly made one hell of a difference
to Bindiya though. G o n e were the starched organdy
saris and ugly jewellery. G o n e , the low nape bun with
several bob-pins to hold stray hair in place. G o n e were
the low-heeled chappals (she was taller than her stubby
hubby) and the dusky face devoid of any make-up. The
n e w B i n d i y a w a s q u i t e a w o m a n — b u r s t i n g with
confidence and looking smashing. She always did have
a great smile, but in the past she'd flash it once a fortnight.
Now, she walked into the room beaming. She was wearing
a very well-cut trouser suit with a Chanel (Pamella
Bordes) bag slung over a shoulder carelessly. Tapered
heels made her legs look like Raquel Welch's and her
hair was cut in a flattering feathery style that highlighted
her shapely jaw line. It was difficult to believe this was
the same woman. Her husband hadn't changed at all.
He still w o r e garish 'party shirts' from Charagh Din
with a Dunhill belt holding his belly in. The trousers
hung limply over his Gucci shoes and he had on a flashy
diamond-studded watch on his thick wrist. T h e other
hand was hanging on to a tin of paan masala. He had
also retained his hangdog expression.

207
 Shohhaa De

I watched them as they circulated around the r o o m .

Someone mentioned that Bindiya was now the chairperson
of some prestigious charity organization that organized
auctions, art shows and classical music concerts to raise
funds for starving children in Bihar, flood victims in
Orissa, the drought-affected in Uttar Pradesh and so
on. She had o r g a n i z e d a m u s i c r e c i t a l by a new,
up-and-coming sitarist from Calcutta for this evening.
Someone sniggered, 'Why is she dressed like she's
going to a disco? N o b o d y dresses like this for a serious
baithak. What will the artiste feel?'
S o m e o n e else replied, ' D o n ' t be a b o r e . What a
cliche. You mean she should have worn a t e m p l e sari
with half-a-dozen gajras in her hair and kilos of jewellery
all over? That's so predictable. She looks stunning in
that creation.'
Another voice chipped in, 'She looks like a bandmaster.
Stupid, vaar. What are these medho chicks coming to?
I hear she has a computer in her bedroom and is planning
to write a book about her community. Can you imagine?
Her dolt of a husband won't even be able to read it.
I doubt that he can go beyond signing cheques and
reading balance sheets.'
Bindiya must have been perfectly aware that she
was the cynosure of all eyes. But that didn't inhibit
her at all. She looked supremely confident as she busied
herself with the arrangements for the concert.

208
 Su! Iry Days

'She has even started smoking,' I heard a woman

comment.
'Forget smoking and drinking. She eats meat. Really.
I saw it with my own eyes last week. She had c o m e for
the buffet at the O b e r o i , and I saw her heaping her
plate with all that horrible s t u f f — I don't know what
it w a s — c h i c k e n or something. S o m e o n e said she also
eats cow-meat. She has gone crazy over steaks.'
T h e r e was a stunned silence at this p o i n t . Just
then Bindiya c a m e over to say ' h e l l o ' and the g r o u p
of w o m e n w h o had been at my e l b o w m o m e n t s ago
just m e l t e d away.
'You really scare them, don't you?' 1 teased her.
' D o you enjoy it?'
She laughed. 'In the beginning I did. Now, I just
ignore them.'
'What about their husbands?'
' O h . . . those lechy c r e e p s . . . they all want to g o to
bed with me. Real crude fellows. N o finesse. They come
and ask directly. S o m e of them say, " O h but we thought
it's O K , now that vou smoke, drink and all that "
I don't even bother to reply or explain that smoking
has nothing to do with screwing. Bv the way, I don't
drink, e x c e p t for wine occasionally. But all these chaps
keep plying me with liquor saying, " C o m e on. We know
you drink. Don't feel shy. Chalo, have a peg.Your husband
isn't looking. What would you like—rum, Scotch, vodka?"
It's disgusting, but I don't blame them. I suppose they

209
 S ho b ha a De

find the change in m e so shocking. S o m e t i m e s I feel

shocked by it myself.'

While Bindiya had successfully 'found herself', everybody

wrongly a s s u m e d that her d u m b husband ( w h o w a s
known around town either by his initials, M . B . , or as
Mr Bindiya) had lost himself for g o o d . But the sly fellow
had plans of his own which did not include Bindiya at
all. The fool had g o n e and fallen in love with an actress.
N o t just any actress, b u t the reigning s e x s y m b o l —
K i k i - b a b y — a s the film press had d u b b e d her after a
particularly sexy cabaret in a film called Love Ke Baad
Pyar. M . B . had seen her at the p r e m i e r e , which had
been staged Hollywood-style at the M e t r o — c o m p l e t e
with a police band, arc lights, red carpet and gatecrashers
by the hundred.
It w a s a c h a r i t y s h o w f o r o n e o f B i n d i y a ' s p e t
c a u s e s — S a v e the Slums. Being the moving spirit behind
the g l i t t e r i n g affair, t h e r e she was at the e n t r a n c e ,
instructing the awestruck havaldars not to lathi-charge
fans w h o were pressing ahead, b e y o n d p o l i c e b a r r i e r s
and into the foyer, to try and g e t as close to the favourite
film stars as possible. As each l i m o u s i n e rolled up, a
collective shriek would g o up with catcalls, claps and
a few lines f r o m the film's hit s o n g , " T o b a , toba" (the
same one that had catapulted Kiki to the t o p of the
popularity charts). 'There's J a c k i e ! ' 'There's Anil!' 'Hey

210
 Sultry Days

hero, c o m e h e r e ! ' ' O h my, Sridevi!' cried enthusiastic

voyeurs as they c r a m m e d the tiny lobby waiting for
the big m o m e n t when the two stars of the film would
show up (fashionably late by at least two hours). It
was well-known that they were not on talking terms
since Kiki had c a u g h t her c o - s t a r and lover, the
droopy-eyed Avinash G o e l , with her hair-dresser. But
for this evening they'd arrive together and smile for
the cameras. Bindiya was getting frantic. The time on
the invitation was 8 p . m . It was now coming up ten
and there was no trace of the two. She sent a lackey to
call their homes to check whether they'd left. She received
the standard reply.
'Saab bathroom mein hain. Memsaab so rahi hai.'
She cursed under her breath. Did these bloody film
people spend all their time in the loo or in bed? The
invitees were getting restless inside. A clandestine bar
had been organized in the men's r o o m , while the regular
counter had run out of soft drinks and samosas. Everybody
was hanging around in the lobby or falling over the
balcony upstairs to spot the stars as they arrived. An
out-of-work comedian had been lined up as an emcee.
He tried to keep spirits up by cracking stupid jokes
and mimicking the big stars. He'd stopped trying to
do on-the-spot interviews with those present since the
only words he could extract were 'no comment'. Bindiya's
husband took a swig from his silver hip-flask and opened
the top button of his stiff-fronted shirt. Bindiya had

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 S h o b h a a S3 e

insisted on a tux, even though it was a muggy, hot evening.

She herself was in an extravagant c o s t u m e f r o m the
newest b o u t i q u e in t o w n , C o u t u r e , which specialized
in crazy clothes at crazier p r i c e s . She'd k n o c k e d off
the gold tissue turban at the last m i n u t e when M . B .
had looked at her and said, 'You look like the d u r w a n
outside Khyber.' H e r outfit was a big hit even without
the turban and the silver-gold streaks in her hair went
down as the ultimate strokes of a fashion genius.
Just as M.B.'s eyes were beginning to glaze over
with boredom, he spotted her. It was Kiki-baby all a-dazzle
in leopard skin and gold lame. She was looking g o r g e o u s
and w a n t e d the w o r l d to a c k n o w l e d g e it. U n d e r a
diaphanous b l o u s o n t o p , she w a s w e a r i n g a q u a r t e r
cup gold bra which displayed her magnificent breasts
to advantage.
Bindiya went up to g r e e t her and g e s t u r e d to M . B .
to stay by her side. He hastily redid his t o p button,
straightened his shoulders and waited t o b e introduced.
' M e e t my h u s b a n d , ' Bindiya said w i t h a hint o f
condescension in her voice. Kiki l o o k e d d e e p into his
eyes, held out her soft hand, d i m p l e d and u n e x p e c t e d l y
leaned across and kissed him on the cheek. O r so it
appeared to o n l o o k e r s and so it was i m m o r t a l i z e d in
photographs. But actually, she'd leaned f o r w a r d and
bitten him under the ear.
'Hi sexy!' she'd whispered while scratching the palm
ol his and with the long painted nail of her forefinger.

212
Why she did what she did was never clear. Perhaps
Kiki did that with every man. But it was a m o m e n t
that t r a n s f o r m e d M . B . It changed the c o u r s e of his
life. And he b e g a n , foolishly, to believe in destiny.
M . B . was r e b o r n . Nothing was the same again. He
b e c a m e a man obsessed. A man possessed. A maniac and
a d e m o n . He was convinced Kiki had seriously made
that remark, and he wasn't going to let it g o at that. He
was d e t e r m i n e d to see this through to the end.
'I m u s t have her,' he c o n f e s s e d to his golf partner,
Lucky, who was alarmed by the intensity of his declaration.
' D o n ' t be a b s u r d , old m a n . She's an a c t r e s s . . . not
your type,' Lucky said, trying to d i s c o u r a g e him.
'You d o n ' t u n d e r s t a n d — I love that w o m a n . I will
not rest till she's mine.'
L u c k v w a s an u r b a n e , e x p e r i e n c e d playboy who
had had e n o u g h liaisons to know that this one was not
going to w o r k . He told M . B . so. But M . B . would have
none o f it. He p l e a d e d with Lucky to help him chart
o u t a strategy to w o o the lady.
'Find out all you can about her first,' Lucky suggested.
' W h o she sees. W h o she sleeps with. How often. Where
and w h e n . G e t to know her w e a k n e s s e s . J e w e l l e r y ?
Cash? Holidays abroad? Pent-houses? C a r s ? And then
work on those. But before you do any of this, get yourself
a t a r g e t and a b u d g e t . H o w m u c h a r e you willing
to invest in her? You d o n ' t want to be taken to the

213
 Sfiobhaa De

cleaners, rendered bankrupt. So lay it on the

line—the money. Tell yourself, "I will spend X - a m o u n t
on her. If it works, fine. If not, I won't have ventured
m o r e than I can afford to lose."'
M.B. mulled over the suggestions and thought them
extremely astute and wise. He immediately employed
a detective agency to keep tabs on her and give him
weekly reports.
The first one revealed that at the m o m e n t , Kiki
was freelancing. She'd recently broken up with the
g r e a t love of her l i f e — A v i n a s h G o e l , the star of
her r e c e n t hit f i l m . He had m o v e d on to a n o t h e r
nymphet and Kiki had sought solace in the a r m s of a
down-and-out actor, Sunju, who liked the p e r k s of
their relationship. Sunju was never going to m a k e it
as a star and the knew it. So he'd sensibly o p t e d to
concentrate on playing the available stud to any actress
in need of his services. In r e t u r n , he lived well, drove
t h e i r c a r s , e s c o r t e d t h e m t o p a r t i e s and o f t e n
a c c o m p a n i e d t h e m on l o c a t i o n s h o o t i n g s to lush
hill-stations, managing to s q u e e z e himself into the
film in a side-role. Producers looking for co-operation
from the heroine didn't mind a c c o m m o d a t i n g him if
it meant that the w o m e n would appear for shooting
on time and not bunk extended schedules. It was cheaper
to find a role for the lover instead.
Apart from this pest, Kiki didn't seem to have any
other hangers-on. She lived in a well-guarded bungalow

214
at Juhu with her ambitious m o t h e r and a half-brother.
They handled her finances, a p p o i n t m e n t s , contracts,
publicity, and o f t e n , sleeping c o m p a n i o n s . T h e brother
also doubled as a bodyguard when she ran out of suitable
e s c o r t s . It was r u m o u r e d that Kiki often felt stifled by
these t w o over-protective and dominating p e o p l e , and
longed to b r e a k away.
M . B . consulted his ' g u r u ' . What was the first move
to be? Lucky c o n s i d e r e d the m a t t e r carefully while
strolling along the lush g r e e n fairway of the Willingdon
Club. 'Well, old c h a p . . . the thing to do is to make a
classy move. Nothing obvious. Nothing crass. Remember,
she is used to t r a s h . . . you k n o w what film p e o p l e are
like. S o . . . I suggest you s u r p r i s e her with something
unusual and expensive. N o t j e w e l l e r y — s h e m u s t be
getting that f r o m p r o d u c e r s . . . but say... a Lalique vase.'
M.B.'s eyes lit up at the idea. 'That's it. A Lalique
vase on a s i l v e r tray. W o n d e r f u l . I'll o r g a n i z e it
immediately. B u t . . . how will she know it's f r o m me?
And what if she hasn't heard of Lalique? Then the whole
thing g o e s phut.'
Lucky assured him that in all likelihood he was right.
Kiki wouldn't know a Lalique from a Lohar Chawl crystal.
But she was s m a r t enough to find o u t . . . have it p r i c e d .
That would impress her. M.B. agreed with the argument.
A fortnight later, the driver was dispatched after a
great deal of stealth and surreptitious planning. Bindiya

215
wasn't to know, naturally. M.B. had left his gold-embossed
card discreetly on the salver, with a small handwritten
note on the reverse. 'In appreciation of your great beauty
and talent,' he'd stated carefully after c r o s s - c h e c k i n g
all the spellings. He'd toyed with the idea of underlining
his p h o n e - n u m b e r s at the office, but d e c i d e d against
it.The driver was instructed to wait outside her bungalow
till he saw her car c o m i n g in. And only then was he to
make the presentation.The driver w a i t e d . T h e car came.
He went to the massive g a t e s . . . and there the story
e n d e d . T h e b o u n c e r - w a t c h m a n w o u l d n ' t allow him in.
'I have brought a very valuable gift for M a d a m f r o m
mv saab,' the driver announced.
The watchman looked unimpressed. 'Many
saabs send valuable gifts to M a d a m . We d o n ' t let any
altu-faltus in.'
T h e d r i v e r l o o k e d s t r i c k e n . ' M y s a a b is a b i g
industrialist... crorepati, not one of your film heroes.'
'Get lost, m e s s e n g e r boy,' the w a t c h m a n j e e r e d ,
'show off your saab's wealth s o m e w h e r e else.'
'I will not leave till I have given this to M a d a m . . . those
are my instructions.'
T h e w a t c h m a n did a q u i c k calculation and said
generously, 'Theek hai, theek hai... give it to m e . I'll
give it to M a d a m . '
The driver handed the Lalique vase to him gratefully.
'Please tell M a d a m to p h o n e my saab. H e is a very
important man.'

216
 T h e watchman l e e r e d , ' O f c o u r s e , of course,' and
shut the gate on his face.
That w a s the last anyone saw of the vase. In all
probability, R a m u , the w a t c h m a n , hawked both the
Lalique and the salver to s o m e sleazy dealer in C h o r
B a z a a r — h a w k e d t h e m for a song. Enough to g e t him a
month's supply of country liquor, s o m e i m p o r t e d fags
and a c o u p l e o f T a i w a n e s e jeans. Poor M . B . He waited
for the call that never c a m e . And he sacked the driver.

I enjoyed these interludes. They p e r k e d up my rather

u n e v e n t f u l life. G o d said I w a s living ' v i c a r i o u s l y '
(a new t e r m he'd picked up on the art circuit). 'Bullshit,'
was what I had to say to that. Maybe I w a s — l i v i n g
vicariously, I m e a n . Things on the h o m e - f r o n t were
dull. M u m m y was practicallv i n c o m m u n i c a d o while
Papa stayed out as m u c h as he c o u l d . I'd walk in and
walk out at w i l l — s o m e t h i n g I didn't enjoy doing. I
missed the old cross-examination, I longed for suspicion;
I even craved p u n i s h m e n t — a t least I would then be
sure that s o m e o n e still cared. It was a lot like living in
an i m p e r s o n a l hostel. But even hostels had w a r d e n s .
At my house there was no one.
G o d ' s set-up w a s n ' t m u c h better. The old w o m a n
still c o o k e d m e a l s r e g u l a r l y even if G o d , Toro and
C o m r a d e s a a b w e r e n ' t always around to eat t h e m . The
few times G o d t o o k m e there left m e feeling d e p r e s s e d

217
and ill. The small r o o m was c r a m m e d with badly printed
p o s t e r s . Zindabad was often m i s s p e l l e d . T h e rolls of
m a t t r e s s e s r e a c h e d the ceiling ( ' Y o u never know how
many p e o p l e will want to spend the night h e r e — i t all
depends on when they secure bail,' C o m r a d e s a a b had
explained o n c e ) . G o d w a s obviously u n c o m f o r t a b l e
there these d a y s — a n d showing it.
' D o n ' t tell m e you're a s h a m e d of your h o m e , ' I
once p r o d d e d .
He l o o k e d at m e w i t h e r i n g l y . ' W h a t a c h e a p
r e m a r k — a n d so typically b o u r g e o i s , ' he said. But the
old defensive rage was missing.
'I have no place to keep my shirt-pants, yaar,' he
let d r o p one day. Seeing my a m u s e d e x p r e s s i o n , he
swiftly turned that around and snapped, 'The rain-water
leaks through the r o o f , yaar. W h o likes wearing wet
clothes? Must tell that saala Toro to fix it.'
I said nothing. But I k n e w that he k n e w that I knew.
G o d was going capitalist. But he didn't want anybody
to find out. N o t even m e .

G o d w a s a l s o b u s y w h e e l i n g a n d d e a l i n g f o r his
own little acre in the A r t i s t s ' Colony that the Chief
M i n i s t e r had g r a n d l y a n n o u n c e d o n M a h a r a s h t r a
D a y — t h e first of May. It w a s also the busiest day for
C o m r a d e s a a b , since there w e r e at least five i m p o r t a n t
morchas and as many gate-meetings from dawn onwards.

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 Sultry Days

It was at one of these that a stone hurled from nowhere

got him on the temple. Comradesaab fell down near
the factory wall, his head bleeding profusely. Nobody
could say, or was willing to say, where the stone had
come f r o m . A bystander insisted he'd spotted one of
Yashwantbhai's goons running away from the scene soon
after Comradesaab keeled over and collapsed. Someone
summoned an ambulance and tried frantically to trace
God. It was doubly ironic that he was eventually traced
to Yashwantbhai's office, getting his recommendation
letter for the land allotment. However, there was no
proof to be had ofYashwantbhai's involvement and life
went on as usual.

Tanya, a talented but unknown singer, had really

been Lucio's discovery. He'd heard her gig at one of
B o m b a y ' s n e w l y - o p e n e d p u b s which f e a t u r e d live
b a n d s . I r e m e m b e r him d e s c r i b i n g her to m e and
r e c o m m e n d i n g we use her for a jingle. But Lucio had
d o n e his r e c o m m e n d i n g s u b t l y and it was really
G o d who introduced her to m e (and through m e to
the agency) after he heard her at one ofYashwantbhai's
private parties.
'She can't sing, yaar,' God said cynically, 'but she has
nice tits.' I took both statements with a pinch of salt.
I m e n t i o n e d Lucio and his c o m m e n t s on Tanya's
abilities.

219
 'If he could s p o t t a l e n t . . . rather, if that a s s h o l e
had anv h i m s e l f . . . he w o u l d n ' t have c o p p e d it,' G o d
said cruelly.
'That's a harsh thing to say,' I s c o l d e d . 'And b e s i d e s ,
we d o n ' t really know... he could be alive and well.
Anyway, 1 d o n ' t know why you pick on him like this.'
' L o o k , Nasha, I ' m not the s o r t of p e r s o n w h o picks
up stray kittens and f e e d s s t r e e t p u p p i e s . W h e t h e r
Tanya can r e a l l y s i n g or n o t d o e s n ' t m a t t e r . T h e
men jack-off the m o m e n t she o p e n s her m o u t h . U s e
her ' We did.

Tanya was so fashionable, so rich and so thin that she

was known as 'The D u c h e s s ' by the 'in' c r o w d — t h o s e
of them who had heard of the D u c h e s s of W i n d s o r and
the f a m o u s saying attributed to her ('You can't be t o o
rich or t o o thin') that is. Tanya had been b o r n Lalita,
but had d e c i d e d to change her n a m e w h e n she t u r n e d
eighteen. She'd debated between Lara (from Dr Zhivago)
and Natasha ( f r o m War and Peace) and finally settled
for Tanya since she said it s o u n d e d 'so ancient and yet
so m o d e r n ' . It was a time when every little kid b o r n
around town was given a Russian n a m e , especially kids
from Sindhi and Parsee families. This had led to a g r e a t
deal of confusion in local schools since at any given
point there were at least three Natashas, t w o Tanyas
and as many Laras in one class. Tanya had j o i n e d the

220
Russian b r i g a d e slightly late in the day, but she had no
r e g r e t s . A l o n g with her n e w n a m e she'd set a b o u t
acquiring a n e w identity. O n e that suited the n a m e
Tanya. A friend s u g g e s t e d an alternative career to the
one she w a s training f o r — l a w .
'Tanya the L a w y e r d o e s n ' t s o u n d half as e x c i t i n g
as Tanya the Temptress,' advised this well-wisher. Tanya
replied sensibly that as a lawyer she c o u l d easily be a
t e m p t r e s s t o o . ' N o , no,' said her f r i e n d , 'I can see
"Tanya the T e m p t r e s s " up in lights. You should be a
star. A r o c k star.'
'But I can't sing a note,' p o o r Tanya p r o t e s t e d .
' D o n ' t be s i l l y — s i n c e when did that stop anybody,'
her friend a r g u e d . 'You can always learn. Besides, rock
stars d o n ' t n e e d to be great singers. You've g o t what it
takes... you look like you are on drugs, you have bedroom
eyes, you w o n ' t mind singing dirty songs and besides,
why waste a n a m e that m e a n s so m u c h to you?'
She was instantly convinced and c o n v e r t e d .
So, ' P r o j e c t T a n y a ' w a s launched by the slimo who
had s u g g e s t e d it, and what's m o r e , it w o r k e d . She
started off by cutting a d e m o tape of Hindi rock songs
which were straight lifts f r o m successful hits abroad.
Slimo, who called himself'India's first impresario', fixed
the whole thing up himself. It cost, but like he told
h e r — ' S o would your law d e g r e e , baby.'The next step
was to g e t her publicity campaign on the road. And
that's how Tanya m e t Pebbles and Malini.

221
 T h e i r first m e e t i n g w a s a l m o s t a disaster. Pebbles
t o o k o n e look at her, s h o o k his head and t u r n e d her
over to his m a k e - u p guy and t o l d him to w o r k her
over. Present in their studio that a f t e r n o o n was a snazzy
Indian h a i r - d r e s s e r f r o m L o n d o n ( ' C a l l m e C z a r . . . I
do I m r a n ' s hair. A n d P a m e l l a ' s and F a r a h ' s . . . and
o h . . . just a b o u t e v e r y b o d y e l s e ' s ' ) . He s t u d i e d T a n v a ' s
face carefully b e f o r e p r o n o u n c i n g the v e r d i c t : 'Far
out.'This was Czar's ultimate compliment. He confessed
it was he who had p e r s u a d e d Madonna to g o ash-blonde
and for Whitney to fuzz it all up. Tanya p u r r e d , 'It's
all in vour hands,' as it quite literallv w a s . B u n c h e s
of it. H e t o o k a p a i r of g a r d e n s h e a r s a n d w e n t
snip-snip-snip. Within s e c o n d s Tanya's c r o w n i n g g l o r y
lay in snake-like s t r i p s all a r o u n d her.
C z a r o r d e r e d the m a k e - u p m a n to hand h i m a
squeeze t u b e of g e l . 'And the spray cans of frosting.'
Four or five delt strokes later, Tanya was a n e w w o m a n
w e a r i n g her hair close to her scalp like a sleek cap
with touches of gold highlighting her bird-like features.
Czar s t e p p e d back and said with a f l o u r i s h , ' T h e r e ,
she's all y o u r s now.'
The m a k e - u p man p o u n c e d on her and g o t busy
with the paint. It was like witnessing a miracle asTanya's
cheekbones jumped out of her face with clever contouring
and her eyes looked like luminous dishes the size of a
full m o o n . She l o o k e d b e a u t i f u l . ' C l o t h e s , ' b o o m e d
Pebbles, 'what about her clothes?'

222
 Sultry Days

'Take them off,' said Czar, 'and we'll do her in

drapes.' Within minutes Tanya had been stripped of
everything e x c e p t her bikini panties—'Naughty
g i r l — y o u n e e d to w a x . ' Czar t o o k two lengths of
studio satin and w r a p p e d it around her small frame
like a d u o - t o n e d bandage. ' H o w does she look?' he
asked all those present. 'Like a rock-star,' thev chorused.
Pebbles grunted approvingly. And with that completed,
'Tanya the T e m p t r e s s ' was b o r n .
Her success story was quite astonishing. With Pebbles
photographing her and Malini planning each detail of
the publicity campaign, Tanya was all but made. But
she had to do a spot of work too. She started taking
singing lessons from an Indian classical vocalist, as well
as jazz classes with a Goan musician who played with
a local band. Both of them discovered that Tanya had a
natural musicality that only needed harnessing. And
to Tanya's credit, she kept at it relentlessly, doing her
riyaaz for five long hours a day. Slimo didn't give up
either. He became her diet-consultant, physical instructor,
manager, p.r.o., hairdresser and dress designer. He did
just about everything short of cleaning her bony bottom.
Tanya started off with a small stint in a r o o f t o p
restaurant where she was billed as the ' N e w Year's
Eve Sensation'. Slimo was at the lights when he wasn't
t r a n s p o r t i n g h e r c o s t u m e s f r o m the l o o to the
improvised d r e s s i n g - r o o m near the service entrance.
H e r r e p e r t o i r e for the evening had been carefully

223
 aa 0 e

planned by him to include husky, throaty, undemanding

n u m b e r s that r e q u i r e d Tanya to do little m o r e than
breathe suggestively into the mike with an echo chamber
attached to it. Slimo k e p t her lyrics very basic as well,
rarelv g o i n g b e y o n d , ' K i s s m e . L o v e m e . L e t ' s d o it
all night through .'These may have b e e n standard w o r d s
for English p o p s o n g s , but when t r a n s l a t e d into Hindi
and c o m b i n e d with s u g g e s t i v e p a n t i n g , the e f f e c t was
sheer d v n a m i t e .
Slimo crowed later, 'Did you see all those pot-bellies
in the front row jerking off? Tanya really s o c k e d it to
them. Particularly when she started wandering all over
the place with her Flo J o nails straying here and there.
Collective orgasm ho gay a,'
It was a smashing debut all right. And Tanya was
promptly offered a g e n e r o u s deal with the entire chain.
Restaurant managers m a r v e l l e d , 'This is the first time
that a local female with no b o o b s has g o t the c r o w d s
collapsing in the aisles. Usually, w e ' v e always had to
go in for foreign b r o a d s f r o m cheap clubs. And they
used to behave like such pricev bitches. G o o d , now
we have Tanva.'
j
But Tanya had other plans for herself. At least Slimo
did for her. 'Forget it, baby.This is small-time. We m u s t
go lor bigger things. You are a star. You m u s t n ' t ever
forget that.'
Tanya actually didn't n e e d to be r e m i n d e d . She w a s
already displaying m o s t of the s y m p t o m s — i n c l u d i n g

224
a vicious t e m p e r . A f t e r they ran t h r o u g h her hotel
contract, Slimo began t o g r o o m her for the stage. 'You
need your own show. But f o r that we n e e d a sponsor.
I'll find him.' Within m o n t h s , Slimo had b a g g e d the
biggest p r o d u c e r of musical hits in the business. Tanya
was to be sold to Bombay, packaged as Barbara Streisand
in Funnv Girl. It was an a m b i t i o u s , expensive g a m b l e ,
but o n e that paid o f f for everybody. Funny Girl turned
out to be a hit and that's when Tanya got her first recording
offer. Slimo told her to stick to Hindi r o c k since that
was the hot new sound with thousands of fans all over
India. But Tanya d e c i d e d to g o it her way with a track
that i n c l u d e d c h a r t - b u s t e r s r e c o r d e d by s u p e r s t a r s
abroad. It was a total flop. Tanya had learnt her first
lesson the hard way. And that's when she realized she
n e e d e d Slimo in her life after all.
She m a d e her second m i s t a k e when she m a r r i e d
him. ' N o b o d y wants to fantasize about a m a r r i e d r o c k
star,' publicists told her.
'I'll prove them all wrong. W h o says you can't be
sexy and m a r r i e d ? ' she challenged. Slimo wasn't t o o
convinced, but anyway, it was t o o late to retract now.
' H o w about a d i v o r c e , darling?' he asked her on
their first anniversary. ' N o t that it will change anything
b e t w e e n u s . . . but it will c r e a t e fresh interest in you.
It's you, I ' m thinking of, baby.'
Tanya thought about it and said solemnly, 'But divorce
is against my religion. I ' m sorry, but we are stuck for

225
 Sfiobhaa De

life. So you might as well get off your fat b u m and get
me a new contract.'
To which S l i m o r e p l i e d , 'Talking of fat b u m s ,
baby—have vou seen yours lately?'

Tanya often came to me with her sob stories. I half-listened

since m o s t of her tales sounded so crazy. She was in
and out of the a g e n c y — a n d not always in search of
work. Tanya was doing well enough without recording
for us. Maybe she liked talking to m e . As she put it,
'I don't trust chicks generally—insecure bitches. But
you're O K . '
Each time she floated in wearing one of her 'special'
outfits (fluorescent tights, c r o p p e d - o f f tops with gold
tassles dangling from her nipples) she would create a
sensation. I don't know how, but Roy invariably g o t to
know about her presence. He'd stroll in casually to
ask stupid q u e s t i o n s — ' I ' d like an update on the scooter
campaign... have we wrapped it up yet?' Tanya would
roll her eyes at m e and mouth, ' H e l p ! ' But help was
really what she needed at that point. Professional help.

Tanya tired of Slimo the Husband soon enough, but

shrewdly decided to hang on to Slimo the Manager.
From cutting flop tapes he guided her career to a point
where she was recording a song a day for Hindi films

226
and c h a r g i n g by the m e t r e . H i n d i f i l m m u s i c has
u n d e r g o n e a total change with p o p driving everything
else away. Hers was the voice that best suited the nymphets
prancing a r o u n d on the screen. India's 'youth' could
identify with her warbling and h u m along with her
songs. T h e lyrics w e r e s i m p l e and easy to r e m e m b e r .
Any child could m e m o r i z e stanzas that rarely went
bevond, ' Y o o - h o o - y o o - h o o — I love you, 11-o-v-e you.'
Slimo kept dinning it into her that she was a star now
and had t o b e h a v e like o n e . His i n s t r u c t i o n s w e r e
b a s i c — ' I n p u b l i c , k e e p y o u r d i s t a n c e and h i r e a
b o d y g u a r d . In private, make sure you never r e m o v e
your own shoes or fetch yourself a glass of water. Real
stars have servants to d o that for them.'
H e r publicity was controlled by him as well and
all pictures had to be approved bv Slimo b e f o r e they
were released to the press. H e was equally strict about
her waistline and w a r d r o b e . T h r e e hundred push-ups
daily with two twenty-minute work-outs. N o chocolates
and no rice (the two things she adored). All this, combined
with her n e w play-back career, kept her busy. And she
s t o p p e d visiting m e with sob stories.

Roy never did m a n a g e to g e t close enough to Tanya

even when he had the opportunity. Karen m a d e sure
of that. Things had i m p r o v e d b e t w e e n them ever since
Janine and the driver had walked back into the fold

227
and humbly asked for money. That was the kind of talk
both Roy and Karen u n d e r s t o o d . Money, or 'financial
assistance' as Roy p r e f e r r e d to call it. He pitched in
bravely and bailed out his daughter w h o , predictably,
was expecting by then. ' C a n ' t let the side d o w n — k n o w
what 1 mean?' he'd say to n o b o d y in particular. K a r e n
had discovered a brand new i n c a r n a t i o n — t h e sexiest
g r a n d m a - t o - b e in t o w n .
Business, though not exactly b o o m i n g , was stable
e n o u g h at the a g e n c y . A n d f o r o n c e R o y wasn't
c r i b b i n g - - o r hustling for new accounts. H e was far
t o o busy r e c o n c i l i n g h i m s e l f t o t h e f a c t t h a t he
w a s s o o n t o b e c o m e the g r a n d f a t h e r o f a s a c k e d
chauffeur's offspring.

228
 e w e r e u s e d t o handling w e i r d c l i e n t s , m o d e l s
and photographers at the agency, but sometimes
even we w e r e s t u m p e d . M r s Sippy w a s the s o r t of
s l a v e - d r i v e r w h o e x p e c t e d the w o r l d to j u m p each
t i m e she s n a p p e d her s o f t , white f i n g e r s . T h e t r o u b l e
was she h a p p e n e d to b e a w o m a n with all the right
i d e a s . H e r h u s b a n d o w n e d a t e x t i l e mill that had
s t a r t e d o f f as a o n e - s h e d o p e r a t i o n in his f a t h e r ' s
t i m e and w a s n o w p o i s e d t o b e c o m e the n u m b e r
o n e t e x t i l e e m p i r e in the c o u n t r y . ' M y o n e m o v e s
with the t i m e s , ' she t o l d us at o u r f i r s t b r i e f i n g . We
e x c h a n g e d g l a n c e s w o n d e r i n g w h o she w a s talking
a b o u t , b u t s o o n c a u g h t on that, like an o l d - f a s h i o n e d
Punjabi h o u s e w i f e , she n e v e r r e f e r r e d to her husband
by his n a m e . B u t n e i t h e r did she call him 'Soontc
ho jee' as s o m e of her c o n t e m p o r a r i e s c a l l e d t h e i r s .
She had a r r i v e d at a happy c o m p r o m i s e . H e was either
M r Sippy or s i m p l y ' M y one'.

229
 'My one' rarely appeared on the scene. Presentations
were m a d e at his hide-out in the hills, w h e r e he spent
all his weekends. M r s Sippy had recently taken charge
of the mill 's publicity since she felt she k n e w b e s t how
to interpret 'My one's' vision.This was fine by us, since
we weren't required to do very much m o r e than execute
her crazy ideas. Well, not that crazy actually. H e r logic
was s i m p l e . T h e i r mill catered to the vast m i d d l e class.
The vast m i d d l e class loved Hindi m o v i e s . It followed
that they should have Hindi movie stars p r o m o t i n g their
range of fabrics in situations the audience could identify
with. She explained, 'I don't want anything sophisticated,
understand? N o g i m m i c k s . N o fancy headlines. Give
m e straightforward masala. If necessary, hire a Hindi
film script writer and forget about your copy department.
Get m e the best. All I expect f r o m you is service. Instant
service. I want the top heroines and the t o p h e r o e s . I
want situations that duplicate our films. Give m e action,
plentv of action... and sex, of course. Let us have horses,
dacoits, kidnappings, twins, fights and disco s e q u e n c e s
in our ads. Make the w h o l e thing like a d r e a m . '
We g r o a n e d at that o n e . M r s Sippy w a s t u r n i n g
into a nightmare already. Roy was aghast but
i m p r e s s e d — b y the hefty size of the a c c o u n t if nothing
e l s e . ' G i v e h e r w h a t she w a n t s . T h e b r o a d w a n t s
k i t s c h — l e t her have it.'
As alwavs,
J '
it was left to m e to find the stars. T h e
top ones at that. And then to sign t h e m o n . I d i d n ' t

230
know how to get anywhere close to them. Phone
n u m b e r s ? A d d r e s s e s ? W h a t was I s u p p o s e d to do?
'Call one of the film magazines,yaar,' Nitin suggested.
Aarti chipped in, 'If you ever g o to see that Pathan
h u n k — t a k e m e along.'
Willie p r e t e n d e d the w h o l e thing was beneath him.
' C o m e on, yaar. H o w on earth will we c o m m u n i c a t e
with those animals? D o they speak English?'
Finally, I g o t the n u m b e r s I was looking for and
called them up. After a week of trying at least a hundred
times a day at all h o u r s , I gave up. It would have been
easier to g e t Gorbachev. In absolute frustration and
rage, I checked with a film journalist I knew vaguely
who laughed at my clumsy attempts.
'Are you crazy?You actually e x p e c t Sonia to c o m e
to the line and speak to y o u — y o u , a c o m p l e t e stranger
and non-entity? F o r g e t it. You n e e d s o m e o n e like m e .
Tag a l o n g w h e n I g o for my s t u d i o r o u n d - u p s . I'll
introduce you.'
Roy was horrified at the thought. 'Rubbish, dear
girl. That's not the way to do it. We m u s t be absolutely
professional a b o u t this. And quick. I d o n ' t want that
woman breathing fire at me.' Another journalist suggested
I get through to the secretaries through their chamchas.
' B u t h o w d o I k n o w w h o these chamchas are?'
I groaned.
' G o to a film party and you'll spot them immediately.'
' N o b o d y has invited m e , ' I answered.

231
 ' N o b o d y will. You just gatecrash. Generally. They
don't throw f e m a l e s o u t . . . particularly single ones.'
That was said with a leer that w a s n ' t hard to i n t e r p r e t .
'There's one on this weekend—that monkey's
birthday B o b o — t h e one who starred in Love Ke Baad
Pyar Let's go together... don't look so nervous. N o b o d y
will rape you. T h e r e are far t o o many other willing
victims around at these tamashas.'
So there w e r e . D o z e n s of them d r e s s e d in the m o s t
outlandish creations. The party was at the p o o l s i d e of
a five-star suburban hotel. ' E v e r y b o d y will be here
tonight,' my friend told m e .
'Whv?'
' O h , because the p r o d u c e r , M r Suresh G u p t a , is
the most sought-after man in f i l m d o m . His films never
flop. Super-hits, a r e — s u p e r - s u p e r - h i t s . All the stars
want to work with him. He's a real b a s t a r d . Filthy,
illiterate, uncouth f e l l o w — b u t just see how everybody
will c o m e and lick his dirty feet.'
And so it was. Well, not literally, of c o u r s e , but
everv major star and each minor, up-and-coming starlet
lined up to pay their r e s p e c t s to this whiz p r o d u c e r
when he finally arrived. He l o o k e d like he had already
downed a couple of double whiskies, and he p r o c e e d e d
to tank up immediately. After a c o u p l e of drinks, he
became quite obnoxious and started singing boozy songs.
He also started pawing indiscriminately while he tottered
around the poolside and I had to r e p r e s s the u r g e to

232
hide behind a deck-chair as he a p p r o a c h e d m e . But
thankfully, he didn't cast m o r e than an inebriated look
in my direction, and m o v e d t o w a r d s a tall, slim woman
in a black, low-cut d r e s s .
Suddenly, I s p o t t e d Pebbles and realized that the
w o m a n M r Suresh G u p t a w a s m o v i n g t o w a r d s was
none other than Malini. 1 h a d n ' t m e t the t w o since
our M a l d i v e s t r i p , and Malini had given up m o d e l l i n g
to s t a r t studying for her law d e g r e e . She still s e e m e d
to be handling Pebbles' e n g a g e m e n t s , and I felt pleased
to see t h e m t o g e t h e r .
Mr Suresh Gupta went up to Malini and said something
softly. Malini glared at him through her specs and politely
said, 'Fuck off.' All those close enough to hear her words,
were stunned into silence. Mr G u p t a ' s face changed
rapidlv f r o m a leer to a g r i m a c e and he lurched away
f r o m her, colliding with a m i n o r starlet and upsetting
her drink.
But no a p o l o g i e s were f o r t h c o m i n g from the great
film producer. Instead, he started abusing everybody
p r e s e n t — e v e n the stars of his films. N o b o d y dared
object. They laughed when he started cracking c o a r s e
jokes and e n c o u r a g e d him to drink s o m e m o r e . Soon,
he p l o p p e d d o w n on a deck-chair and veiled for Sonia,
the beautiful young actress he was promoting. It was a
f o r e g o n e conclusion that he would g e t all the fringe
benefits of such an alliance.

233
 Sonia was nothing m o r e than his slave. She r u s h e d
to his side and waited for instructions. Soon she was
feeding him seekh kababs dipped in t o m a t o sauce. After
a while she fetched him another drink, and sat at his
feet m a s s a g i n g his thighs.
I looked across the p o o l and spotted Pebbles and
Malini again. He saw m e and waved, beckoning m e to
go over to them. I skirted the p o o l , d o d g i n g elbows
and legs, and finally reached the two of them. Both of
them seemed genuinely pleased to see m e — w e had struck
up quite a g o o d friendship in the M a l d i v e s — a n d were
perhaps relieved to find s o m e o n e they could talk to.
'Hi! What are you doing here? I didn't think this
was vour kind of a do ' said Pebbles.
'1 was quite s u r p r i s e d to see you both here too,'
I replied.
' O h , we're here to look for new faces. Getting b o r e d
of the old o n e s ! ' laughed Malini. 'But seriously, this is
quite a s u r p r i s e . . . you're the last p e r s o n I e x p e c t e d to
see here.'
'Maybe you both can help me,' I said, s t r u c k by a
brainwave. 'I'm working on a complicated ad campaign.
The client wants film stars to strut about in g a r m e n t s
made f r o m their mill's cloth. And it is so tough to g e t
anywhere near these bloody s t a r s . . . can you guys help?'
Pebbles and Malini l o o k e d at each other. 'Tanya '
'I know Tanya, she used to sing jingles for the agency.
But will she m o d e l for us?' I i n t e r r u p t e d .

234
 'Yes, she's b e e n l o o k i n g for s o m e t h i n g like this.
She's sick of only d o i n g playbacks And once we have
her, I think a c o u p l e of b i g g i e s can b e r o p e d in too,'
r e p l i e d Malini.
' S o , is it a deal? T h e r e ' l l b e lots in it for you too.
This client is willing to pay '
'It's a deal,' said Pebbles, and Malini n o d d e d .
That w a s a load off my m i n d . I felt glad that 1 had
c o m e to the party. A m i n u t e later, however, I wasn't
t o o s u r e . A c r o s s the p o o l a d r a m a w a s u n f o l d i n g .
E v e n as I w a t c h e d , I saw S u r e s h G u p t a t h r o w u p
all o v e r S o n i a — y e s , that's r i g h t — a l l o v e r her sari.
But she j u s t s m i l e d and said, 'It's all right, darling. It's
nothing at all.'
And he b a r k e d , 'Take it off immediately. I hate dirty
clothes.'
At f i r s t w e all t h o u g h t he w a s joking. But s o o n it
b e c a m e clear that he w a s a b s o l u t e l y s e r i o u s . H e s t o o d
there yelling, 'Take your sari o f f . . . what are you hiding?
W h a t a r e v o u a s h a m e d oi? H a v e n ' t I seen your naked
b o d y ? A n d h a s n ' t the p u b l i c ? C o m e o n , we all k n o w
what y o u l o o k like w i t h o u t y o u r c l o t h e s . '
Sonia t r i e d t o laugh it o f f and d i v e r t his a t t e n t i o n .
But he j u s t s t o o d t h e r e s c r e a m i n g . Suddenly, w i t h o u t
a w a r n i n g , he p u l l e d o u t a small p i s t o l f r o m his j a c k e t
and said in a c a r r y i n g v o i c e , 'I d o n ' t like my o r d e r s
to b e d i s o b e y e d . If y o u d o n ' t r e m o v e y o u r sari at o n c e ,
I will s h o o t y o u ' H e m e a n t it. W i t h o u t a m i n u t e ' s

235
hesitation, Sonia u n d r a p e d h e r s e l f right there in f r o n t
of h u n d r e d s of g u e s t s . She d i d n ' t even l o o k s c a r e d .
H e r eyes w e r e c o l d and e x p r e s s i o n l e s s . She j u s t s t o o d
there, shivering a little, staring straight at Gupta. Nobody
dared m o v e or say anything. Finally, he l a u g h e d and
put the gun away.
'Get her something to wear. She looks better with
her clothes on,' he said.

Mrs Pratimaben Shah was s o m e o n e w h o fancied herself

as a saviour of lost s o u l s — p r e f e r a b l y f r o m her own
community. She was eagerly sought out by neglected
Gujarati ladies who c o u r t e d her with p o m e g r a n a t e s
and gold sovereigns. She had a soothing sort of presence,
I must admit. And she was doing g o o d things for my
mother who had met her at the home of another corporate
wife like herself.
Pratimaben had taken my dear m o t h e r under her
wing. Perhaps she saved Mumrny f r o m going b o n k e r s
altogether.The divorce was a f o r g o t t e n matter. A topic
that was never to be discussed. It had s o m e t h i n g to d o
with my father's boss man ticking him off and telling
him that ambitious c o r p o r a t e m e n did not divorce their
wives. It was bad for the company's i m a g e . And if they
did indulge in a little funny business, it had to be strictly
out of the office and o u t s i d e o f f i c e hours. 'Business

236
and p l e a s u r e ( p r o n o u n c e d 'play-ure' in the typically
Punjabi fashion by M r Mehra) don't m i x , old chap,'
he had t u t - t u t t e d , pulling on his p i p e , while my lather
stood around like a chastised schoolboy looking sheepish.
G o d didn't have to r e s o r t to blackmail with the
Sindhi h a r l o t — s o m e o n e else had beaten him to it. 'The
d e p a r t m e n t is so jealous. Everybody is so jealous,' she
kept whining. ' A f t e r all, I didn't g o after anybody's
husband. What can I do if these fellows fall tor me?
Why blame m e ? Whv not b l a m e the wives who can't
keep their husbands happy?' At any rate, she soon lost
interest in the affair and latched on to a widower with
w h o m she thought she had a better tuture.
But the b r e a k - u p didn't change anything between
my parents. It was as if it had signalled the end of whatever
relationship they had once shared.They were civil enough
in private and definitely in public, but beyond, 'Pass
the toast. What's for dinner? D o n ' t lorget we have a
cocktails p r o g r a m m e with the Purandares on Friday
night,' they rarely spoke. M o t h e r s e e m e d less fraught.
At least she'd s t o p p e d talking to herself and she had
r e s u m e d getting her weekly hair-set.This pleased Didi
no e n d , and she f l u t t e r e d a r o u n d her whenever my
m o t h e r was going o u t , adjusting the pleats of her sari,
patting an imaginary crease, handing her p e r f u m e .
Pratimaben had all but m o v e d into our house. Her
husband was an affluent Ahmedabad-based businessman
who shuttled b e t w e e n the two cities ceaselessly. 'Mv

237
weekend husband,' she called him. The children w e r e
both married off ('What a lagan we had for them. Crystal
R o o m , eighteen
o courses and the decoration... too much.
We hired Smitaben to do it. She arranged matkas and
chatais with m i r r o r s e v e r y w h e r e . J u s t like a K u t c h
village'). N o w Pratimaben (who was still in her f o r t i e s )
was free to e x p l o r e the world on her own t e r m s and
without anything or anyone to bind her d o w n . She
went a b r o a d — ' O n l y with C o s m o s Tours. They give
g o o d Gujju f o o d e v e r y w h e r e . I tell you, fun to eat
khaman-dhokla in Milan. And papdi in M a d r i d ' — d u r i n g
summer, and to Srinathji in w i n t e r — ' R e l i g i o n is so
important, no? 1 have to g o on my p i l g r i m a g e otherwise
1 feel guilty.' She was keen to go to B a d r i - K e d a r and
wanted to drag my m o t h e r along. But her frail health
came in the wav and Pratimaben shook her head, ' P o o r
ben, she d o e s n ' t eat enough. You p e o p l e d o n ' t use asli
ghee for your cooking that's why you lack strength.
Look •at m e — a l l my f o o d is c o o k e d in ghee. I haven't
fallen ill tor a day. Now, we m u s t instruct vour c o o k
to give your mother hot milk and ghee everyday.' Maybe
she felt protective and sorry, but she was there every
morning trying to involve my m o t h e r in s o m e t h i n g or
the other. 'Join our Mahila Mandal. Are, we d o so m u c h
social w o r k . We also have fun. We organize m e l a s in
schools with f o o d stalls and g a m e s . Y o u can take charge
of one stall. During Navratri, we have dandiya garba-raas
every night. Last day, it g o e s on all night. All of us

238
dress up in ghagras and dance. We invite film stars,
then we have a beautv contest, nice prizes also.Try it.'
My m o t h e r recoiled at the p r o s p e c t of wearing a ghagra
but went along in a chiffon sari anyway.
There was nothing Pratimaben hadn't tried, including
est. 'Kya fun, ben. You should have seen our group.
They didn't allow us to d o soo-soo, so one fat fellow
pissed in his pants.'
What did Pratimaben herself do?'1 went just... simply.
To try. What's w r o n g ? T h r e e days of something new. I
g o t up and shared my e x p e r i e n c e s . I told them how I
didn't like my husband and 1 thought everybody would
be s u r p r i s e d . But all the w o m e n there said that they
also didn't like their husbands. Funny, no?' Pratimaben
t o o k all s o r t s of classes including public speaking. ' W h o
knows? O n e dav I might b e c o m e the president of my
Lioness Club, or the ladies' wing of the Indian Merchants
Chamber. Then I will have to speak, no? Speeches and
all that. Better to have training.' She was a keen Bonsai
enthusiast and had s u r r o u n d e d h e r s e l f with stunted
trees. 'See my m a n d a r i n oranges. I got a medal for this
one. And my peepul tree. G o o d , no?' H e r latest kick
was to start either a boutique ('Bo-tic' as she pronounced
it) or an art gallery. She w a n t e d to r o p e in my m o t h e r
for these p r o j e c t s .
'But what d o e s she know of fashion or art?' I asked
my mother, w h o replied vaguely, 'That d o e s n ' t matter,
dear. She has enthusiasm.'

239
 I asked Pratimaben myself. N o t rudely, but with
m o r e than just casual curiosity.
'See -everybody has b o u t i q u e s these days. 1 can
get cloth cheaply from Ahmedabad, employ a darzi who
can sit in the guest r o o m , and copy other people's designs.
1 have no p r o b l e m . Everybody copies everybody else.
1 can also copy from film s t a r s — y o u know, what Madhuri
or Juhi w ears. That way I can sell to the building p e o p l e
and then e x p a n d . Art gallery is only in n a m e . It is not
for p a i n t i n g s or a n y t h i n g . We will h o l d s a r i a n d
salwar-kamecz exhibitions. If s o m e o n e wants to show
some art w a r t — O K , we will allow. But not o f t e n . T h i s
gallerv will make m o n e y — w e will hire it out for t w o
thousand r u p e e s a day. N o t m u c h — I will air-condition
it: Give water-cooler. B a t h r o o m also. N i c e b a t h r o o m
with expensive tiles and all that. So what? People in
Bombay have lots of money. They w o n ' t mind paying.'
I still couldn't figure out w h e r e my m o t h e r would
c o m e in. 1 asked Pratimaben. 'She is a g o o d lady. N i c e
personality. She can be manager, no? I will give her
g o o d salary. She can a n s w e r p h o n e , she is s p e a k i n g
English so nicely. Plus, she is also knowing Gujarati. I
can trust her, no? O t h e r w o m e n are cunning.They will
cheat m e . But not your mother. Poor t h i n g — w h a t she
is doing at home? Wasting time. This way she will m e e t
p e o p l e . . . it is g o o d . Your father w o n ' t g e t angry, no?'
Mv lather didn't g e t angry. He was livid. 'In our
Company wives do not w o r k — a t least not in such cheap

240
j o b s . They stay at h o m e and organize dinner parties.
What will the b o s s e s say if their wives tell them that
they saw you selling saris in s o m e shop?' It was no use
trying to explain to him that she wasn't going to be
selling saris on the street. As usual, my m o t h e r gave
up without putting up a fight.
But Pratimaben was m a d e of s t e r n e r stuff. 'What
is there? I will talk to him. N o p r o b l e m , ' She didn't
know what she was letting herself in for. She turned
up one evening, her m o u t h stuffed with paan-masala
wearing a thin, organdy sari with huge peacocks appliqued
all over it. She had tucked in her bunch of house kevs
on an e n o r m o u s chaabi-jhumka on her waist. It made
an irritating tinkling sound each time she moved. While
talking, she pulled out a gent's handkerchief f r o m her
bra which in any case was five sizes t o o small for her.
Father could barely conceal his disgust. He s t o p p e d
her mid-sentence and said, 'There is nothing to discuss.
My wife is different. She cannot be seen sitting in a
s h o p — a n d d o n ' t tell m e it's anything else. You need a
salesgirl and r e c e p t i o n i s t . My wife is not m e a n t for
such j o b s . She c o m e s f r o m a very g o o d family. I have
my reputation to think of. Please do not try and influence
her in this manner. If she needs m o r e money for her
n e e d s , I am there to provide it. That's all.'
My mother was trembling in the other r o o m , listening
to the conversation. Suddenly, she flew in like a prettv

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 aa De

pink parakeet. H e r eyes w e r e H a z i n g and her voice

was close to a shriek. 'I have had enough of your bullying
and hypocrisy. I have kept quiet for far t o o long. G o to
hell with your c o r p o r a t e n o n s e n s e . W h o cares what
your boss thinks? O r those bloody w o m e n think? W h e r e
were they when my w o r l d was collapsing and you w e r e
with that Sindhi w h o r e ? I know w h e r e they w e r e — a t
the Club and the G y m , laughing at m e . Telling each
other what a fool 1 was. And what an ass I w a s m a r r i e d
to. And you want m e to bother about them? Why should
I? Why should I bother about you either? You can also
go to hell with your p o m p o u s talk and e m p t y boasts. I
am sick, do you hear, sick of living this false life. Varnishing
my nails, setting my hair, wearing these silly saris and
smiling through your office parties p r e t e n d i n g nothing
is w r o n g with my life. W e l l — i t ' s my turn now. And
you can listen to m e for a change. I will g o along with
Pratimaben with anything I c h o o s e to do. She is my
friend. She e n c o u r a g e s m e . She appreciates m e . She
makes m e feel like s o m e o n e . So you can go to hell
with your lectures and your Sindhi g i r l f r i e n d s — y o u
don't deserve m e . And G o d knows what sins I committed
in mv last birth to be stuck with vou. W h e t h e r you
like it or not, henceforth I will make the decisions about
my life. And the first one is that I ' m taking a job.'
There was nothing left for Papa to say. H e looked
suddenly shrunken and small and scared. H e fiddled

242
with the t e l e p h o n e for a m i n u t e and then barked for
s o m e tea.

G o d was certainly m e e t i n g strange types these days

through his film-world contacts. Yashwantbhai's men
were rapidlv m o v i n g into the studios and mobilizing
s u p p o r t f r o m d i s g r u n t l e d w o r k e r s — t h e stuntmen and
w o m e n , the lighting boys, the sets p e o p l e . G o d was in
and out of m e e t i n g s at various locations often c o m i n g
b a c k with an o b v i o u s l y i m p r e s s e d e x p r e s s i o n after
interacting with a bigwig. O f c o u r s e he tried to play it
d o w n and sound blase b u t , to my s u r p r i s e , G o d was
getting glamour-struck. It was on one such studio round
that he ran into Feroze.

Feroze was a film-star g r o u p i e . She lived breathed and

d r e a m e d m o v i e s . W h i c h w a s quite o d d considering she
was a Parsee. Well, a half-Parsee. Her mother was Muslim
and her father d e s c r i b e d himself as 'Persian'. Why they
had named their only child 'Feroze' was anybody's guess.
Perhaps they'd h o p e d she'd be a boy. While the rest of
the family (an untidily-knit joint one that occupied a
sprawling bungalow in o n e of the few s e c l u d e d , tree-
lined areas left on Malabar Hill) stuck to reading Shelley
and K e a t s , Feroze lived on a diet of film magazines.

243
The family was aghast. Hindi movies were for the servants.
Only menials watched rubbish like that. N o t refined
folk. Most of the Mehtas p r e t e n d e d they'd never heard
of an actor called Amitabh Bachchan.This used to enrage
Fero/.e, who'd snap, 'Are you p e o p l e blind? D o n ' t you
look at p o s t e r s as you d r i v e a l o n g ? D o n ' t y o u see
newspapers? O r hoardings? Stop pretending.'To which
an uncle would reply, 'We know about film stars, dikri,
but not this r i f f - r a f f . Ask us a b o u t D e b o r a h K e r r
and G r e g o r y Peck. L a w r e n c e O l i v i e r and Elizabeth
Taylor. Yes... such great actors and actresses we have
watched. A a h — w h a t a scene there was in King and
I and what acting in To Catch a Thief. That is what we
call true histrionics.'
Hindi films were entirely out of Feroze's orbit. And
yet, she was hopelessly h o o k e d . At the age ot f o u r t e e n
she d r o p p e d out of school and joined up with a film
unit. The family was aghast. 'Have you ever heard of a
girl from a Parsee family mixing with such trash?' a
hip cousin asked the family when they gathered around
the table to eat dinner, which consisted of watery s o u p
and lacev cutlets.
A grand-uncle shook his head and m u m b l e d , 'That's
what h a p p e n s when o u r b o y s m a r r y o u t s i d e their
community. I had w a r n e d N a v a l — m a r r y a Z o r o a s t r i a n
girl and everything will be all right. But did he listen?'
At this point Feroze's mother, the fiery Raisa, banged
her soup spoon down and left the table.

244
 'Spoilt. That child was spoilt f r o m the start. N o
discipline. Naval u s e d to t r y — b u t what to do? Her
mother didn't stop her. D o you r e m e m b e r when Feroze
tried to cut o f f the cat's tail? H e r m o t h e r didn't sav a
w o r d . J u s t shielded the girl when she had d e s e r v e d to
be w h i p p e d . N o w this is the r e s u l t . Hindi fillums.
K h o d a i — w h a t will all the relatives think?'
F e r o z e w a s certain she had found her vocation.
'I want to be a director. But b e f o r e I g e t that chance,
I have to learn everything f r o m the b o t t o m up. You
p e o p l e wait and see, s o m e day 1 will be g r e a t . The first
w o m a n Parsee d i r e c t o r of Hindi films.'
A cousin s n i g g e r e d , 'As if it is s o m e t h i n g to be
p r o u d of.'
Feroze's m o t h e r r u s h e d to her daughter's defence.
'Better than you, dear. W h e r e has your d e g r e e taken
you? To the cash d e p o s i t counter of the Central Bank.
And jvour sister. What has she done? Failed three times

in Davar's College. Can't even pass a secretarial course.

So m u c h m o n e y w a s t e d on typing and shorthand. At
least my Feroze is on her own.'
F e r o z e was on her own in m o r e ways than one.
Enterprising, manipulative and full of a strange kind
of c h a r m , she got around to places m o s t p e o p l e only
d r e a m t of. N o b o d y was sure how she did it. Did she
con p e o p l e into s p o n s o r i n g her? Did she cheat and lie
her way into film festivals? D i d her gift of the gab d o
the trick? What was it? Feroze b e c a m e a familiar and

245
popular figure in f i l m d o m in an incredibly short p e r i o d .
The filmwallahs just didn't know what to m a k e of this
mad bawi in her trademark jungle safari suit. She seemed
smart and rich. She drove her own c a r — s h e s m o k e d
foreign cigarettes. She travelled by planes.Yet, she didn't
ever have a d i m e in her p o c k e t — p e r m a n e n t l y b r o k e .
' H o w does she do it?' they asked t h e m s e l v e s , baffled
by a p h e n o m e n o n that defied explanation.
Feroze was e v e r y w h e r e — a t film parties, mahurats,
p r e m i e r e s , shooting, story sessions, publicity bashes
and o u t d o o r stints. It was at one of t h o s e — a location
shoot in Ooty—that Feroze met Kiki. It was an encounter
that changed her life. It was at the s a m e location that
G o d was covering for a ' s e r i o u s ' film monthly, that he
also got to know Kiki.To everybody's amazement, Feroze
and G o d both fell instantly in l o v e — n o t with each
other - but with Kiki.

'What h a p p e n e d ? ' I asked G o d when he c a m e back

after four love-struck days.
' D o n ' t ask m e , vaar. That f e m a l e is like bijli. I was
struck. Before I knew i t — k h a t a m . Main mar gay a. You
are looking at a dead man.'
'Did she say something? D o s o m e t h i n g ? '
'She didn't have to, vaar. O n e look and I b e c a m e
her slave.'
H e l p ! G o d was even b e g i n n i n g t o s o u n d like a
C - g r a d e jilted lover. I debated upon whether to talk to

246
him sensiblv or just to let him wallow in his m o o n s t r u c k
m a d n e s s . It was so out of character. So irrational. And
frankly, so sweet.
' D i d you g e t to touch her?' I asked trying to keep
my voice serious.
' H e l l , no, yaar. She has all her g o o n s around her.
Bodyguards. Karate types. In any case, she was having
it off with that hairy fellow, the hero, Balwant. I had
no chance, vaar.'
'Then whv are vou wasting your time?'
'I can't control m v s e l f . T h a t w o m a n has something.
1 d o n ' t know what it is '
Helpfully, I provided s o m e hints, 'Sexuality? Animal
appeal? Availability?'
' N o , vaar. It is something primal. I don't know. Basic
attraction. Very basic.'
'And Feroze?'
'That's a weird o n e . B l o o d y lesbian. O r I don't
know what she is a s e x - m a n i a c or s o m e t h i n g . She was
in b e d with the first c a m e r a m a n — I saw t h e m . D i d n ' t
feel e m b a r r a s s e d or anything. They c a r r i e d on as if I
w a s n ' t there.'
'But what were you doing in their b e d r o o m ? '
'It wasn't their r o o m , damn i t — i t was mine. I mean,
he and I were sharing a d o u b l e r o o m . '
'Why didn't you throw them out?'
' C o u l d n ' t , yaar. In these filmi affairs, anything goes.'

247
 'If she was bedding your r o o m m a t e , w h e n did she
find the time to flip for Kiki.'
' D o n ' t ask m e , vaar. All I know is that the w h o l e
unit was talking about this m a d w o m a n . '
'Was Kiki e m b a r r a s s e d ? '
'I don't know. Flattered, maybe. This was her first
e x p e r i e n c e with a female devotee.'
'But what exactly did Feroze do?'
' W h a t d i d n ' t she d o ? She w a s like K i k i ' s slave.
Follow ing her like a puppy. Sending her flowers and
poems. Fetching her food. Carrying her clothes. Generally
behaving like a love-lorn maiden.'
'How funny. If she was doing all t h a t — w h a t did it
leave vou to do?'
'Shut up, vaar. I'm not a bloody coolie. 1 am fascinated
bv Kiki. I've never met someone like her. She's instinctive
and phenomenal. Such talent! Her potential hasn't been
e x p l o i t e d . Such intelligence! Switch on the c a m e r a s
and she's dynamite.'
'Are vou telling m e you have g o n e for the actress
and not the woman?
'Both, yaar. As a w o m a n — w h a t can I say that w o n ' t
sound obscene? She makes m e wet my pants just looking
in my direction.'
'Well, you sure have a lot of c o m p e t i t i o n . . . starting
with Feroze.'
'Forget Feroze,' G o d said meaningfully, 'she d o e s n ' t
have what it t a k e s — s h e d o e s n ' t have a prick.'

248
 That was his inelegant way of letting m e know that
he was sleeping with Kiki.

Eventually, it was Feroze who won out. It was a bizarre

story, a fight that was fought on various sets, locations
and finally, in the p r e s s . But when the t i m e c a m e
f o r K i k i t o c h o o s e , she o p t e d f o r F e r o z e . T like
w o m e n , ' she explained simply. '1 like m e n t o o . . . but
women more.'
It was a q u o t e that stole the thunder f r o m another
actress, Kiki's chief rival, Zainab, who had just announced
her plans to b e c o m e the film industry's first unwed
mother -father unknown. O r at least, officially s o . T h e
gossip press had narrowed the field down to five potential
f a t h e r s , e a c h o f w h o m had coyly a d m i t t e d t o a
'relationship' with Zainab. But she'd surprised everybody
by declaring that though she had been 'friendly... very
friendly' with all five at about the same t i m e , she was
certain that the father of her child was not amongst
them. He was a m y s t e r i o u s stranger. A foreigner who,
she hinted, was a 'very important p e r s o n ' not connected
with showbiz at all. And did the privileged man know-
about this m o m e n t o u s event? 'I'll let him know when
the time c o m e s , ' was Zainab's enigmatic reply.
But now, with Kiki going public with her 'confessions',
film monthlies had their schedules thrown completely
out of gear. C o v e r stories had to be switched, headlines

249
altered and hoardings repainted. O v e r n i g h t Feroze had
b e c o m e a household n a m e all over India. H e r photo-
graphs with Kiki were splashed e v e r y w h e r e — l a u g h i n g ,
kissing, holding hands, relaxing. O n e magazine had gone
to the extent of s c r e a m i n g — ' W e d d i n g bells for the
industry's first lesbian couple. Secret marriage confirms
the r u m o u r s . '
Feroze s family had all but g o n e into hiding. Several
members were reportedly under sedation. Nosey
r e p o r t e r s had been b a d g e r i n g t h e m for days, asking
all sorts of peculiar questions. The old uncle continued
muttering, 'It's that woman, the mother. It is her influence.
It is G o d ' s c u r s e on us for allowing Naval to m a r r y
her.' F e r o z e t r i e d to g e t b a c k h o m e o n c e (she had
'officially' moved in with Kiki) but she found the d o o r s
of her family h o m e closed to her.
'You are dead to us,' her aunt announced. 'We never
want to see you again.'
She spotted her m o t h e r in the b a c k g r o u n d who was
desperately signalling to h e r — ' T a k e m e with you.' Feroze
pushed the aunt aside roughly and grabbed her mother's
hand. 'Let's go,' she said and both of t h e m j u m p e d into
Kiki's waiting car.
It worked out O K . M a m a Mehta t o o k charge of
Kiki's crazy household and sacked all the staff. Feroze
b e c a m e the Man of the H o u s e and Kiki's manager. She
handled her finances, a p p o i n t m e n t s and contracts with

250
ruthless efficiency and announced a couple of
b l o c k - b u s t e r s with the top hero of the industry, with
herself as the director.
Kiki l o o k e d radiant. T h e a r r a n g e m e n t s suited her
p e r f e c t l y . She h a d finally m a n a g e d t o e s c a p e her
dominating m o t h e r and overbearing half-brother, and
found a real family i n s t e a d — a p e r s o n who loved her
and g u a r d e d her interests plus a d i r e c t o r she could
relate to. It couldn't have ended better in any pot-boiler
the industrywallahs could have c o m e up with.
T h e alliance w o r k e d well for us too. Pebbles had
known Feroze since their schooldays, and he contacted
her. R o p i n g Kiki in for M r s Sippy's textiles was a major
coup. And with Bollywood's t o p actress and the m o s t
sought-after playback singer, Tanya, we watched our
ideas take s h a p e — i n t o o n e of the m o s t successful ad
campaigns the agency had p r o d u c e d .
All of us w o r k e d very hard on this one, Kawla and
gang in particular.This was our ' b i g g i e ' — t h e campaign
that would showcase our collective talent and garner
a few awards at the n e x t ad club shindig.
Kiki was c o - o p e r a t i o n itself. And with F e r o z e ' s
persuasion we m a n a g e d to bag practically the entire
new breed of bold bimbettes who'd taken over Bollywood.
As Feroze put it, ' T h e y ' r e O K , these kids. Show them
the right a m o u n t and they'll flash a n y t h i n g — b o o b s ,
ass, cunt.' So there was Kiki as the main attraction (shot

251
at her seductive, luscious best by Pebbles) s u r r o u n d e d
bv all the semi-clad lovelies who, as Feroze had correctly
predicted, dropped their clothes obediently the m o m e n t
Rov sanctioned the lolly.
The tinal p r o d u c t was a c r o s s b e t w e e n an M T V hit
and a BBC Clothes Show clip—slick, sexy and exceedingly
effective, much more so than Mrs Sippy's straightforward
masala would've been. It b e c a m e the m o s t talked of
campaign of the year.

G o d was heartbroken. But not for long.

' O n e bitch is as g o o d as another,' he said morosely,
trying hard not to let his r e m o r s e show. But in typical
G o d fashion he didn't remain d o w n for t o o long. O t h e r
distractions claimed his attention. And I didn't w a s t e
too much time worrying about him either.

252
 y relationship with G o d was following its familiar
hot and cold p a t t e r n . We still saw each other
sporadically but the intervals b e t w e e n our meetings
were getting l o n g e r . T h e r e were times I cancelled after
fixing up a date. T h e r e were times he did. Neither of
us m o p e d . It was u n d e r s t o o d we'd catch up when it
was mutually convenient. O n the infrequent occasions
when we did g e t together, it was pleasant enough but
hardly exciting. G o d had begun to treat ine like a sexless
p e r s o n . I w o n d e r e d if he even r e g a r d e d m e as a w o m a n
anv longer. S o m e t i m e s I felt hurt by his attitude —the
grand p o s e s he s t r u c k . At other times I felt indulgent
and a m u s e d . Physically, w e had s t o p p e d having a
relationship though occasionally he still m a d e a tired
pass, needlessly explaining, 'Just for old t i m e s ' sake,
yaar.' I p r e f e r r e d it this way. The old uncertainties and
tensions had melted away. I felt at ease with G o d , perhaps
for the first time in our relationship.

253
 Snubhaa Oe

My weekends w e r e pretty f r e e too. I w a s n ' t really

seeing anybody. J u s t the chaps at office. I had b e c o m e
one of t h e m — o n e of the guys. M o s t t i m e s I d i d n ' t
really mind. But there were days when I missed male
attention. Specific male attention.
I rang Anil on the spur of the m o m e n t . I g o t his
answering machine. Here we g o — a n o t h e r yuppie
acquisition, I thought to myself. O h w e l l — i t at least
proved that he hadn't as yet installed a wife in the flat
to take his phone calls. His voice on the recording sounded
metallic and phoney. 1 could picture him running through
a variety of cheery-sounding greetings and finally settling
for the very A m e r i c a n , 'Hi! You've j u s t reached Anil
Bhandari's flat. I ' m out at the m o m e n t . . .' and so on.
I didn't feel like talking to a machine so I hung up.
I tried G o d at the Plume office. He wasn't in either.
I got Chandni instead.
'Hi-yeee,' she shrieked. She sounded genuinely pleased
to hear my voice. ' W h e r e have you been hiding?What's
happening? We hardly see you these days. N e w boyfriend
or what? C o m e c o m e c o m e — l e t ' s have a chai. Aa jao,
yaar. Haven't been to the Surai in ages. Let's gupshup
about the w o r l d . ' It s o u n d e d like a g o o d idea. T h e
alternatives were hardly m o r e attractive. I w o u l d ' v e
had to go h o m e and m e e t a g r u m p y father and a sulky
Didi. My m o t h e r was hardly h o m e these days. So, the
Surai it was

254
 Chandni's skin had i m p r o v e d and she was dressed
in a wildly c o l o u r f u l ghagra and tunic which m a d e her
look like a horny banjaran or a sexy s w e e p e r e s s . ' D o n ' t
you just love i t — m y n e w outfit. I g o t it directly f r o m
Kumudini. She's e x p o r t i n g heaps of them. Guess
w h a t — I ' m off '
' W h e r e to?'
'Well, Paris initially—are vaar, I got onto this Festival
chakkar. There's a m e e t of s o m e sort, don't know, poets,
writers, all the big-big intellectual types. But I am going
in my own right. You know my small anthology about
alienation and sublimation was very well received, s o m e
feminist types in France want to translate it into French
and all that. It's o n e of those w o m e n ' s lib publishing
houses that e n c o u r a g e s this type of writing. It's O K ,
yaar. I g e t a free trip in the bargain.'
'That's t e r r i f i c , Chandni. W h e n do you leave?
i n a fortnight.That's why I ' m buying all these ethnic
outfits, yaar. They are a big hit with the phirangs.'
I s p o t t e d Iqbal j u s t then. He was sitting at his usual
table having his fifth cup of pudina chai. The other four
cups were lying on the table attracting flies. H e was
alone for a change and obviously looking for company.
I thought he w o u l d n ' t r e c o g n i z e m e . ' H e l l o ! H e l l o ! '
he called out. 'What's u p ? '
'Everything's O K , ' I r e p l i e d , a little e m b a r r a s s e d
at having the entire cafe whirl around to see w h o Iqbal

255
was greeting. He picked up his half-empty cup and walked
over. Without so m u c h as a by-your-leave, he sat himself
down and stared with great interest at Chandni's nosering.
'Unusual,' he said while reaching across to t o u c h it.
She giggled and m u m b l e d , 'Jaisalmer.'
i thought so,' Iqbal c o n t i n u e d .
It was as if he had begun his countdown. He generally
gave himself seven minutes to make a play for s o m e o n e .
If it worked g r e a t . If n o t , he m o v e d on. H e had already
exhausted three. Suddenly, I felt his naked big toe climbing
up under mv sari. I nearly j u m p e d up and s c r e a m e d .
What was most disturbing was the absence of a tablecloth.
Everybody could see his t o e travelling up my leg. He
hadn't b o t h e r e d to i n t e r r u p t his c o n v e r s a t i o n with
Chandni. He was busy telling her about his last trip to
Jaisalmer. I felt paralysed and e n r a g e d . T h e only thing
I could think of was to e x c u s e myself and say I had to
go to the loo.
Before I could utter a word, Iqbal put a restraining
hand over mv arm and pulled m e down. 'Sit down... where
are you running off to?'
Chandni was quite oblivious to what was going on
and hadn't s t o p p e d discussing her nosering. Iqbal had
fixed me with his penetrating stare and stopped listening
to her. In a couple of minutes, he g o t up and d r a g g e d
me up with him. 'We are leaving,' he said to the stunned
Chandni, whose finger was still on the nosering. He

256
signalled to the waiter that he'd settle both the hills
later. 'Chalo,' he said and t o o k m e h o m e . His h o m e .

'\yhat had I expected out of this encounter? N e w insights?

O r an out-of-the-body e x p e r i e n c e ? W h o knows. But
there I was in Iqbal's anarchic studio waiting for him
to finish peeing noisily into a dirty pot. He hadn't bothered
to shut the rickety door.
Iqbal c a m e back smiling. Why did all m e n adopt a
goofy, self-satisfied e x p r e s s i o n after a long p e e as if
they'd achieved s o m e t h i n g significant?
' Aaah... can't screw on a full bladder,' Iqbal explained,
drawing m e close to him and sticking his extra-long
t o n g u e d o w n my throat. I tried to push him away, but
his knee was in my g r o i n , hurting m e . He'd shut his
eves.
j
And obviously,
J '
his ears as well,7 since he behaved
as if he c o u l d n ' t hear my m u f f l e d cries of protest. O n c e
his t o n g u e was out of my m o u t h , he stuck it into my
ear, covering the l o b e with spittle. His rough hands
were tearing at my blouse while his knee was still locked
b e t w e e n my legs.
' L e t ' s d o it s t a n d i n g u p , ' he said u n z i p p i n g his
stained jeans.
' L e t ' s not,' I insisted, 'I really d o n ' t want to ... if
you d o n ' t mind.' Stupid m e . Imagine being p o l i t e —
P O L I T E — u n d e r the circumstances. Iqbal was now down
on his knees in front of m e , pulling up my sari, raising

257
 Shobhaa D e

the petticoat, dragging my panties d o w n roughly. I k n e w

it was time to s c r e a m , shout, yell, r u n . But I c o u l d n ' t
do it. I was far t o o scared of this m a d m a n w h o s e eyes
had dilated, w h o s e nostrils w e r e flared. H e r e m i n d e d
m e of a d o p e d h o r s e running madly on m u c h after the
race is over. I shut my eyes and clenched my fists. Iqbal's
t o n g u e was r o o t i n g b e t w e e n my thighs. T h a t ugly,
nicotine-stained, hot t o n g u e o f his, probing wetly while
the rough hairs of his b e a r d b r u i s e d my skin. His hands
were at my b r e a s t s — p i n c h i n g , squeezing, hurting. A
voice within m e kept repeating irritatingly, 'You asked
for it. D o n ' t say you didn't.You knew when you climbed
those stairs with him and e n t e r e d this place exactly
what was in store for y o u . D o n ' t b l a m e him. B l a m e
yourself, you little fool.'
N o w he'd pushed m e d o w n after kicking his cans
of paint to one side. He c l i m b e d onto my rigid body,
animal g r u n t s escaping f r o m his w i d e o p e n m o u t h . I
could see the cavities in his t e e t h . . . and infected hair
follicles with pus-heads in his beard. He looked revolting.
I felt his fingers trying to enter m e . Just his paint-covered
fingers. Nothing else. I wanted to laugh. I visualized
what the insides of my legs would look like later with
streaks of g r e e n , blue, vermilion. I w a i t e d . . . e x p e c t i n g
something else t o h a p p e n . It didn't. Iqbal, the g r e a t
womanizer, was limp. He looked pathetic at that m o m e n t
with his jaw open and eyes shut in p s e u d o - o r g a s m i c
bliss. Gently, I pushed him away and fixed my clothes.

258
 Sultry Days

I looked around at Iqbal's f a m o u s nudes. There was

nothing even remotely erotic about them anymore.
®

I phoned God when I got home.There were no wisecracks

this time. Just a cold, stony silence. A year ago he would
have been incensed and cursed Iqbal's progeny for seven
generations to c o m e . He would have railed against me
too and hurled the vilest abuse. But this was a changed
G o d I was dealing with. N o t that he was unmoved by
what I'd just told him. O r indifferent. But his emotions
w e r e m o r e under c o n t r o l and the old t e m p e r had
obviously been reined in. I was disappointed by his
tepid reaction. I had e x p e c t e d fireworks. Nastiness.
C o n t e m p t . N o t this. It just proved to m e exactly how
far we'd drifted apart. We were no longer i m m e r s e d
in the minutae of one another's lives.

He d r o p p e d by at the office the next morning. 'So?

H o w was it? Kaisa laga?' he asked sarcastically, lighting
up a beedi. I was glad it wasn't a Dunhill. I tried to
get rid of him. 'Bolo na, tell m e , Nasha, was it g o o d ? '
I tried to change the subject by talking about his
latest celebrity-interview and asking after Comradesaab's
health. 'He's alive. That's all I know.'
'Why? D o n ' t you live there any m o r e ? '

259
 'Forget it, yaar. I have my own digs now.'
'You didn't tell me vou'd m o v e d '
'Looks like we've stopped telling each other anything,
haven't we?'
' W e l l . . . we hardly m e e t these days. H o w ' s Bijli?'
'Sold.'
'WHAT?'
'You heard m e - I sold her.'
' H o w could you?'
'It was easy, yaar. I didn't n e e d her anymore.'
And a cliche immediately c a m e t o my m i n d — ' l i k e
you don't need m e a n y m o r e ' — b u t 1 didn't say it.
' S o . . . how do you g e t around?'
' Car.'
' W o w ! W h e n did you buy it?'
'Haven't b o u g h t it... I . . . well, I s o r t of use it.'
'But whose is it?'
'A friend's.'
'Which friend? I didn't know you had such richie-rich
friends who had spare cars lying around.'
'You d o n ' t k n o w very m u c h , N a s h a . F o r g e t it.
Tell m e . . . feel like moving in? I need s o m e o n e . . . you
know... to c o o k and everything.'
'Why d o n ' t you hire a maid in that case? With the
kind of money you s e e m to be m a k i n g , y o u can afford
not one but half-a-dozen of them surely.'
i t ' s not that, vaar. T h e s e m a i d - s h a i d s are a h a s s l e ,
yaar. I need my own w o m a n . If you w a n t , I d o n ' t mind

260
a s h a a d i - w a a d i — I know that will m a k e you feel better.
Theek hai—we can be b o u r g e o i s and g o through with
that m a r r i a g e r u b b i s h . You can c o o k , can't you? A f t e r
all, y o u are a c o r p o r a t e w a l l a h ' s daughter. Have vou
ever set f o o t in a kitchen? Can you fry p u r i s w i t h o u t
b u r n i n g y o u r f i n g e r s ? C a n you m a k e r i c e that isn't
sticky? What a b o u t m u t t o n - c h i c k e n that d o e s n ' t stink?
B e t t e r to g e t all this straight f r o m the s t a r t , hai na?
N o lafda later o n . D o n ' t e x p e c t m e to treat you like
a r i c h bitch. I ' m a secdha-saadha f e l l o w — y o u know
that. Give m e my daal-roti, a w a r m b e d , twice-a-week
maalish and a daily screw. That's all I e x p e c t . So tell
m e — a r e vou i n t e r e s t e d ? '
I was t o o stunned to r e s p o n d . O n e p a r t of m e was
laughing. T h e other, feeling sorry for this m a n . He was
obviously d e r a n g e d — o r the w o r l d ' s biggest egotist.
He actually e x p e c t e d m e to j u m p at his offer. He looked
so c o m i c . So vulnerable, standing in the lobby, trying
to look nonchalant and heroic. I p i c k e d up my bag and
said, 'Let's go and listen to Hariprasad playing his bansuri.
I p r e s u m e you have s t o p p e d playing yours.'
'You p r e s u m e t o o m u c h , ' said G o d , and pulled out
his flute f r o m his leather satchel.

After the brush-off, G o d didn't waste much time finding

a replacement. She was a m u c h older w o m a n . A 'ghatari
as he d u b b e d her. But an unusual one.

261
 !%hoDhaa De

Pramila was a n o n - c o n f o r m i s t . She had a divorce

to prove it. A divorce that had b e e n icky, messy and
perfectly traumatic. A divorced ghatan was still a rarity.
But then, Pramila was r a r e in m o r e ways than that. A
Nagpur girl, she was one of those small-town products
with a big-city hang-up. Married to a boring mechanical
engineer f r o m Pilani at an early age, Pramila strained
against the kind of life he had t o o f f e r . In q u i c k
succession, she p r o d u c e d a boy and two girls, after
which she considered her duty t o w a r d s her husband
over and d o n e with.
Unfortunately, Vilas had different ideas about
holy matrimony. He saw them putting down roots in
Nagpur, drawing f r o m his provident fund to buy a
bungalow there. He wanted to see his son follow in
his footsteps and b e c o m e a P W D engineer when the
time came for him to retire. For his daughters he could
only foresee a stable middle-class marriage to d o c t o r s
(preferably g.p.'s with a 'decent' practice) or lawyers.
As for Pramila—why, she had everything a woman could
ask for —a husband with 'solid' job, security, lovely
children, a m o p e d of her own and all the time in the
world to pursue her interests, join the local Mahila
Mandal, attend haidi-kumkums, organize Sarvajanik
Ganapati festivals and show off her latest sari brought
by him from Bombay while on 'tour'.Yet, Pramila was
wilting. He thought she was ill. She was, but not in
the way he assumed.

262
 Pramila was suffocating with boredom and frustration.
She'd taken to writing. Vilas didn't know that. But each
day after he left for w o r k and the two older children
were at school, Pramila would grab s o m e p a p e r and
start scribbling furiously, feverishly. It started with poetry.
Intense, e r o t i c and e n r a g e d . She used a p s e u d o n y m
and began sending it off to various publishers of pulp.
T h e r e were several of t h e m , particularly during Diwali
when the Marathi ank m a r k e t b o o m e d with literally
hundreds of annual publications c r a m m e d with articles.
Pramila found it remarkably easy to get her stuff published.
And she hoarded the paltry sums she received, dreaming
of the day she'd make enough to catch a train to Bombay
and never r e t u r n .
She did just that—within a year of starting her literary
adventure. O n e fine day, Pramila upped and disappeared.
Vilas was totally b e w i l d e r e d . H e just couldn't believe
what had h a p p e n e d . He was convinced his wife had
been lured awav by a hypnotist or a tantrik who had
cast a spell over her. T h e children were still t o o young
to u n d e r s t a n d that their m o t h e r had d e s e r t e d them.
The youngest one w h i m p e r e d f o r a week and refused
to eat. Vilas' w i d o w e d m o t h e r left her other son's h o m e
and m o v e d in to l o o k after the familv. She told Vilas
that Pramila was a w i t c h — a w o m a n p o s s e s s e d . And
that he should f o r g e t her. Vilas didn't want to. Foolishly,
he set o f f for Bombay without knowing w h e r e to begin
looking for his absconding s p o u s e .

263
 The p e o p l e in his office had laughed at him. They
had called him an ass and told him he was wasting his
time. 'She's gone.You'll never find her,' they had j e e r e d .
But Vilas had r e f u s e d to believe t h e m .
He c a m e back a w e e k later. His colleagues had b e e n
right. His m o t h e r had been right. H e hadn't found her.
Pramila had gone. Disappeared from their lives. Bombay
had claimed another victim. O r trophv.
A few months later, they received a letter from Pramila.
She had found a job in a Marathi fortnightly and was
staying as a paying guest in Dadar. She was sorry, she
said. But she couldn't bear to live in Nagpur. H o w are
the children, she asked. And you?Yes, of course she missed
all of them sorely. But she had no choice. She was happy.
And was planning a trip to N a g p u r shortly, as soon as
she could get leave. There was no forwarding address.
Nearly a year after her d e p a r t u r e , Pramila went
back to Nagpur. Vilas was stony-faced and hostile. T h e
youngest child ran and hid behind the g r a n d m o t h e r ,
while the older t w o r u s h e d eagerly t o w a r d s her and
asked for presents f r o m Bombay.
Pramila was in N a g p u r on a specific mission. She
wanted a divorce. And the children. Vilas was stunned.
His m o t h e r wasn't. 'Give her the divorce and keep the
children,' she advised.
Vilas c o n s u l t e d his lawyer f r i e n d . 'Your m o t h e r is
right,' he said. But Vilas was adamant. 'I want her,' he
m o a n e d . T h e y arrived at a c o m p r o m i s e . 'Take the girls,'

264
the m o t h e r s c r e a m e d . ' T h e son is o u r s . He bears our
name.' And so it was that after battling for ten days,
Pramila t o o k the train b a c k to Bombay with two verv
frightened little girls with her.

O f c o u r s e it didn't w o r k . She c o u l d n ' t c o p e . The job

kept her away for long hours. T h e older child went to
a grimy nursery in the morning while an untidy, illiterate
bai m a n a g e d the vounger one at h o m e . Then both of
t h e m collected the s c h o o l - g o i n g kid and c a m e back to
the room where thev remained locked up till their mother
came back late in the evening, e x h a u s t e d , irritable and
in no condition to deal with emotional p r o b l e m s . They
had worked out a dabba arrangement with a
neighbourhood eatery. This was heated and reheated
twice a day and fed to e v e r y o n e . T h e bai went h o m e at
night, leaving Pramila to c o p e with bed-wetting, crying
spells, hunger and t a n t r u m s . T h e n there were frequent
small illnesses to deal with. Flu, upset t u m m i e s , colic,
small cuts and all the other 'inconveniences' that go
with raising children. Pramila d e c i d e d it wasn't going
to be possible for her carry on with this crazy situation.
She p a c k e d the younger kid back to her father which
left the older resentful and sulky. 'Why can't I go back
to Aji also?' she w h i n e d constantly, m a k i n g Pramila
feel even m o r e e x a s p e r a t e d . S o o n , the bai walked out

265
 :>hobhaaDe

on her as well. Which meant applying for leave without

pay and staying home to look after the little girl while
searching frantically for a substitute maid.
Her bosses were understanding but even they couldn't
stretch privileges endlessly to a c c o m m o d a t e Pramila's
problems. It was time for her to look around and move
on—which she promptly did. But not before she'd sought
audiences with various ministers at the Mantralaya and
secured a cosy little place for herself in Kala Nagar, an
unpretentious colony near the airport reserved for writers
and artists. It was said that her desperation had pushed
her to appeal to the C . M . himself who had been so
moved by her plight that he had asked for her file and
personally sanctioned the place to her. Pramila was
certainly getting around in the right circles and making
the right moves.
It was at this point that G o d ran into her through
Yashwantbhai, who was trying to induct her into politics.
'We need women like you,'Yashwantbhai leered at
their first meeting, scratching his groin thoughtfully.
' P o l i t i c s . . . w o m e n ' s i s s u e s . . . you are the right
person. You could head our Special Cell. It is a g o o d
job. G o o d pay. We will l o o k after your d a u g h t e r ' s
education... everything. Also... you will be protected.
This city... it is not N a g p u r . Full of bad p e o p l e . . .
badmashes. They can harass a single w o m a n . . . a helpless
w o m a n . . . anything can happen. You have to think of
your safety... get my point?'

266
 S u 11 r y Day

Pramila g o t the p o i n t . Very quickly. She quit her

j o b and s t a r t e d w o r k i n g full-time for 'the p a r t y ' . But
she continued writing. First for Marathi publications
and then venturing timidly into English ones.
G o d was assigned to translate her early p o e m s for
Plume and i n t e r v i e w her for a newly-launched city
magazine that wanted to be 'different' and feature people
outside the incestuous celebrity circuit. Pramila's quotes
were refreshingly original. She didn't dramatize her
life in a vulgar fashion like s o m e , especially the other
w o m e n spearheading the feminist movement in Bombay.
She s p o k e with a restraint and dignity which appealed
to the m i d d l e classes w h o found it impossible to relate
to the g u t - w r e n c h i n g catharsis of socialites who had
a l m o s t s u c c e e d e d in m a k i n g battering a status-symbol.
Pramila was e m e r g i n g as a 'Woman of Substance' (that's
what G o d titled his piece, rather unimaginatively).Their
attraction was inevitable and also understandable. Soon
G o d took to spending weekends at her Kala Nagar home,
actually playing daddy to her little girl and often taking
her for outings without her mother. The little girl was
relieved to have a man around the place after so many
m o n t h s . T h e p o o r child usually couldn't wait for Pramila
to g e t h o m e .
T h e a r r a n g e m e n t at Kala N a g a r was no better than
the previous one. If anything, it was w o r s e . Shruti, at
age seven, was given the key to the lock on the front
door. H e r meal was left in a tiffin b o x on the kitchen

267
 )e

table. After school, she walked h o m e , let herself in,

ate f r o m the tiffin box and waited for the m o t h e r to
return. S o m e t i m e s , she was even l o c k e d in 'for safety'
before Pramila left again for an urgent m e e t i n g at night.
It was then that Shruti began t o d e v e l o p phobias and
i m m e n s e fears. She'd wait in the dark, by the b a r r e d
window of the small r o o m , searching the dimly-lit street
in front of their house for s o m e signs of her mother.
G o d was moved by her plight. ' H o w can you do
this to her?' he asked Pramila angrily, i t just isn't fair.
It you don't have the t i m e to raise a c h i l d — s e n d her
h o m e to her father.'
Pramila stared at him impassively and said, i would
gladly do t h a t — b u t he d o e s n ' t want her.' Shruti, in
the b a t h r o o m , heard this conversation clearly. It was
one conversation she never f o r g o t .
G o d took to visiting Shruti on the days he k n e w
Pramila would be away attending to distress calls f r o m
various w o m e n while ignoring the distressed victim
she'd left behind at h o m e . G o d would play the flute
f o r S h r u t i and e n g a g e h e r a t t e n t i o n w i t h tales
made up on the spur of the m o m e n t . O n an i m p u l s e ,
he decided to buy her a television. Shruti was ecstatic.
Her m o t h e r wasn't.
i d o n ' t a p p r o v e o f s u c h t h i n g s , ' she sternly
admonished G o d .
'And I don't approve o f you,' he r e s p o n d e d .

268
 'You have no right to decide what is g o o d for my
child,' she s c r e a m e d .
'And you, my dear, have no right to be a mother,'
he c o u n t e r e d . Whether it was predominantly a sense
of c o m p a s s i o n for Shruti or a genuine feeling for her
mother, G o d , in one of his usual impulsive m o m e n t s ,
p r o p o s e d m a r r i a g e to Pramila. She wasn't interested.
At least, not immediately. Besides, she was worried
aboutYashwantbhai's reaction. He had been so generous,
so kind, often making sure his car d r o p p e d her home
after a late-night c o n f e r e n c e . If G o d knew about his
involvement, he didn't discuss it.

Meanwhile, G o d himself was c o m p l e t e l y i m m e r s e d in

Yashwantbhai's various operations, frequently
planting positive stories a b o u t his g o o d works
of charity. H e had rapidlv moved up in Yashwantbhai's
hierarchy... even a t r o u b l e - s h o o t e r for the champion
fixer himself.Yashwantbhai did not belong to anv political
p a r t y — h e p r e f e r r e d to finance c a n d i d a t e s instead.
Candidates of any and every hue, provided they had a
large enough base. 'I am not interested in seeking any
office for myself,' he'd b o a s t , ' I ' m bigger than any chief
minister.' Which in a way was t r u e . N o matter how
'big' he wasYashwantbhai needed G o d to deal effectively
with the press. G o d was perfectly aware of this and
used it to his own advantage, b e c o m i n g for all practical

269
p u r p o s e s , Yashwantbhai's chief m i n d e r and h e n c h m a n .
In return Yashwantbhai made sure God was
c o m f o r t a b l e — o u t - o f - t u r n a l l o t m e n t s of p r e c i o u s
c o m m o d i t i e s s u c h as c o o k i n g g a s , t e l e p h o n e a n d
now... a brand n e w Maruti.

Initially, G o d used to feel a little sheepish when

any of his new acquisitions w e r e m e n t i o n e d . But the
e m b a r r a s s m e n t soon w o r e off and was r e p l a c e d by a
devil-may-care cockiness. 'I d e s e r v e all this, d a m n it,'
he'd s n a p p e d , when I'd teased him lightly a b o u t his
smartly-tailored suit made f r o m a p r e m i u m suit material
m a n u f a c t u r e d by a mill Y a s h w a n t b h a i ' s n a m e w a s
a s s o c i a t e d with. ' L i c e n s e s , ' p e o p l e w o u l d w h i s p e r
referring to his clandestine involvement. But G o d chose
to concentrate on the arch rival of this mill and carried
on an organized campaign against him. It was all so
blatant and depressing. Only G o d didn't see it that way.
'Chhodo, vaar, that's the way the g a m e is played. If it's
too hot for y o u . . . shut u p . ' W h i l e I didn't exactly spend
sleepless nights worrying over G o d ' s future, there w e r e
times I felt severely disturbed bv his drift. It s e e m e d a
dangerous g a m e . And I wasn't sure he k n e w all the
rules. He only thought he did. Like the time he g o t
mixed up in the messy lives of the Khannas. And dragged
me into the m u c k with him. The Khannas w e r e trying
hard to w o o Yashwantbhai, w h o s e g o o n s were making
trouble for them at their suburban factory. G o d was
playing mediator. I went along for the kicks.

270
 T h e K h a n n a s lived in a swanky h i g h r i s e . T h e i r
a p a r t m e n t r e s e m b l e d a hot-house with glass and plants
everywhere. Dharam and his wife Ruki were in trouble.
Marital and financial. G o d g o t to know about both.
'Such info is u s e f u l , yaar,' he told m e , 'it can be used
as leverage.' As it eventually was.

' O n c e a b i t c h , always a bitch,' D h a r a m s n a r l e d ,

his lips c u r v i n g m a l i c i o u s l y over his n i c o t i n e - s t a i n e d
teeth.
'Yes... darling...' Ruki p u r r e d back, e x p o s i n g her
fleshy thighs though a t r a n s p a r e n t nightie, 'just
like... once a bastard always a bastard.'
' D o n ' t call m e t h a t . . . I warn you,' he tried to make
a m o v e in her d i r e c t i o n , b u t with all the whiskv in
h i m , he c o u l d n ' t g e t beyond two sloppy steps.
' D i d I call you s o m e t h i n g ? ' she asked arching her
e y e b r o w s , one hand busy filing her long nails.
' W h v d i d y o u a c c e p t the w a t c h — B I T C H ! ' he
bellowed.
' W h i c h w a t c h ? ' she asked sweetly, curiously.
'You bloody well k n o w which one.'
' O h that? Piagets m a k e such darling p o s t - c o i t a l
gifts, d o n ' t they?' she said absently and went back to
her nails.
'You have to stop your affair... or e l s e . . . or else '

271
 ' O r else what, sweetheart? D o n ' t be so dull. Let's
have s o m e intelligent conversation for a change. Tell
m e . . . how did you p e r f o r m at the A G M ? '
i ' m talking about that bloody watch and the fucking
m a n . . . you have to stop seeing him.'
'Tch! T c h ! Back to the s a m e old thing. Like a broken
r e c o r d . Let's flip the side at least. O r are we listening
to a C D ? '
'Why do you do this to m e ? What sadistic p l e a s u r e
do you get out of it? Wasn't it enough that I r e s c u e d
you from the g u t t e r s . W h e r e would you have been if
I hadn't m a r r i e d you? W h o r i n g away s o m e w h e r e . '
'Stop sounding so holier than thou, darling, it doesn't
suit vou at all. I am what 1 a m — y o u m a r r i e d a bitch,
now learn to live with one.'
It was Sunday m o r n i n g as usual for the Khannas.
A Sunday m o r n i n g like d o z e n s they'd seen b e f o r e .
And w e r e likely to in f u t u r e . T h e y ' d b e e n m a r r i e d
five years now. Five stormy, t e m p e s t u o u s y e a r s . It
was the s e c o n d t i m e r o u n d for b o t h of t h e m . His first
wife had left him for his best f r i e n d , while R u k i had
driven her husband to suicide. M u r d e r , insisted her
friends. When the two of them m e t , it s e e m e d inevitable
that they'd latch on to each other. She w a s l o o k i n g
for a h o m e . N o t just any h o m e . Preferably, a penthouse.
He wanted a g l a m o r o u s w o m a n to p r o v e to the w o r l d
he wasn't i m p o t e n t . He actually w a s . Luckily for b o t h
ot t h e m , there w e r e no children f r o m their r e s p e c t i v e

272
earlier marriages. And, of c o u r s e , there was no question
n o w of having any in this o n e . R u k i was a vibrant,
bright p e r s o n w h o attracted all s o r t s . At that m o m e n t ,
her most besotted admirer was a small-time businessman
with b i g - t i m e p l a n s . H e r h u s b a n d ' s associate actually.
He plied her with p r e s e n t s painstakingly p l a n n e d and
o r g a n i z e d f r o m all c o r n e r s of the w o r l d . If it was a
Piaget today, it c o u l d be a C a r t i e r t o m o r r o w . Ruki
had e x p e n s i v e tastes and habits. She o f t e n washed her
hair with D o m P e r i g n o n , j u s t to g e t the right b o u n c e
into it.
H e r husband, D h a r a m , was a pathetic man with a
nervous giggle.The giggle disconcerted everybody since
it e m e r g e d at the most unexpected m o m e n t s and without
any apparent r e a s o n . She was c o n s i d e r e d o u t r a g e o u s ,
witty, sharp and sexy. She flirted, oh yes, she did, but
in a way that was seductive rather than cheap. He just
drank.That was it. He drank. And smoked compulsively,
of c o u r s e . ' T h e t w o things g o together,' he'd giggle,
while she tickled his leg with her bare t o e . Yet, the
Khannas w e r e c o n s i d e r e d a g r e a t c o u p l e . 'Such fun to
have at parties,' e v e r y b o d y said.
The Khanna dogs were as famous as they were. 'Love
m e , love my d o g s , ' said Ruki as she walked into parties
with the two Great Danes dogging her footsteps docilely.
Many nasty stories did the r o u n d s as to how 'close'
the relationship of the m i s t r e s s was with her p e t s , but

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 : > h o b h a a De

she laughed it all off: 'Why, sweethearts? Are there no

men left in Bombay?'
Their 'best f r i e n d s ' , the Baroohas, were another
dissipated couple who had been married for twenty years
and survived.They all had one thing in c o m m o n — b o o z e .
As Ruki in her brighter moments would point out, 'More
marriages in Bombay are destroyed by booze than by
infidelity.' She was probably right.
The Baroohas had one a n t h e m — ' O u r children terrify
us.'Which they did.Their son was nineteen, their daughter
seventeen and between them they had s u c c e e d e d in
terrorizing their parents to a point where they were
actually frightened of being in the same r o o m with
their offspring. Servants r e p o r t e d with glee that often
Vikki-baba threw assorted objets at his m o t h e r and
called her names ranging f r o m 'nympho' to 'bitch'.
The daughter, Sweetie, adopted different t a c t i c s — s h e
killed her parents with cruelty. C o l d - b l o o d e d mental
cruelty. It was a constant refrain, an unending taunt,
'Where were you when I got my first period? Where
were vou when they threw m e out of school? Where
were vou when I m e t with an accident? Where were
you when my boyfriend knocked m e up and I nearly
bled to death on some quack's operating table?' She
stared at them unblinkingly, each glance rapier-sharp.
'I can't bear to look into her eyes,' her m o t h e r
confessed. 'She has a hypnotic effect. I feel she is constantly

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 Sultry Days

accusing m e of s o m e t h i n g . . . and waiting... waiting for

w h a t ? . . . perhaps to kill m e . '
They'd tried everything including bribery. It didn't
w o r k . ' O u r k i d s a r e far t o o s m a r t , ' t h e y ' d l a u g h
u n c o m f o r t a b l y in public. 'You can't buy them.'
'Try love,' s o m e o n e finally s u g g e s t e d .
'It w o n ' t w o r k , i t ' s t o o l a t e , ' M r s B a d m i t t e d
swiftly, candidly.

Into their w o r l d c a m e a black m a n . Literally, black.

He was with the A m e r i c a n C o n s u l a t e . His designation
was unclear. People s u s p e c t e d he was a C . I . A . agent
which he probably was. But Stash sure g o t around in
the city's high-flying social circle. Stash was laid-back,
c h a r m i n g and a stud t o b o o t . And, it was w h i s p e r e d ,
he had this scar.
' W h a t scar?' innocents would ask.
' O o o h . . . this magnificent s c a r , ' the s o c i a l i t e s
would groan.
' W h e r e did he get it?'
' H e d o e s n ' t say. M a y b e he w a s a g a n g s t e r in
Chicago b e f o r e he j o i n e d the foreign service,' said o n e
w o m a n moonily.
'Maybe he's a Vietnam vet w h o was slashed by a
guerilla,' fantasized another.
'Maybe he was with the D . E . A you know those
drug chaps who do all sorts of heroic things in Colombia,'
v o l u n t e e r e d a third.

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 De

'Maybe he just fell o f f a l a d d e r in his b a c k y a r d , '

laughed a fourth and that just about clinched the debate.
It didn't m a t t e r w h e r e Stash had a c q u i r e d his d r a m a t i c
scar which s t a r t e d at his left s h o u l d e r and travelled
all the wav d o w n his hard-as-steel belly. But each t i m e
he went for a s w i m at the Breach C a n d y p o o l , a hush
would follow his g r a c e f u l dive, as o t h e r s w o u l d f r e e z e
all activity to stare at his scar. Stash s e e m e d to genuinely
like India and Indians. H e cultivated all k i n d s — f r o m
d r o p - o u t s to socialites l o o k i n g f o r a g o o d t i m e . His
'open house' Sunday brunches used to attract everybody
from art film types to painters like Iqbal. And of c o u r s e ,
the Rukis and S w e e t i e s o f Bombay.

It was at the h o m e of the Sachs that the Baroohas ran

into Stash (and discovered that he had been dating their
daughter). The Sachs were an interesting
couple he a G e r m a n , she a Goan he'd m e t on the
sands of Baga beach when both were stoned. Their parties
were considered fun, b e c a u s e they c o m b i n e d Bavarian
beer and sausages with spicy Goan prawn curries... with
a crowd that was as interesting as the cuisine.
Cheetah, the Goan girl, had begun to look and sound
G e r m a n with her bleached blonde hair and black leather
outfits w o r n through Bombay's sweltering s u m m e r s .
S o m e said unkindly that she looked like a h o o k e r f r o m
H a m b u r g and behaved like o n e , w h i l e her h u s b a n d

276
r e s e m b l e d a N e o - N a z i with his c l o s e - c r o p p e d hair and
manic blue eyes. Herr Herman was a strange man (kinky,
according to insiders). H e ' d b e e n in India for ten years
and obviously had no intentions of going back. H o w
he m a n a g e d to stay on, nobody knew. But the Sachs
lived well, in a h o u s e full of b r o o d i n g etchings ( m o s t
Teutonic) and cheerful Madhubanis. They entertained
often, preferring Friday nights, so that hungover friends
could stick around and surface at noon the next afternoon.
O r s o m e t i m e s even later... in time for a tall drink to
take in the sunset on the balconvj and listen to the sound
of the waves crashing on the r o c k s downstairs.

Stash was c o o l . . . real c o o l , when M r s B confronted

him.
H e tried being polite, 'Lady, your daughter isn't a
little girl any longer. She knows what she's doing.'
But M r s B w o u l d n ' t let up. M r B l o o k e d foolish as
he bit into a f r a n k f u r t e r and asked for a can of beer.
He could sense his wife's m o o d . She was egging Stash
o n . . . and he wasn't sure why. But he could guess. Perhaps
she was jealous. She did have this c o m p e t i t i v e thing
with Sweetie. And of late, she'd been making her rivalry
pretty obvious. It h a p p e n e d with him too. If he ever
paid Sweetie one c o m p l i m e n t t o o many his wife would
c o m e down on him heavily, 'That girl's head is big enough.
Why do you keep showering her with stupid

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 :>hobhaa De

compliments?' If Sweetie sensed her mother's attitude

(and Sweetie was a sharp girl), she chose to ignore it.
Though there were times when it appeared as if she
was flaunting herself, flirting with her father or any
male present, just to t o r m e n t M r s B.
Mrs Khanna would tell her friend not to panic.
'Look, love, it happens to all of us. We all have to face
a g e . . . wrinkles, fat thighs droopy b o o b s . . . so what?
Sweetie is a beauty. Be proud of her. Enjoy her. D o n ' t
try and keep up with her, or you'll end up with Slashed
wrists in a bathtub.'
Mrs B agreed with her and yet she couldn't resist
the temptation to camouflage her years. She'd giggle
at parties, 'My, my, it's so silly... but whenever Sweetie
and I go out, people stare at us and say, wow... who is
the mother and who the daughter?'
Sweetie would glare at her and snap, 'I've never
heard that.'
O r Mrs B would walk into Sweetie's r o o m and ask
casually, 'Mind if I borrow your white sweater? In any
case, white doesn't do much for y o u . . . it looks better
on me.'
Her favourite stories about shopping abroad revolved
around all the times Sweetie and she went looking
for clothes t o g e t h e r only to be told by astonished
s h o p g i r l s , ' H e y ! You t w o m o t h e r and d a u g h t e r ?
M a n . . . that's real neat.' And M r s B w o u l d go on to
describe how she could fit perfectly into her jeans

278
while S w e e t i e had to have h e r s a l t e r e d . ' I m a g i n e . . . 1
haven't w o r n skirts since I left s c h o o l . . . my legs are
nice and all t h a t . . . but in t h o s e days girls switched to
saris by the t i m e they w e r e s i x t e e n . A n d last year
when we w e r e l o o k i n g f o r things f o r S w e e t i e , the
shop assistant said, "Why don't you try on one of these?"
And g u e s s w h a t it w a s ? A tight s k i r t . . . really clingy!
I t h o u g h t , " M y G o d — h o w can I wear this? W h a t will
hubby say? And V i k k i - b a b a ? "
'But the w o m a n insisted, so I said, "Fine, no harm
in trying it on." D o you k n o w when I walked out of
the changing r o o m , p e o p l e s t o p p e d and stared! Too
m u c h , yaar! T h e w o m a n said, "It looks great on you.
Take it in all c o l o u r s . " T h e y had six.
'So, again I thought, " K o i boat nahi... if I feel bad
to wear these things in India, I'll pass them on to Sweetie."
So I b o u g h t all six. Wore them all through the holiday.
People didn't believe I was m a r r i e d . 1 went to a bar
wearing the r e d one. At least t w o fellows tried to pick
m e up. Gave m e cigarettes and what not. It was fun,
yaar. After so many years I c o u l d feel the sun on my
legs.' S o m e o n e asked her what her husband thought
of her new w a r d r o b e . 'I d o n ' t say anything about his
ridiculous Polo shirts which are three sizes t o o small
for him. At least I d o n ' t have a paunch. My figure is
still g o o d . . . so why hide it?'
To g o with the new look, she'd also invested in snazzy
a c c e s s o r i e s , and a c o m p l e t e make-over starting with

279
her hair. She now w o r e it c l o s e - c r o p p e d and p e r m e d .
It looked O K with her skirts, but when she w o r e saris
and huge bindis, she l o o k e d like a transvestite. But
nobody d a r e d tell her that.

Now, here she was giving Stash the eye, staring intently
at his crotch whenever she thought he wasn't looking.
i d o n ' t like mv daughter dating f o r e i g n e r s , ' she
said imperiously.
To which Stash r e t o r t e d , ' F o r e i g n e r s , m a ' a m ? O r
just blacks? Would you have o b j e c t e d as m u c h if I'd
been a white A m e r i c a n ? '
'What c h e e k ! ' said M r s B. ' H o w dare you ask m e
something like that?'
'Be honest,' Stash c a r r i e d on. 'It is the colour of
my skin that scares you, d o e s n ' t it?'
'Rubbish!'
'It's happened to m e before... don't worry. Especially
in India.' And then he told her about the time he was
asked by his white b o s s to stand in for him at s o m e
official function. When Stash got there, the Indian hosts
waiting in the reception line refused to let him in! Finally,
he p r o d u c e d his business card. At which point, one of
the p e o p l e t r o m the w e l c o m i n g c o m m i t t e e had the
grace to apologize but not b e f o r e blurting o u t , ' O h
n o . . . so s o r r y . . . but we were not e x p e c t i n g a n e g r o .
Never m i n d . . . c o m e in, c o m e in.'

280
 'So you see,' Stash continued, 'it is the "never mind"
attitude that betrays p e o p l e . I didn't feel bad. A m u s e d ,
maybe. But you Indians are the m o s t colour-conscious
p e o p l e in the world.' And then, looking Mrs B straight
in the eye, Stash t u r n e d on the juices: ' H o w about a
swim this Sunday?Your daughter does great in the pool.
I have a feeling you'll do even better.'
Mrs B found herself blushing. ' O h . . . I don't
know... I can't really s w i m . . . I don't have a swimsuit '
Stash smiled and waited for her to finish. 'All that
can be fixed... let's say eleven-thirty at the Breach Candy?
I'll sign vou in '
Mrs B had finally scored one over her daughter... and
this time she hadn't even tried. But it was Ruki who
got Stash first. It was a Cakewalk for her. And as she
put it later, 'Every w o m a n must have a black experience
at least once in her life. And Stash is mine.'
Getting pictures of them cavorting in the swimming
p o o l had been easy for G o d . All it took was a small
bribe. An obliging servant from a neighbouring apartment
that o v e r l o o k e d the p o o l t o o k t h e m with a s i m p l e
t e l e p h o t o lens. G o d was gloating as he showed them
to m e . 'That will take care of the Khannas. And that
black bugger,' he said. ' T h e langoor will lose his job.
And the Khannas their reputation.'
' H o w ? Why?' I asked, genuinely puzzled.
'Everybody knows Ruki screws around So what's
the difference this t i m e ? ' G o d wiggled his eyebrows

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 Shobhaa De

enigmatically, lowered his voice and said, ' C . I . A . Ever

heard of it? C.I. A.'
I w a s still t r y i n g t o f i g u r e that o n e o u t , w h e n
I o v e r h e a r d his call t o Y a s h w a n t b h a i ' s o f f i c e . ' N o
p r o b l e m . . . no p r o b l e m . Y e s w e have the p i c t u r e s . Y e s
they are clear. Yes, I can d e l i v e r e n l a r g e m e n t s by
t o m o r r o w . Yes, t h e y w i l l b e in D h a r a m ' s o f f i c e
immediately. O K O K . ' T h e - s t r a t e g y w a s s i m p l e — a n d
as old as the h i l l s — b l a c k m a i l . I c o u l d n ' t quite visualize
Ruki as a m o d e r n - d a y Mata H a r i , s o m e h o w . But those
d r e a d e d i n i t i a l s — C . I . A . — w e r e e n o u g h to b r i n g her
husband crawling to Yashwantbhai with an o f f e r to
make p e r m a n e n t p e a c e in e x c h a n g e for the negatives.
G o d had n o t c h e d up another t r i u m p h . And i m p r e s s e d
his b o s s . I w o n d e r e d what his r e w a r d w a s this t i m e ?
A m i n i - f a c t o r y of his o w n ?

282
 Thirteen

od had m a n a g e d to infiltrate the super-exclusive

G ' H i g h n e s s ' Club. To t h o s e o u t s i d e its hallowed
precincts, it didn't exist. To b e l o n g to it, o n e had to
have b l o o d bluer than the D a n u b e coursing through
the veins. It was r e g a r d e d as s o m e t h i n g of a j o k e to
those w h o w e r e aware of its e x i s t e n c e but w e r e n ' t a
p a r t of it. H o w G o d m a n a g e d to w a n g l e an invitation
to a swanky party thrown by a derelict princeling eager
to impress other equally derelict royals, I'll never know,
but it had something to do with his being commissioned
to w r i t e a lengthy p i e c e by s o m e Brit paper. The Raj
had never g o n e out of style for a section of nostalgic
r e a d e r s residing in England. So m u c h so, that editors
short on ideas for weekend s u p p l e m e n t s invariably fell
back on R a j - r e l a t e d s t o r i e s with 'fresh' angles. This
o n e w a s n ' t very different. But it was a first for G o d .
'This is big t i m e . . . phoren paper, yaar, everybody dies
to write for them. O n e article and five thousand rupees.'

283
 I tried to look i m p r e s s e d . ' S o how are you planning
to tackle the story? N e w angle?'
' D e p e n d s on the b r i e f . . . will you help m e ? '
'I'll have to chuck up my j o b first.'
'Why d o n ' t you? Such a b o r e . . . w r i t i n g shit for
shitty people.'
'It pays.'
'Theek hai... so will s o m e other job.'
'OK.'
' O K what?'
' O K , I'll quit.'
'You mean it?'
'Test me.'

I did just that. Q u i t . It was quite painless. Roy asked

whether I'd like freelance for them and I a g r e e d . Kawla
and the studio boys d e c i d e d to give m e a farewell. They
asked the typist to make out a list with a separate column
to fill in contributions.
'Must keep p r o p e r accounts,' Kawla said.
'Yes, that's i m p o r t a n t , ' I a g r e e d .
I felt e m b a r r a s s e d when the p e o n c a m e around to
each table and everybody r e a c h e d f o r their wallets.
They didn't feel at all shy as they d e b a t e d on whether
to shell out ten b u c k s , fifteen or twenty. At the end of
the exercise they had m a n a g e d to collect one hundred
and eighty-five r u p e e s . Kawla p o n d e r e d over the m e n u

284
for the treat. He was keen on chivda, samosas, barfi
and bananas.The others p r e f e r r e d bhajiyas and pastries.
They c o m p r o m i s e d by knocking o f f barfi and including
pastries. But that left a shortfall of thirty-five r u p e e s .
Everyone g r u m b l e d and the calculations started all over
again. I intervened and o f f e r e d to make up the deficit.
' N o , n o , no,' they p r o t e s t e d in a c h o r u s , 'that is
not allowed.' Someone pulled out a calculator and decided
it would m e a n t w o r u p e e s m o r e p e r p e r s o n .
'What a b o u t cold drinks?' s o m e o n e else piped up.
' G o l d Spot? L i m c a ? T h u m s U p ? '
'Yes, we m u s t have cold d r i n k s . . . so hot otherwise.'
' T h a t m e a n s a n o t h e r t w o r u p e e s , ' the a m a t e u r
accountant said. Eventually, the cold drinks were dropped
and the canteen boy was instructed to p r o d u c e an extra
r o u n d of tea.
T h e w h o l e thing was rather sweet and touching.
Especially the part when the typist hesitantly p r o d u c e d
a gift.
'It is f r o m all of u s , ' she s a i d . T h o p e y o u like
i t . . . o p e n it, o p e n it.'
I didn't really want to, b u t they would have been
d i s a p p o i n t e d . It t u r n e d out to be a c r o c h e t e d bag with
b a m b o o handles.The kind Goan maids brought to Dhobi
Talao m a r k e t for vegetables. I tried to look enthusiastic
and g u s h e d over it. ' J u s t what I n e e d e d , ' I said.
'Liar,' a voice h i s s e d in my e a r s . It w a s Willie.
I winked at him. I was g o i n g to miss him.

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 Shobhaa De

T h e executives asked m e for a free date so that

we could all m e e t up at Aarti's place f o r drinks and
Bhendi Bazaar biryani. I g o t the feeling they w e r e
just being formal and hoping I'd decline. For a p e r v e r s e
moment 1 felt like accepting—just to see their crestfallen
expressions. But decided it wasn't w o r t h it. So I m a d e
up a story about a long holiday a b r o a d , p i c k e d up
the hideous crochet bag and left, Aarti staring quizzically
a f t e r m e , her hands b u s y as usual t u g g i n g at her
u n d e r a r m hair.

God had been granted a pretty generous travel allowance.

O r so he claimed. Besides the article on royalty for
the Brit paper, he had been c o m m i s s i o n e d a couple of
times by an NRI lifestyle glossy, and he'd successfully
m a n a g e d to s q u e e z e a d d i t i o n a l f u n d s o u t of the
commissioning editors. As he put it, 'These f u c k e r s
try to short-change local writers while paying the top
buck to their own chootiyas. I know how this g a m e
works now. It's all a question of getting that first byline.
In any case, it's cheaper for them to pay s o m e o n e like
me than send out a reporter.'
I was pretty impressed. Most Indian journalists felt
so privileged just to be asked to write by s o m e cruddy
foreign publication, they ended up doing it for peanuts.
But not God. 'Time is money, yaar,' he'd say lazily, adding,

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 Sultry Days

'Besides, I like screwing those fuckers.' God was getting

to like his newly-acquired status.
Plume had acquired the reputation of being India's
first major literary journal. O n e that looked as good
as it read. And G o d was justifiably p r o u d of his role in
its u n e x p e c t e d success. Its monthly schedule left him
plenty of time to take on other assignments—like the
current one. Professionally at least, things were beginning
to look up for G o d .
O n the personal front we had graduated to being
buddies. Maybe both of us preferred it that way. I missed
the old passion and romantic tug s o m e t i m e s , but this
version of G o d was easier on my heart and mind. We
met frequently enough—but without the old accusations,
demands and fights. G o d was m o r e relaxed (and m o r e
secure) about himself. So was I. It m a d e it easier for
both of us to occasionally work on a piece together.
He was trying to swing s o m e m o r e lolly out of his
publishers so that I'd be covered. I was looking forward
to going exotic with him, visiting palaces and interviewing
royalty. The only rajkumari I knew was broke and batty.
She'd c o m e to our home a couple of times along with
some ladies' group raising funds for savingTehri Garhwal.
It could have been R e d Cross charities. O r starving
Ethiopians. D e s p i t e her tacky a p p e a r a n c e , I'd been
fascinated by her. Hooded eyes, hooked nose, over painted
mouth, dyed hair, faded chiffon sari and strands and
strands of pearls ( ' F a k e , ' said the c o r p o r a t e wives

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knowingly). Yet, she'd taken over the proceedings and

filled the r o o m with her presence. She'd behaved like
she was holding a durbar and the rest were handmaidens.
Imperious, arrogant and penniless. When she had asked
for a tenner for a taxi back home, it was a royal command
that nobody dared to refuse. Lots of handbags had flown
open and she had picked up all the takings. The act
was so stylishly performed that the women looked almost
flattered and grateful.
I was keen on G o d featuring her. 'That zombie?
N o , don't be crazy. She doesn't have a d i m e to her
name and faces eviction. Her children have disowned
her... so have the other Highnesses. She isn't allowed
into the club as she hasn't paid her dues. Wonder who
pays for her hair dye... or maybe she uses shoe polish.'
'If you d o n ' t w a n t to d o h e r . . . I w i l l , ' I said
spontaneously.
'Who for?'
' O h . . . I don't know. I'll just do it and then w o r r y
about flogging the piece.'
'Theek hai, but don't try and palm it off on m e .
I don't want to blow my first big assignment for these
phirang guys.'

Her Highness Kanwal K u m a r i of D h o g r a g a r h , was

considered a j o k e — a n unfunny one.

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 Suit.sy Days

'She is a royal pain in the ass,' said a Maharaja to

God while he was being interviewed and photographed.
'A scrounger,' his wife chipped in.
'That hag-bag—I wouldn't have her in my house.
She probably has fleas,' bitched another p r i n c e l i n g —
a minor one.
'Her "state" even in the old days, was the size of
my handkerchief,' sniffed a Maharani with pink hair.
'She isn't even legitimate... one of several bastard
children,' claimed an erstwhile sardar.
'Nothing but tall claims. Anything to sponge a meal
off someone,' insisted an ex-bridge companion.
And yet, I found her compelling. She had m o r e class
than the lot of them. And she was still striking in her
sixties, or seventies or eighties. It was hard to tell.
'What do you find in that old bag?' G o d asked with
great irritation, after I'd spent three hours with her. It
had cost m e a lunch at a nearby Irani's, but I didn't
mind. I'd enjoyed watching her stately progress through
the over-crowded restaurant full of office-goers and
share bazaar brokers. She'd sailed through them all,
majestically, regally, till she'd commandeered a convenient
table for the two of us. I was amazed at her appetite.
She'd run through an egg curry, two naans and a plate
of chicken biryani, before asking for a tall glass of falooda.
Then with great panache, she'd wiped her greasy mouth,
reapplied bright orange lipstick and stuck a cigarette
h o l d e r b e t w e e n her l i p s . I f u m b l e d a r o u n d for

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m a t c h e s — I always c a r r i e d t h e m for G o d . She waited

patiently till I found t h e m .
'Ashtray,' she'd w h i s p e r e d throatily t o a p a s s i n g
waiter, w h o was totally f o x e d . E v e r y b o d y there j u s t
flicked ash into the nearest dish. 'Filthy habit, d o n ' t
you think?' she'd asked m e .
I'd n o d d e d in a g r e e m e n t and e c h o e d , 'Filthy.'

I sent her story to the Sunday s u p p l e m e n t of a local

paper. It was a c c e p t e d . I was astonished and delighted.
They needed pictures. I thought of Pebbles and d e c i d e d
against it. His rates had z o o m e d into the stratosphere
and he had b e c o m e a o n e - m a n i n d u s t r y c o r n e r i n g
j u s t a b o u t e v e r y a s s i g n m e n t in the m a r k e t . God
recommended a comparative newcomer, a brooding,
bearded, silent-as-death, bear of a m a n . H e was so hairy
and so quiet, it d i s o r i e n t e d m e . Had he o p e n e d his
m o u t h and spoken, I w o u l d n ' t have had t o c o n c e n t r a t e
on the forest on his f o r e a r m s . It was amazing, the fuzz
all over D.D. (nobody ever asked him what D . D . s t o o d
for and nobody knew). I often wondered how he encashed
c h e q u e s and w h a t the n a m e o n his p a s s p o r t r e a d .
I even asked once. But he stared at m e intently and
looked away with a stricken e x p r e s s i o n .
Kanwal K u m a r i of D o g r a g a r h ate o u t o n the s t o r y
for weeks a f t e r that. T h e r e w a s s o m e t h i n g so p o i g n a n t
a b o u t her kind of p o v e r t y that she s o o n had the m e d i a

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creeping up to cash in on it. T h e little piece on her

got picked up by the biggies. She made it to a television
clip on a popular news-cassette magazine. And it wasn't
long before the Raj-hungry Brits g o t her. Her Highness
found herself the subject of a Channel 4 documentary.
What's m o r e , she g o t paid handsomely for it. And
they threw in three French chiffons too. I was glad
for her. But even gladder for myself I had finally found
s o m e t h i n g to do. S o m e t h i n g m o r e interesting than
fooling around with a semi-colon for a fortnight and
then finally scrapping the ad.

My first freelance assignment for the agency was

a crazy one. D e Boss called m e in one morning. He
was at his favourite p a s t i m e , playing with b a l l s — i f
that sounds like a cheap j o k e , it is. He was doing it
all the t i m e , one way or the other. U n d e r the desk or
over the billiard table.
' Aah... Nisha. How are things?' he asked, still playing.
' O K . The usual.'
'Well... I was just wondering... remember Mrs Bhalla,
the c l i e n t - w h o - w a s n ' t ? W e l l . . . s h e ' s having this
party... I understand it's T H E thing these days. T h e m e
p a r t i e s . . . been to one? She wants us to co-ordinate it,
suggest an appropriate theme, work on the cards, help
her out with the guest-list... that sort of thing. I thought

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I'd put you on the j o b , you have a g o o d head for stuff
like this.'
I stared at his bare toes (he always k n o c k e d o f f his
shoes the m o m e n t he e n t e r e d his cavern). T h e man
sure had strange notions about my abilities.Theme parties
and I? I told him t h e m e p a r t i e s w e r e old hat and had
gone out with b e l l - b o t t o m pants and blue m o v i e s . The
'in' thing as I u n d e r s t o o d it, were tequila p a r t i e s where
everybody got boozed up and danced the Mexican shuffle
with the c o o k .
I called and told M r s Bhalla as m u c h . She was silent
for a while and said, 'Yes, yes, yes, but in our circle
we only drink is-kotch and sherry.'
Did she have a t h e m e in mind?
' O u r friends like to dress up.'
'Fancy dress?'
' N o t like clowns, that is for children... we like to wear
different-different clothes. Clothes we don't usually wear.'
She didn't m e a n drag, did she? She hadn c heard of
it. So I tiredly suggested fantasy... and she j u m p e d .
'Kya i d e a ! '
I felt obliged t o tell her that fantasy p a r t i e s had
been d o n e to death. It was M r s Bhalla's t u r n t o r e m i n d
m e that there was, after all, no limit t o fantasy.
'Anything is possible,' she g l o a t e d .
'So it is,' I a g r e e d , 'Why n o t a Rich Bitch Party,'
I asked her. She thought it over carefully and said, 'But
what about the m e n ? '

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 Su I try Days

'They can come too... haven't you met male bitches?'

I volunteered.
'I will have to ask my h u s b a n d . . . he is q u i t e
conservative you know,' she giggled.
'Tell him it will be the talk of the town and he'll
agree,' I suggested.
'Yes... we can also s e r v e tequila along with the
is-kotch... that way, we'll have both—theme and tequila.'

We worked on her party with Kawla feeling m o r e than

a little inspired. He came up with a cut-out card. A
black p o m with a diamond collar. The wording in doggy-
speak ended with a 'Bow wow back on 6 7 1 8 9 2 if you
are attending. D r e s s : Any bitch way you can.'
G o d was dying to gatecrash. I hadn't been to a party
with him in ages. As a matter of fact, I hadn't really
been seeing him all that regularly. I'd realized by then
that it was impossible to tie s o m e o n e like G o d down
to a socially-correct relationship involving daily meetings,
phone calls and exchanges. There was no question of a
c o m m i t m e n t from his side. Perhaps there never had
been one. I'd accepted the premise—reluctantly at first
and then with tolerant resignation. God was a free spirit.
And, in my own way, I s u p p o s e , so was I.The 'Pramila'
chapter had upset m e . . . even hurt m e . But I hadn't
kept up with it on an obsessive level. I didn't even ask
him w h e t h e r it was on or off when he strolled in

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 Shobhaa De

unexpectedly one wretchedly hot day and lit a beedi

cheerfully. I w a t c h e d him sweat all over my table,
I even held his clammy hands in mine. It was g o o d to
see him again. And this party was exactly what we both
needed to unwind and have s o m e fun together.
'Chalo, let's check it out,' I said but refused to dress
in anything but my usual party sari. G o d was keen on
playing the part and asked my advice. 'Why not something
sexy? Like, how about a silver bikini?' I said.
'I don't want to spend any money.'
So Kawla and I came up with a crushed foil tube
outfit that we stapled into place on him. It looked rather
spectacular if absurd. G o d was w o r r i e d about his hairy
legs and chest. He should've relaxed.That mad evening
saw hairier men in lame bikinis. If anyone stood out,
it was I. S o m e o n e c a m e up and asked m e why I hadn't
dressed up.
Before I could reply, G o d interjected, 'Because she
isn't a rich bitch. Only a p o o r one.' H e was helping
himself to one tequila after another even after I'd warned
him that tequila was different from bewda. ' G e t off
my case, yaar,' he snarled. 'Always spoiling my fun.'
I wandered off to talk to a woman in slinky black.
She had stuck on a poodle's tail and m a d e a poodle
puff out of her hair. She looked pretty stunning. I don't
know how she'd rigged it, but with a flick of her finger,
she was able to wag her tail. I instructed the photographer
to click her. Mrs Bhalla was determined to have her

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 Sultry Bavi

party splashed in a society glossy that featured 'happenings'

like this one.
The p o o d l e turned to m e and said, ' D o n ' t 1 know
you f r o m s o m e w h e r e ? W h e r e ? ' I l o o k e d blank but
interested. 'Aren't y o u . . . wait a m i n u t e . . . aren't you
Verma's daughter... the one who used to win all those
prizes at school? O f course, you are. And how you have
changed. What do you do these days? And why are you
so peculiarly dressed? I ' m surprised Kamlesh let you
in wearing that sari.'
'There's nothing wrong with my sari. And talking
of being peculiarly dressed, how about you?'
' D o n ' t get so touchy, my dear. I w a s n ' t b e i n g
bitchy... sorry... I shouldn't admit that tonight. But
you do seem rather out of place. A drink?'
' N o thanks. And do I know you?'
'I'm not s u r e . . . unless your father confided all his
secrets in you. And knowing C h a m p - o h . . . that's what
I called him those days... as well as 1 do, he couldn't
have told you. I was his dirty little secret before that
smelly Sindhi took over. But we were discreet, your
father and I. We didn't flaunt our affair the way that
bitch did. You talked to m e over the phone several
t i m e s . . . now do you recognize m e . . . or at least, my
voice? I ' m F l o r a . . . r e m e m b e r m e now? I was your
father's secretary. I was the one who kept track of your
birthday and your parents' anniversary. You'd got lost
o n c e — r e m e m b e r ? The car didn't reach your school

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on time and you started to walk h o m e ? Your father

was panic-stricken. I had to phone your mother to inform
her. Anyway—now you know.'
Just then, G o d lurched up and pulled Flora's tail.
She whirled around to see who it was... and then laughed.
'It's you! 1 should've known. Ever ready to chase a
piece of tail, huh? How have you been?'
God put his paws on her bare shoulders and tried
to kiss her mouth. ' D o w n , boy, down,' she said, 'Ron
might be looking... and he's a very jealous man.'
'Who's this Ron-Shon, yaar? God demanded.
' H e ' s . . . he's my husband. T h e r e . . . that's him,' she
said pointing to a huge foreigner drinking beer.
'That b a s t a r d . . . how c o m e you m a r r i e d him?'
'I fell in love with the bastard,' Flora laughed.
'You would,' G o d sneered. 'What does he do with
himself these days... he's out of the t e a m , isn't he?
Bloody fool. Fighting with umpires. Abusing players.
Where did you meet him?'
'At a m a t c h . . . naturally,' Flora said.
'Stop your bullshit. You must've been one of the
girls lined up for the cricketers by that goddess. What's
her name?' G o d asked, turning to m e .
'I don't know.'
' O f course you know! Stop playing d u m b . She's
the one who lagaoes a lot of bhav... m a r r i e d to the TV
joker. Forever throwing parties for visiting jocks,' G o d
continued.

296
 'It's not i m p o r t a n t , ' I said, adding, 'I can see the
bastard heading t o w a r d s u s . . . and he d o e s n ' t look very
happy.'
' B a c k off, Deb,' Flora w a r n e d , looking n e r v o u s .
'You know what R o n is like. Hurry. But you might
t r i p . . . watch your step.'
G o d had b o r r o w e d a ridiculously high-heeled pair
of sandals f r o m a m o d e l - f r i e n d of his. T h e only girl in
town w h o w o r e a size nine. N o w he was unable to
take t w o steps without stumbling. In any case, he was
far t o o sloshed. He j u s t s t o o d there leering while Ron
a p p r o a c h e d us m a k i n g his way through the c r o w d . He
was looking pretty ridiculous too, dressed in a sequinned
g o w n with t w o red balloons stuffed into the neckline.
H e c a m e directly up to G o d and without a w o r d , tore
off the foil. G o d ' s hands flew to his crotch.
R o n bellowed, 'Just o n e hand will do, mate. You
d o n ' t n e e d the other. N o t m u c h of a man are you?'
I felt very s o r r y for G o d at that m i n u t e . H e l o o k e d
s o p u n y , m i s e r a b l e and r i d i c u l o u s , s t a n d i n g t h e r e
s t a r k e r s o n his high h e e l s , his b e a r d full of b r e a d
c r u m b s , a h a l f - s m o k e d c i g a r e t t e in one hand, a glass
of tequila in the other. T h e p a r t y c o n t i n u e d t o whirl
a r o u n d us, with j u s t the b a r t e n d e r gazing intently at
G o d ' s e x p o s e d genitals.
F l o r a , in o n e g r a c e f u l g e s t u r e , t o o k the c i g a r e t t e
f r o m G o d ' s l i m p f i n g e r s and p u l l e d at it briefly. O n c e
the tip w a s g l o w i n g again, she f l i c k e d o f f the ash,

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 Shobhaa De

raised her a r m languidly and b u r s t the r e d balloons

s t u f f e d into R o n ' s g o w n . B a n g ! B a n g ! T h e s o u n d
attracted s o m e attention but not m u c h . R o n blinked
and looked down at his deflated breasts with a puzzled
air. T h e neckline, without anything to fill it, f l o p p e d
down his c h e s t — e x p o s i n g a bright red w a r t . Flora
r e t u r n e d the cigarette to G o d ' s m o u t h , t w e a k e d my
cheek and started to walk away.
'Where do you think you are going, bitch?' Ron
hollered after her and lunged for her tail. He managed
to grab it just as she pulled away. It came off in his
hand and he stared at it stupidly. G o d had taken refuge
behind the bar by now. R o n chucked the tail at him
and said, ' H e r e . . . you w e n t s n i f f i n g a f t e r F l o r a ' s
tail... you've got it. G o frig with it, cunt.'
The bartender replenished God's glass and gave him
his apron to wear around his waist. And that's how we
left the party, with G o d ' s naked b u m wiggling past
Mrs Bhalla at the door as we went in search of a cab.
$

Writing tor Sunday supplements was fine. And fun.

But it didn't fetch m e too much money. And money
was what I needed. Badly. Besides, freelancers are the
real pariahs of j o u r n a l i s m — n o b o d y pays them either
on time or sufficiently. Yet, everybody needs them. I
had assignments galore. I even g o t to travel Well,

298
mainly to hick places the staffers didn't want to go to.
It was e n j o y a b l e . . . but hardly r e w a r d i n g in m o n e t a r y
t e r m s . But I went along for the ride, covering abandoned
m o n u m e n t s , a b a n d o n e d w i v e s , a b a n d o n e d pets and
abandoned d r e a m s . S o m e t h i n g was clearly w r o n g — I
was w o r k i n g harder than ever b e f o r e in my life, but
my bank b a l a n c e w a s d i s m a l l y low. And h o r r o r o f
h o r r o r s , the i m p o r t a n c e of m o n e y had b e g u n to dawn
on m e . . . finally.
I also discovered to my utter s u r p r i s e that I had
business sense. This was by accident. A schoolfriend
showed up u n e x p e c t e d l y f r o m Dubai. 'Can you supply
basmati rice and chick peas to a few g r o c e r s there?'
she a s k e d . R a t h e r a s t r a n g e e n q u i r y a d d r e s s e d to
s o m e o n e w h o was neither a f a r m e r nor a shopkeeper.
Recklessly, I a g r e e d . And that's how I b e c a m e a trader.
D i d it really r e p r e s e n t m u c h of a p r o g r e s s i o n f r o m
being a lowly ad agency hack? N o t really. But selling
c h i c k p e a s t o the A r a b s w a s m o r e f u n than selling
cigarettes to the locals.
My n e w - f o u n d career also b r o u g h t with it a w h o l e
bunch of fresh f r i e n d s — t h e 'Gulfies' as they were called.
It was a loosely-knit fraternity of p e o p l e w h o had once
lived in the G u l f and were d r e a m i n g of the day when
they could p a c k up their dishwasher and m i c r o oven
and take the first Gulf Air flight to a n y w h e r e — M u s c a t ,
Bahrain, Kuwait, it d i d n ' t really matter.

299
 I m e t Harsh and his terrifyingly talented wife, Bubli,
die-hard Gulfies w h o now lived in B o m b a y and w e r e
engaged in s o m e highly dubious trading activity, at one
of the first ' G u l f i e ' parties I a t t e n d e d .
'So long as they aren't selling little boys to sheikhs,
whether for camel racing or b u g g e r i n g , they are all
right,' G o d warned m e . He had just done a major e x p o s e
on that vile practice and was full of m o r a l o u t r a g e ,
huffing and puffing about cruelty to kids and exploitation.
He was still close to Pramila's daughter and perhaps
their closeness had something to do with his tenderness
towards children.
Bubli was anything but bubbly. She was an incredibly
ugly woman with a cave-like mouth, painted m u d brown.
She designed ferocious-looking j e w e l l e r y using b o n e ,
h o r n , metal scrap, r o p e s and other r o u g h stuff. For
s o m e perfectly irrational reason her chunky o r n a m e n t s
had b e c o m e the rage, both in Bombay and N e w York,
where she was selling to ritzy stores like Sak's. Using
all her old Gulf contacts, she'd set up shop at the Hilton
in Dubai with one of the wives of one of the sheikhs as
a local partner. It was unclear what Harsh was selling
besides himself. 'A male w h o r e ' was how I'd heard him
described at a party. T h e i r s was certainly a s t r a n g e
marriage. What in their circle was referred to as a 'Typical
Bombay m a r r i a g e , yaar. She g o e s her way and he g o e s
his'. Both of them were sharp d r e s s e r s and known for
their g o o d taste. They'd survived in the Gulf without

300
s u c c u m b i n g t o synthetics. At one point, he had sold
trendy cottons to Australia and by that transaction alone,
he called himself a ' d e s i g n e r ' with his own label. She
too designed clothes—one-of-a-kind garments,
painstakingly put together f r o m bits and pieces bought
f r o m a jari-puranawalla. They l o o k e d sensational and
sold very well with w o m e n w h o w o r e them once and
chucked t h e m into s t o r a g e .
'In any case, darling,' said a T V star w h o specialized
in quiz shows, 'her finish is so a t r o c i o u s , the clothes
just fall apart after o n e wear. 1 was deeply e m b a r r a s s e d
one day at the studios. T h e r e I was introducing last
week's winning t e a m to everybody on c a m e r a , when
I heard the first r r r r i p . I ignored it and carried on with
my arm extended. Then I heard the second
r r r r i p . . . and with it, the sleeve fell off. Yes! It just fell
right off and lay there on the floor. T h e contestants
didn't know what to do. I saw a giggle being suppressed,
so I d e c i d e d to m a k e a big j o k e of the whole thing.
I said, " O h , o h . . . aren't you relieved? Bet you thought
I still had a few tricks up my s l e e v e — r i g h t ? ' "
While Bubli looked m o r o s e and m e n o p a u s a l , Harsh
was the e x t r o v e r t , reaching o u t , grabbing hands and
kissing everybody, literally everybody, including a few
startled m a l e guests. At first it was a s s u m e d that he
was suffering f r o m a M i d d l e - E a s t e r n hangover. Arafat,
G a d d a f i and other celebrity Arabs w e r e always seen
kissing other m e n . It w a s only when a particularlv

301
outraged designer c a m e spluttering out of the loo, that
the story finally got out. H a r s h s w u n g both ways. And
so did his wife though she was far m o r e restrained about
her inclinations.
The designer had b e e n attacked by the c o u p l e at a
party in their own h o m e , but separately. H e ' d f o b b e d
off Bubli's advances by lying, 'Sorry, darling... I p r e f e r
boys. Especially those in dhotis.' It wasn't definite whether
she'd passed this vital piece of info on to Harsh, but
minutes later D h r u v the Devil (his clothes label also
carried this legend) nearly fell out of his crushed cotton
kurta when Harsh g r a b b e d him f r o m the b a c k , twirled
him around and planted a w e t s l o b b e r i n g kiss full on
his wide open m o u t h ( o p e n with a s t o n i s h m e n t , not
desire, he clarified to whoever w a n t e d the real story).
Did Dhruv s t o m p out of the p a r t y in a rage? 'Are you
kidding?' he c o u n t e r e d , ' A n d m i s s o u t on the b e s t
cannelloni in town?'

Bubli filled her non-working hours with manic physical

activity. She j o g g e d , s w a m , r o d e and did aerobics. In
the little t i m e that was l e f t , she a t t e n d e d r e l i g i o u s
discourses on the Gita. She went to bed with her favourite
guru's taped voice droning into her ears through hi-tech
headphones. The b a c k g r o u n d m u s i c at the w o r k s h o p
was restricted to bhajans.

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 Harsh found all this nauseating. Especially her partv
p r o n o u n c e m e n t s on the subject. 'I am not a religious
p e r s o n , ' she'd sigh, 'but I am deeply spiritual.' Most
p e o p l e ran t o w a r d s the bar b e f o r e she got any further.
She treated m e to a long lecture on divinity and Hindu
a w a k e n i n g o n c e . I r a t h e r e n j o y e d l i s t e n i n g t o her
b o r r o w e d philosophy. It w a s a p e c u l i a r p a s t i c h e of
r e c y c l e d R a j n e e s h , K r i s h n a m u r t i , P a r t h a s a r t h v and
B. R . C h o p r a ' s Mahabharat. But it t o u c h e d m e . She
asked whether we could walk together in the m o r n i n g
and I readily a g r e e d . Unlike Bubli, I c o u l d n ' t work
out or e x e r c i s e on my o w n , and my waistline was
beginning to e x p a n d alarmingly.
She had a fixed routine. T h r e e brisk r o u n d s of Oval
Maidan at precisely 6 . 2 0 . 'I have t i m e d it, this way
1 get h o m e at exactly 7 . 4 0 . . . that's when Harsh likes
his first cup of c o f f e e in bed.'
'Why d o n ' t you g e t him to walk with you? D o e s n ' t
he work out? H e looks pretty trim,' I said.
She l o o k e d at m e with her r i n g e d eyes and replied,
'We tried it. But he w a n t e d to walk counter clockwise.
And I p r e f e r c l o c k w i s e . It was then that I realized how
that simple p r e f e r e n c e symbolized our m a r r i a g e — w e
both w a n t e d to g o in different directions.'
' D i d vou tell that to your husband?'
' N o way.'
'Why not?'

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 'It was already t o o late. At that point he was having
an affair with his m a r k e t i n g m a n a g e r — a lovely girl
from Kerala we'd both m e t in Dubai and b r o u g h t back
to Bombay with us. She's a top m o d e l today. I ' m sure
vou know h e r — A n n u Joseph.'
' O f c o u r s c , I k n o w A n n u . She did a c o u p l e of
assignments for us. G o r g e o u s hair. G r e a t eyes. Verv
sultry.'
' Yes .. 1 s o r t of liked her t o o . . . you know ' Bubli
left it at t h a t . I i m a g i n e d H a r s h a n d her f i g h t i n g
over the dark beauty, with Harsh winning in the end.
Perhaps reading my thoughts, she a d d e d , 'Harsh is very
attractive... to w o m e n too,' I didn't say anything. ' D o
vou think so as w e l l . . . that he's attractive?'
I was in a fix. H o w do you tell a w o m a n you d o n ' t
find her husband attractive... or even that you do? I
changed the subject. ' D o you still see Annu?'
' N o , but Harsh d o e s . O n the sly, of course.'
'How do you know?'
'I know. We sacked her, naturally... that's when she
started modelling. She 's even done a couple of catalogues
for Harsh's clothes. 1 used her once for mine.'
' D i d n ' t you feel anything?'
' N o t really. She is the best right now. B e s i d e s , I
didn't have to m e e t her or anything. Pebbles handled
the assignment on his own. 'You know Pebbles, d o n ' t
vou?' Bubli asked.
'Yes, of c o u r s e . . . from my agency days.'

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 ' D o e s Annu still affect Harsh and you?'
' Let's put it this way... the other day I saw a photograph
of her modelling jewellery in s o m e Sundav supplement.
I had to d i s p o s e of a used S.T. 1 deliberately
w r a p p e d it in her face b e f o r e throwing it away. Silly?
Maybe. But it gave m e s o m e sort ot a thrill. Later,
when ! went to the evening Gita d i s c o u r s e , I meditated
o v e r m v a c t i o n a n d f e l t v e r v s m a l l . B u t f o r that
m o m e n t , I'd g o t mv own back. I ' m only human. D o e s
this disgust you?'
I'd been dying to use D e b o r a h K e r r ' s i m m o r t a l line
from The Night of the Iguana for vears. I looked solemnly
at Bubli and d e c l a r e d , with my nostrils appropriately
flared, ' N o t h i n g human disgusts me.' She looked verv
impressed.

I still ran into Chandni at the Surai on a f t e r n o o n s when

I'd p o p in t h e r e b e t w e e n s t r i k i n g deals with grain
merchants. She had moved on a bit.Though she continued
to be the D.O.M.'s pet, she now took on other assignments
and successfully at that. For a while she'd attached herself
to a glossy as a p r o d u c t i o n assistant but had left after a
particularly dramatic fight with the powerful editor,
who was a tarantula with lethal c h a r m .
When I m e t Chandni after a gap of ncarlv six months
she was full of her n e w job at a large publishing house.

305
She'd b e e n t a k e n o n t o c o - o r d i n a t e a s e r i e s of
extravaganzas that had b e e n planned to coincide with
the p r o p r i e t o r and f o u n d e r - e d i t o r ' s sixtieth birthday.
Chandni s head was b r i m m i n g over with bright ideas
and she'd been given free rein to e x e c u t e t h e m . She
squealed at the sight of m e .
'Nishaaaaa... I've been looking for y o u . W h e r e are
you hiding these days, vaar? D e b says you t w o hardly
m e e t . What happened? D o n ' t tell m e you fought about
Iqbal! Bv the way... I' m waiting for him. We have planned
a maha-show as part of our celebrations. It is a t e r r i f i c
hit idea, yaar. Sit, sit, let m e tell you. But tell m e ,
what are you doing nowadays? S o m e o n e said you are
selling khana-daana to the sheikhs... is that t r u e ? T o o
much, vaar, f r o m where to w h e r e ! If you have s o m e
free t i m e — j o i n us. D o it on a one vear contract basis.
It'll be a lot of fun.'
As we were catching up, Iqbal strolled in and as usual,
attracted a lot of attention. He was wearing a psychedelic
jumpsuit and had a stunning black girl with him. He
walked up to us, one hand waving a black flag, the other
caressing his companion's left breast. After an elaborate
adaab to both of us, he tweaked my nose and said with a
naughty smile, ' R e m e m b e r ? ' I looked away and started
feeding a white cat, blind in one eye, who'd crept up
for s o m e titbits.The black girl's eyes were like live coals,
her breasts like t o r p e d o e s . Iqbal continued to fondle
her, staring down Chandni's neckline all the while.

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 ' S o . . . what are the plans?' he asked Chandni. She
p u l l e d o u t a file and s t a r t e d s h u f f l i n g p a p e r s . He
s l a m m e d his free hand d o w n on her wrist and snapped,
' D o n ' t l o o k at the p a p e r s , w o m a n . Tell m e onlv what
I want to k n o w — h o w much?' Chandni looked nervously
at m e .
I d e c i d e d to leave her and tried to push back my
chair to g e t up. Iqbal shoved m e d o w n roughlv. At that
point, B o x e r c a m e waltzing up h u m m i n g 'Singing in
the R a i n ' . It was p o u r i n g outside. 'What's all this?' he
asked ruffling Iqbal's hair. 'Discussing o b s c e n e subjects
like money, are we?'
Chandni g o t out a s m a r t , sleek calculator. 'Let's
s e e . . . the helicopter hire will cost quite a b o m b . And
the h o r s e s . . . Iqbal only wants white ones. I'll have to
hire them f r o m s o m e circus. We also have to get police
and municipal clearance. T h e ad campaign is running
into quite at bit.'
The black girl asked for a soda and started sucking
at the straw noisily. ' G o o d girl. G o o d girl, keep practicing,'
Iqbal said to her, 'by tonight you will be an e x p e r t . '
His hand was near her crotch. B o x e r continued to h u m .
Iqbal turned to m e again. 'Chalo, chalengey? Let's leave
all these stupid p e o p l e to figure out how m u c h I ' m
worth to them.' I shook my head. 'Chalo na,' Iqbal coaxed.
L e t ' s g o back to my place and play ek, do, teen,' Iqbal
challenged, yanking the black girl to her feet abruptly.
I felt Chandni's eyes on m e . She was far t o o seasoned

307
to give her own reaction away. H e r look was studiedly
a m u s e d . . . my d i s c o m f o r t far t o o apparent.
1 s u m m o n e d R a j u , my r e g u l a r waiter, and said,
' G e t an iced tea q u i c k l v — s o m e o n e here needs to cool
off.' It wasn't a particularly clever exit line, but it was
the best I could think o f . I r e c o g n i z e d the s c o r n in
Iqbal's eyes. But I didn't wince, or look away.The topic
was swiftly changed. And the black girl r e s u m e d her
noisy sucking.

Sahakari Samachar's Iqbal extravaganza was being billed

as the e vent of the decade in the cultural calendar. Chandni
told me later that she'd been inspired bv Salvador Dali's
antics and had s u g g e s t e d s o m e t h i n g s i m i l a r to the
Entertainment C o m m i t t e e at Samachar, It involved a
retrospective of Iqbal's work hung up all over A p o l l o
Bunder. T h e opening was to be spectacular with Iqbal
arriving tor the show at the a p p o i n t e d time d r e s s e d in
black and riding in a white helicopter f r o m which he'd
be air-dropped into the c r o w d . T h e triumphant ride
past his exhibits m o u n t e d at various levels in front of
the historic Gateway of India, was to be in a g r a n d
chariot drawn by six white horses painted over with
Iqbal's t r a d e m a r k w h o r e s — ' T h e u l t i m a t e erotic
image' as the p r o m o t i o n a l c a t a l o g u e d e s c r i b e d it.
Riding with him in his g o l d e n chariot would be his
five fa\ ourite prostitutes dressed in p e r i o d c o u r t e s a n

308
g a r b . T h e big argument was over this. Iqbal was insistent
that he w a n t e d the w h o r e s at the functions. In tact, he
w a n t e d his l o n g - t i m e steady as the chief g u e s t . The
Samachar people were worried this w ould cause a furore
and that s o m e stuffed shirt s o m e w h e r e would object.
Iqbal r e f u s e d to b u d g e . 'Mv w o m e n have to be there,
that's it,' he told Chandni. His idea of p e r i o d garb was
equally o u t r a g e o u s . He'd designed their clothes himself
and they were designed to shock. Chandni suggested
a compromise.
' W h y d o n ' t we d r e s s t h e m like w o r l d f a m o u s
c o u r t e s a n s instead?' she asked h i m . 'We could do a
C l e o p a t r a , an U m r a o Jaan and so on.' Iqbal wasn't
entirely c o n v i n c e d , but k e p t her idea on hold. H e
w a n t e d the festival to be called " R a n d i v o n Ka M e l a " ,
and p l a s t e r the city with d e l i b e r a t e l y gaudy p o s t e r s
celebrating the I m m o r t a l W h o r e . N o b o d y at Samachar
d a r e d c o n t r a d i c t h i m . And n o b o d y b r o k e the news
of this b i z a r r e s t r a t e g y to the old m a n . Instead, Iqbal
a n n o u n c e d at a p a c k e d p r e s s c o n f e r e n c e that he had
c o m e up with this idea b e c a u s e B o m b a y the Citv, was
the U l t i m a t e W h o r e , d r a w i n g h u n d r e d s of c u s t o m e r s
to her hungry b o s o m daily, exploiting them and getting
e x p l o i t e d in t u r n .
'Think of the visual impact,' he chortled. 'I'm planning
a gigantic cut-out of my favourite ranch, which will
hang over Chowpatty and dominate the city. I have plans
to float an inflated balloon over Juhu. Breasts the size

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of twin m o o n s . Buttocks bulging over the skyline like
pink hillocks. Wonderful! W o n d e r f u l ! T h e foreign press
will love the s p e c t a c l e . A n d all my f r i e n d s f r o m
Kamathipura will thank m e . Thank m e for recognizing
their contribution t o this city. Later, w e will hold a
prostitute's ball in Azad Maidan. All my girls will b e
there, dancing and singing, looking bewitching. Kya
khcl hoga! We can have souvenir m u g s with the m e l a ' s
s y m b o l — e x p o s e d breasts. We can hold a fashion show
with girls in g o l d e n brassieres and boys with lal rumals
around their necks '
Iqbal was hard to stop. The press lapped it all up
and slavered for m o r e . Tarantula the Editor featured
Iqbal on her n e x t c o v e r with the h e a d l i n e " S a l a a m
Prostitute". The p h o t o g r a p h showed him lolling on his
favourite palang in Pila H o u s e , the m a d a m b e n d i n g
over him with a paan in her hand. At his feet, two young
Nepali girls in bridal finery, smiled coylv into the camera.
His interview, full of devastatingly decadent q u o t e s ,
was impossible to run in the original, forcing Tarantula
to modify it sufficiently to satisfy her r e a d e r s ' p r u r i e n t
taste and yet, chaste enough not to give o f f e n c e .

Tarantula's reputation far exceeded her off-print persona.

She was really a pussycat playing tigress with e n o r m o u s
success. Especially at work. And she was never at play.
N o b o d y in Bombay knew t o o m u c h about her e x c e p t

310
that she'd b e e n m a r r i e d to an eccentric British travel
writer at s o m e point. N o b o d y could guess her age either.
Estimates ranged f r o m thirty-five to fifty, going by the
number of years she had put into the profession. Starting
as a checking clerk in an ad agency in the days when
m o s t agencies had British b o s s e s and executives (that's
how she'd m e t her husband) she'd moved on, doing
a s s o r t e d j o b s till she found her niche in magazines. It
was said that she'd also found a sugar-daddy in the field,
a high-profile w h e e l e r - d e a l e r who floated f r o m one
publishing house to the other, buying, selling, hiring,
firing and getting very p o m p o u s and powerful along
the way. She'd m e t him at a p r e s s c o n f e r e n c e she'd
gone to cover for one of Bombay's early society magazines.
He already had a sleazv reputation around town as a
rake who'd m a k e a lizard pregnant if he could. It was
inevitable that he noticed the o o m p h y young r e p o r t e r
desperately taking notes. He sent tor her after the event
and asked whether she was interested in an exclusive.
She wasn't. N o t then. O r she was plaving hard to g e t .
Her coolness w o r k e d instantly. R . B . Bose (know simply
as R . B . , or Real Bastard, in publishing circles) w o o e d
her with red roses and wine from that m o m e n t onwards,
till she quit her j o b and started working for him. He
lost interest soon after and m o v e d on to other young
things, 'my s w e e t i e s ' , but in the p r o c e s s , Tarantula's
f u t u r e was m a d e .

311
 She m o v e d up swiftly till she i m p r e s s e d her b o s s e s
enough to be n o m i n a t e d editor-designate. She was to
take over f r o m a senior editor w h o was s o m e t h i n g of
an institution. But the o l d e r w o m a n r e f u s e d to quit,
and no hints were strong enough to m a k e her m o v e
o n . T h e m a n a g e m e n t f o u n d itself p o w e r l e s s s i n c e
sacking her would have led to an uproar in media circles
(that was in the d a \ s when the m e d i a actually stuck
together and rushed to the defence of scribes they thought
were being victimized). Tarantula waited in the wings
patiently, plotting her career moves with canny precision.
She knew it was only a matter of time b e f o r e she'd be
crowned q u e e n .
Back in her tidy apartment, she worked on d u m m i e s
with a sidekick and a paste-up artist. They designed
new logos, new f o r m a t s and new typefaces to replace
the outdated old o n e s . She changed everything around
starting with the name. She added snappy features, daring
columns and sexy fashion, the likes of which hadn't
been seen b e f o r e , at least in India. She wanted to stage
a quiet c o u p by presenting the m a n a g e m e n t with an
we-popping alternative that was bold, gutsy, provocative
and above all, c o m m e r c i a l l y g i l t - e d g e d . If the senior
e d i t o r k n e w a b o u t the c o n s p i r a c y , she p r e t e n d e d
otherwise. ' M a d a m ' (as the staff a d d r e s s e d her) w a s
far too busy planning yet another issue on how to recycle
k i t c h e n l e f t - o v e r s t o pay m u c h a t t e n t i o n t o the
machinations of her rival.

312
 And then, Tarantula d e c i d e d to strike with all the
f e r o c i o u s ambition at her c o m m a n d . She asked for and
p r o m p t l y g o t , an a p p o i n t m e n t with the b o a r d . Her
presentation was sleek, professional and convincing.
' M a d a m ' g o t her official m a r c h i n g o r d e r s the next
morning. And Tarantula the Editor was b o r n .

'Slave d r i v e r ' , ' M o n s t e r ' , ' Q u e e n Bitch' were s o m e ol

the kinder epithets she was known by. O n c e she took
over, she r e v a m p e d the entire show starting with the
top. ' N o d e a d w o o d in this joint,' she declared and fired
the G . M . via the M . D . of c o u r s e . She also fired the
staff she'd inherited and hired her own team— a bunch
of brash, cocky, g o o d - l o o k i n g , fresh (in every sense of
the w o r d ) g r a d u a t e s , w h o , inspired by her style of
functioning, sailed forth for interviews like they were
doing the interviewees a favour. That they skewered
them in print later, added to their a r r o g a n c e .
Tarantula p a m p e r e d her favourites. She derived her
inspiration f r o m another e d i t o r — h e r male counterpart,
w h o kept his harem happy (he onlv hired attractive
f e m a l e s — K r i s h n a ' s Gopika.s, as thev were d u b b e d ) by
r e m e m b e r i n g their birthdays, sending flowers, cakes
and occasionally a bottle of (Indian) champagne. This
obvious r u s e blinded them all to his even m o r e obvious
flaws.They forgot that he was a pettv bully, a foul-mouthed
t w o - t i m e r and a lousv editor, who m a d e them do all

313
his dirty w o r k and then h o g g e d the credit for himself.
Instead, they doted on him slavishly, behaving like groupies
hovering around a r o c k star, overlooking his paunch,
p r e m a t u r e grey crop, and halitosis, to say nothing of a
suspicious, hostile wife with artistic aspirations.Tarantula
couldn't have picked a w o r s e role m o d e l , yet she m a d e
her act work and she shoved, pushed and kicked ass
till she g o t her desired results.
The circulation of Femme ( ' S o u n d s like a sanitary
napkin,' s n e e r e d rivals) shot up dramatically, while
Tarantula, predictably, acquired the 'fatale' tab to g o
with her magazine's title. She played the p a r t all right,
particularly when she went hustling. She had to do that
often in the early stages when Femme was negotiating
its steep climb to the top of the heap. ' C o m p r o m i s e ,
darlings, isn't a dirty word in my dictionary,' she'd remind
her awestruck staff. 'To get ahead and stay there, you
need two things in your a r m o u r y — t a l e n t , o o d l e s of
it, and guts. But, if the adversary isn't i m p r e s s e d by
either seduce. C l i m b d o w n . Sacrifice p r i d e . In other
words, c o m p r o m i s e . '

One sell-out issue after another and Tarantula

was ready to launch herself. She d e c i d e d to throw a
coming out party at the 'in' club in Bombay. A dark
and dingy d i m s u m d e n that had b e e n the brainchild of
a cannv Chinese with r e m a r k a b l e business a c u m e n . It

314
didn't m a t t e r that d i m s u m s w e r e n ' t considered haute
cuisine in a city like B o m b a y where the 'paisa vasool'
mentality prevailed over everything else. Diners usually
e m e r g e d hungry a f t e r a meal at T h e D r a g o n ' s D e n ,
but n o b o d y went there for the f o o d anyway. It was its
'exclusivity' that c o u n t e d . An exclusivity that had been
carefully created over the five years of its existence.
That kept the 'riff r i f f ' at bay and that e n c o u r a g e d only
bored wives of rich playboys to b e c o m e patrons.
Tarantula deliberately c h o s e the place tor her party
since it b e s t o w e d a ' y o u ' r e - g o o d - e n o u g h - f o r - t h e - D D '
h o n o u r on invitees. Plus, Mr L e e , (the o w n e r ) , had
shrewdly o f f e r e d her a huge d i s c o u n t for the bash,
calculating cleverly that she'd be able to r o p e in the
right p e o p l e ( s o m e m o r e b o r e d , rich wives, in other
w o r d s ) . H e was dead on in his a s s u m p t i o n . T a r a n t u l a ' s
guest-list included the most photogenic people of Bombay.
T h o s e who'd provide Femme with at least four colour
pages of party p i c t u r e s and those who'd p e r s u a d e their
busv husbands to buy an ad campaign in it.
Tarantula's staffers worked round the clock to ensure
the party's success, making phone-calls, checking on
flower arrangements, sampling a new range of vegetarian
dimsums ('there'll be so many Gujjus around the place )
getting a booze company to p r o v i d e crates of
complimentary blended whisky and, of course, running
around forTarantula's party outfit. She didn't want anybody
to upstage her, not even Bombay's socialite queen.

315
 ' D o n ' t worry,' the s o c i a l i t e ' s a r c h rival p h o n e d
Tarantula to reassure her, 'She's looking like a sack of
potatoes these days and wearing dowdy outfits. Shapeless
denim d u n g a r e e s and that s o r t of stuff.'
Tarantula was vastly relieved. N o b o d y stood a chance
when that siren c a m e slinking into a p a r t y clad in
clinging j e r s e y outfits that m a d e it abundantly clear
she d i d n ' t have a stitch on u n d e r n e a t h . Tarantula had
o n c e d o n e a d e v a s t a t i n g p r o f i l e on her in Femme
claiming she had plastic b o o b s and c a p p e d t e e t h . T h e
siren had thrown a p u r p l e fit and t h r e a t e n e d to sue
till well-meaning friends w a r n e d her off, insisting that
in a d e f a m a t i o n case, the onus of disproving the c h a r g e
would be on her.
' D o you want to bare your tits in Esplanade C o u r t
and have a s u r g e o n c o m e in and testify to their silicon
content?' thev'd asked.
The siren had sulked for months in her sylvan retreat
before emerging in a modest sari that covered her boobs.
Tarantula insisted she'd d o n e the piece to put the
siren in her place. ' D o you know what she did to a
good friend of mine?' And then she r e c o u n t e d the story
of w hat had happened to Kiki when she bared her breasts
for a foreign film.

In her p r e - F e r o z e days, Kiki had b e e n p i c k e d up by

'The C r o o k ' , as the A m e r i c a n d i r e c t o r was universally

316
k n o w n , for an E a s t e r n - W e s t e r n with a mystic m e s s a g e .
H e a s s u r e d her the n u d i e bits w e r e exclusively for
f o r e i g n a u d i e n c e s and that not a w o r d or a shot of
Kiki's Kamasutra shenanigans w o u l d a p p e a r in India.
Kiki happily went a l o n g , s h o o t i n g p o r n disguised as
arty e r o t i c a . T h e C r o o k lived up t o his i m a g e and
r e p u t a t i o n , e x p l o i t i n g t h o s e s e q u e n c e s to the hilt.
His e n t i r e publicity for the film r e v o l v e d a r o u n d a
shot of a n u d e Kiki in a very c o m p l i c a t e d p o s e , w h e r e
one d i d n ' t k n o w w h e r e her a r m s b e g a n or her legs
ended. This was plastered over p o s t e r s all over Europe.
T h e siren m a n a g e d t o g e t hold of a few on one of her
f r e q u e n t f o r e i g n j a u n t s . She c a m e back t r i u m p h a n t .
She had several s c o r e s to settle with the tarty little
bitch w h o had s e d u c e d her husband in her own h o m e ,
at her o w n p a r t y and on her own b e d . And she knew
just h o w t o p u t Kiki in her p l a c e a n d show her up for
the h y p o c r i t e she w a s .
She decided to throw a grand reception to celebrate
the s u c c e s s of K i k i ' s f i l m a b r o a d (it had r e c e i v e d
respectable reviews, m u c h to everybody's amazement).
Naturally, Kiki was to be the chief g u e s t being the
star of the f i l m . R i g h t at the e n t r a n c e of the socialite
q u e e n ' s sprawling d u p l e x at Worli, was hung Kiki's
s e x y p o s t e r with a spotlight shining brightly over it.
Early g u e s t s s t o o d a r o u n d t i t t e r i n g waiting for the
big m o m e n t when Kiki w o u l d a r r i v e for the party.
'I'd like t o see her f a c e . . . w o u l d n ' t miss this chance

317
for anything in the w o r l d . I c a n c e l l e d my P u n e trip
for this. Imagine — with the r a c e s on.' T h e f e w Kiki
s u p p o r t e r s w h o w a n t e d the h o s t e s s t o r e m o v e the
p o s t e r were s h o u t e d d o w n by the r e s t . ' D o n ' t be such
s p o i l s p o r t s , vaar. Kiki w a s n ' t d r u g g e d w h e n she acted
in the film. Why all the fuss n o w ? '
Kiki 's Contessa drew up to the p o r c h of the swanky
apartment c o m p l e x . She c o u l d n ' t figure out why the
security fellows were sniggering (even thev w e r e in
the know thanks to the driver g r a p e v i n e ) . N o t at that
point. She was far t o o e x c i t e d about the party. In the
lift taking them up to the granite and glass hot-house
full of steamy sex symbols f r o m Sin Citv, Kiki s t o o d
up on her toes and kissed her newest e s c o r t . 'To us,
darling,' she whispered and g o o s e d him mischievously.
The party sounds floated out to them as the elevator
s t o p p e d on the seventh floor. Kiki straightened her
shoulders, stuck her bust o u t , adjusted the u n d e r c u p
wiring of her black bra and s t e p p e d o u t .
Mahesh, her e s c o r t , was d e c i d e d l y n e r v o u s . He
knew he'd be all over the g o s s i p c o l u m n s the n e x t
day after this evening. What w o u l d Pappaji sav or d o ?
Kiki quickly asked him to c h e c k her teeth for runaway
lipstick.Through the open d o o r (a heavy w o o d e n affair
inlaid with t r a n s l u s c e n t agate c h u n k s ) she saw the
hostess making her way towards her.The socialite queen
was d r e s s e d not just to kill but c o m m i t a g r u e s o m e
m u r d e r . It was a slithery g o w n c o v e r e d with s e q u i n s .

318
Very F o r t i e s and very vampish. Someone had told her
recently that she r e s e m b l e d Rita H a y w o r t h . T h e queen
had p r o m p t l y changed back the c o l o u r of her treated
r e d hair to its original black, m a k i n g sure o n e eye
was permanently covered with a tantalizing lock placed
over it.
Kiki said to Mahesh, ' G o d ! Just look at her. Gorgeous,
isn't she?' He gulped and straightened his bow-tie.
' D a a a a r r r r l i n g , ' g u s h e d the q u e e n , h e r arms
outstretched dramatically, 'so good of you to c o m e . . . and
this m u s t b e M a h e s h , y o u r l a t e s t . ' W i t h that she
l e a n e d o v e r t o kiss the s t a r t l e d m a n p a s s i o n a t e l y ,
j u s t missing his m o u t h by a whisker. ' M m m m m — h e
smells g o o d . He looks g o o d . H e must be g o o d , ' she
concluded approvingly. ' C o m e along the t w o of vou,
this is your night.'
Kiki b e a m e d and t o o k Mahesh by the a r m . A band
f r o m within started playing. " C o n g r a t u l a t i o n s " , while
s o m e of the guests began joining in the chorus. The
three of them linked a r m s and s t r o d e in, dancing a
little g i g f r o m time-to-tipie.
T h e shock of seeing the life-size p o s t e r registered
after the first few heady-giddv m o m e n t s . It was as if
Kiki had b e e n in a trance till then. She'd p a s s e d the
p o s t e r without reallv noticing it. But it hadn't escaped
Mahesh's attention. His eyes had widened and his entire
body tensed up, with the white of his knuckles showing

319
up sharply against the s m o o t h black of the t u x e d o . He
nudged Kiki sharply. So sharply, in fact, that she let
out a small scream of pain.
' L o o k , ' he hissed. She looked again, and that's when
it hit her. She started to giggle helplessly and then as
all the guests w a t c h e d , the g i g g l e s t u r n e d to tears and
the tears to angry s c r e a m s .
'Bitch! Bloody bitch! H o w could you d o this to m e !
W h o r e ! Slut. I'll kill you for this.' She lunged wildly
at the q u e e n w h o swiftly d u c k e d and hid b e h i n d a
marble stand. Kiki went after her like a wild cat, her
claws tearing the air in f r o n t of her. N o b o d y could
restrain Kiki, not even Mahesh. She took off her stilettoes
and Hung them at the queen's face. O n e g o t her,the
other didn't. Kiki reached for an onyx vase n e x t and
aimed for the veined Venetian m i r r o r behind her.
Through all this m a y h e m , the q u e e n continued to
laugh loudly, vulgarly, repeating all the t i m e , ' S e r v e s
vou right, serves you right.' Kiki's r i s q u e evening dress
had all but c o m e apart bv then and her hair was a m e s s .
Mahesh, paralysed by the s c e n e , s t o o d by the d o o r ,
unable to do anything besides g a p e in b e w i l d e r m e n t .
It was only when the queen's c o n s o r t finally showed
up and dragged his wife off that the m e s s y affair c a m e
to an end. O t h e r s present insisted the t w o w o m e n were
quits now.
'An expensive way of settling scores... but so exciting,'
said a satisfied voyeur when, after a lavish b a n q u e t of

320
s m o k e d salmon and quail breasts, the exhausted invitees
finally t r o o p e d h o m e .

It was strange that Tarantula's loyalty had b e e n r o u s e d

sufficiently to actually feel sorry for Kiki. But tonight
was g o i n g to be her n i g h t — s h e ' d fix the siren and all
those ugly bitches with rich husbands who'd sneered
at her in the past. She'd dieted for w e e k s in order to
fill her pricey designer e n s e m b l e (a black crochet coat
with a b o d y hugging cat-suit underneath) that showed
off her n e w curves to advantage. Tarantula was feeling
right on t o p of things. Kiki w o u l d be there, of c o u r s e .
And G o d . Tarantula had c o n c l u d e d (rightly so) that
G o d was attractive to other w o m e n . It was arrogance,
his scruffy unconventional appearance, plus the promise
of violent sex he held o u t , that m a d e him irresistible.
C o m p a r e d to the w i m p y m o n e y b a g s m a r r i e d to those
screechy socialites, G o d was quite a man. A status symbol.
And Tarantula was going to strut him around shamelessly.

At the party, G o d behaved t r u e to type. He threw up

on a socialite's tussore ghagra and insulted half-a-dozen
p r o m i n e n t p e o p l e . H e even a t t e m p t e d to b o o g y on
the tiny d a n c e f l o o r , p i c k i n g the s e x y ( b u t hugely
p r e g n a n t ) wife of a young industrialist (the s o r t of man

321
 Shobhaa De

who is invariably described as a 'scion' in newspaper

r e p o r t s ) . Far from being e m b a r r a s s e d Tarantula was
rather pleased. ' O n e needs a few ghastly scenes to
perk up these affairs,' she'd chortled gleefully at the
p o s t - m o r t e m . ' N o w people will be talking about my
party for weeks.'
She was right. With one o b n o x i o u s high-society
appearance, G o d had ensured his p e r m a n e n t place on
the A-list of socialites hungry for cheap diversions.
Nothing could have suited Tarantula better. Femme
gloated about the party's success in the next issue which
featured G o d in every second photograph.

322
 ' m n o t s u r e w h e n and w h e r e G o d and Tarantula m e t
I up. His and her v e r s i o n s v a r i e d on that s c o r e . H e
i n s i s t e d it w a s i n Y a s h w a n t b h a i ' s o f f i c e w h e r e Tarantula
had t u r n e d u p to d o a p r e - e l e c t i o n inter view. Tarantula's
m e m o r y w e n t b a c k f u r t h e r t o a t i m e w h e n G o d had
landed up in her office in search of a freelance assignment.
' H e t r i e d to sell m e a love p o e m along with himself,'
she g i g g l e d . 'I r e j e c t e d b o t h . ' A n d now, h e r e they w e r e
collaborating on getting a political weekly off the g r o u n d .
'It's all a m a t t e r of g r e a t t i m i n g , yaar,' G o d d r a w l e d
w h e n I a s k e d him a b o u t it. ' T h e t i m e is now.'
'Is Yashwantbhai i n v o l v e d ? ' I a s k e d .
'You ask such o b v i o u s q u e s t i o n s , yaar—grow up.
If I say " y e s " he will d e n y it. If I say " n o " vou w o n ' t
believe me.'
' A n d w h e r e d o e s Tarantula c o m e in?'
'She is a w i z a r d , yaar. She is o n e w o m a n w h o can
get anything done. She says " j u m p " a n d everybody j u m p s . '

323
 Shob ha a D e

'Have you j u m p e d for her yet?'

'Kamaal hai. A g a i n , t h e s a m e r e s p o n s e as t h e
Yashwantbhai one applies here, O K ? G u e s s what,
N a s h a . . . w e a r e t r y i n g to use b o t h y o u r e x - b o s s and
e x - b o y f r i e n d f o r this p r o j e c t . '
' T h a t ' s interesting. W h y a r e y o u leaving m e o u t in
that c a s e ? ' I a s k e d .
' A t this p o i n t w e d o n ' t n e e d a f e m a l e baniya, since
we aren't selling basmati and besan but a bhaarimagazine.'
'Chick peas, Deb, chick peas.'
' S a m e thing, yaar.'
' N o t exactly. B u t t h e n , y o u a r e n ' t a g r e a t o n e f o r
details. S o . . . w h e n is the l a u n c h ? '
' E v e r y t h i n g d e p e n d s on t h e e l e c t i o n d a t e . Your
ad b o s s is h a n d l i n g the c a m p a i g n and advising u s on
o t h e r things.'
'Is he selling Yashwantbhai? G o d k n o w s that m a n
could d o with s o m e positive p r o m o t i o n . O r is he relying
entirely on Tarantula f o r that?'
' T h i s is w h e r e that y u p p i e - c r e e p , Anil, c o m e s in.
By the way, h o w did y o u t w o s c r e w ? If y o u d i d , that is?
Via his a n s w e r i n g m a c h i n e ? '
'Don't get personal, Deb.'
' H o w can I g e t i m p e r s o n a l with y o u , Nasha,
jaan-e-man? W h o are y o u s e e i n g t h e s e days? I ' m s u r e
there's s o m e b o d y . '
'Nobody.'
' I m p o s s i b l e . Vow o f c h a s t i t y ? '

324
 ' T h e r e aren't any interesting m e n a r o u n d . O r haven't
you noticed?'
'There's me.'
' I ' m l o o k i n g for s o m e o n e w o n d e r f u l and new.
S o m e o n e w h o m a k e s m e feel g o o d . '
'Actually, so a m I — b u t not now. After the elections.'
'I b e l i e v e s o m e o n e w a s m a d e n o u g h to m a k e you
the B o m b a y b u r e a u chief f o r that D e l h i f o r t n i g h t l y for
s o m e t i m e ? W h a t ' s the n a m e — C a p i t a l Voice?'
' T h a t w a s only f o r a f e w m o n t h s . I n e e d e d a b r e a k
f r o m Plume, yaar. I w a s g e t t i n g stifled by all that artistic
shit. B u t t h o s e D e l h i g u y s c o u l d n ' t h a n d l e m y copy.'
'How come?'
' M y s o u r c e s a r e s o g o o d that I c o u l d b l a c k m a i l the
entire cabinet.'
'Thanks to Yashwantbhai?'
' W h y are you a f t e r h i m all the t i m e ? '
' H e is y o u r main c o n t a c t . W h y d o n ' t you a d m i t it?
W h a t has he g i v e n y o u n o w — a b u n g a l o w in L o n a v l a ? '
' N o n e o f y o u r b u s i n e s s , N a s h a . H e has b e e n g o o d
to m e . And I have b e e n u s e f u l to h i m . Bas—it's a straight
deal. N o nonsense.'
' W a s n ' t he b e h i n d the s t o r y y o u did that r u i n e d
Ingle's c a r e e r ? '
' W h a t if he w a s ? T h a t m a n d e s e r v e d t o b e e x p o s e d .
H e w a s n o t only c o r r u p t , he w a s a r a p i s t as well.'
' W h a t a b o u t Y a s h w a n t b h a i ' s s c a n d a l s ? 1 h e a r he
d o e s n ' t leave a single f e m a l e alone.'

325
 'But can you prove anything? Has anybody
caught h i m ? '
' D o e s that m a k e h i m less of a villain? W h a t a b o u t
that y o u n g t y p i s t w h o ' d b e e n v i c t i m i z e d by h e r b o s s
at the M a n t r a l a y a w h o ' d g o n e t o h i m f o r h e l p ? And
that b a t t e r e d w i f e of the IAS o f f i c e r w h o w a n t e d to
let the w o r l d k n o w w h a t a b e a s t h e r h u s b a n d w a s ?
Everybody knows the p r i c e Yashwantbhai e x t r a c t e d f r o m
both of t h e m b e f o r e he lifted a finger.'
' S u c h t h i n g s h a p p e n all t h e t i m e in politics.
W h o cares?'
'And you d o n ' t feel anything's w r o n g w i t h b e i n g
the s t o o g e of such a b a s t a r d ? '
' W h a t s t o o g e - f o o g e ? We u n d e r s t a n d e a c h other.'
' I ' m sure you d o . I've h e a r d that you s u p p l v g i r l s
w h e n Yashwantbhai is h a r d u p a n d t h e r e a r e n ' t anv
h e l p l e s s w o m e n at his d o o r . '
'A few t i m e s I have r u n g u p s o m e f r i e n d s and called
t h e m for a m e e t i n g , that's all.'
' T h a t ' s all! T h a t ' s d i s g r a c e f u l . S o n o w y o u can a d d
p i m p i n g to your o t h e r p r o f e s s i o n a l c r e d i t s . '
'Look, yaar, I d o n ' t have t o listen t o any lecturebaazi
from anvbody. Your father is n o better. H e is j u s t d o i n g
the s a m e thing on a s m a l l e r scale. C h a s i n g s e c r e t a r i e s ,
s t o p p i n g i n c r e m e n t s , h o l d i n g b a c k b o n u s e s . We k n o w
how he f u n c t i o n s . Yashwantbhai has a file on h i m . You
can let him know. M y father k n o w s e v e r y t h i n g t o o . '

326
 ' J u s t leave my f a t h e r a l o n e , O K ? H e is a t r o u b l e d
m a n as it is.'
' D o n ' t w o r r y . H e ' s small fry. We a r e a f t e r b i g g e r
f i s h . Y o u r e x - b o s s . . . h e ' s q u i t e a chaalu c h a p also. I b e t
vou d o n ' t k n o w anything a b o u t his activities. T h e travel
a g e n c y he f l o a t e d . His o t h e r o f f e n c e s and violations.'
'A travel a g e n c y ? T h i s is n e w ! '
'Yes, he had to find a way to m a k e that e x - c h a u f f e u r
rich e n o u g h to s u p p o r t his d a r l i n g d a u g h t e r and his
first g r a n d s o n . N o w j a n i n e is living in a posh flat, b o u g h t
bv R o y ' s i l l - g o t t e n gains of c o u r s e . '
' T h e n why a r e y o u g o i n g t o h i m ? T h e r e a r e o t h e r
ad a g e n c i e s in t o w n . '
' M a y b e , b u t f o r this s o r t of d i r t y w o r k , the fellow
is g o o d . B e s i d e s , w e a r e talking a b o u t a m u l t i - c r o r e
b u d g e t . . . any a g e n c y w o u l d j u m p . '
' W h e r e d o e s Anil c o m e in?'
' W e w a n t h i m t o c o n d u c t the p r e - p o l l s u r v e y s . To
g e t an i d e a of v o t e r e x p e c t a t i o n s . H e ' s q u i t e g o o d at
his w o r k , w e are t o l d . H e c a m e o v e r to Yashwantbhai's
office for a brief.'
' H o w is he? H o w did he l o o k ? '
'Still i n t e r e s t e d ? '
' N o t really. J u s t c u r i o u s . '
' S a m e o l d s t u p i d f a c e , j a a r . All that gell-vell shit
in his hair. B l o o d y p a n s y if y o u ask m e . D o n ' t tell m e
y o u d i d n ' t find o u t e v e n that m u c h ? I m e a n , d i d n ' t
you t w o s c r e w ? '

327
 S hobhaa D e

1 let that p a s s .
'Is he m a r r i e d n o w ? '
' W h o k n o w s and w h o g i v e s a f u c k ? O K , e n o u g h
bak-bak. Back to work.'
'Is Yashwantbhai g i v i n g y o u a t i c k e t ? '
'I d o n ' t n e e d a t i c k e t . I d o n ' t w a n t t o b e a n e t a . I'd
rather m a k e n e t a s . '
' C a l l m e if you n e e d a g o o d h e a d l i n e o r visual. I'll
try and c o m e u p with s o m e t h i n g b e t w e e n selling r i c e . '
'Theek haiphir milengey, O K ? By the way, y o u ' r e
l o o k i n g kafi sexy.'
' T h a n k s . You too.'
"Jhooti b i t c h ! '
'Capitalist kutta!

Iqbal's retro, 'Dedicated To the Whores of

B o m b a y . . . O r B o m b a y the W h o r e of W h o r e s ' , as it w a s
called, went off wonderfully well, even if the
s i x t y - y e a r - o l d b i r t h d a y boy w a s n ' t e x a c t l y a m u s e d . His
b r a s h s o n , P a r t h i v , w h o c o u l d b a r e l y c o n c e a l his
impatience at having to hang around in the w i n g s waiting
f o r Papaji t o c o p it, c h o s e the o c c a s i o n t o m a k e his
d e b u t and shove his father o u t o f the l i m e l i g h t , p e r h a p s
forever. W h i l e this w a s hailed as a m o v e l o n g o v e r d u e
by Samachar v e t e r a n s w h o had had it u p t o t h e r e w i t h
the old a u t o c r a t ' s o v e r b e a r i n g w a y s , t h e r e w e r e t h o s e

328
 Si

a m o n g s t t h e m w h o w e r e even m o r e cynical a b o u t the

s o n ' s m o d u s o p e r a n d i . ' Yeh to saala sab ko kba jaayega,
h e ' l l c e r t a i n l y eat u s all u p , ' they said as they g a t h e r e d
a r o u n d g r e a s y thalis in the staff c a n t e e n .
T h e y o u n g scion d i d n ' t w a s t e t o o m u c h t i m e trying
t o w o o a n y o n e . H e d e c i d e d t o b a r e his fangs r i g h t at
the s t a r t by f i r i n g the p o w e r f u l e d i t o r of his r e s p e c t e d
daily and h i r i n g an u n k n o w n c o r p o r a t e m a n , A m a r , in
his p l a c e .
' W e n e e d n e w b l o o d t o shake us u p , ' he d e c l a r e d at
a hastily s u m m o n e d m e e t i n g o f senior staffers. 'Anybody
w h o d i s a g r e e s with the c h a n g e s I have in m i n d , m a y
f e e l f r e e t o w a l k o u t r i g h t now.' Parthiv d i d n ' t believe
in winning popularity contests and he m a d e that perfectly
clear. 'I a m n o t h e r e t o b e liked or a d m i r e d by any of
y o u . I ' m h e r e t o g e t r e s u l t s . T h e only p e o p l e I a m
r e s p o n s i b l e t o a r e my r e a d e r s . Y o u d e l i v e r and y o u stay.
You d o n ' t d e l i v e r — y o u go. I h o p e I've m a d e myself
clear.' W i t h his f a n c y f o r e i g n d e g r e e in j o u r n a l i s m f r o m
s o m e o b s c u r e A m e r i c a n university, Parthiv felt he k n e w
all that t h e r e w a s to k n o w a b o u t r u n n i n g a publishing
empire. H e decided to close d o w n three established
m a g a z i n e s f o r s t a r t e r s and launch t w o n e w o n e s in their
p l a c e . ' W e n e e d f u t u r i s t i c j o u r n a l i s m in I n d i a , ' he
a n n o u n c e d at the w e e k l y e d i t m e e t that he h a d
c o m m a n d e e r e d a f t e r his c o u p . ' W e n e e d t o think b i g ,
t a l k b i g a n d w r i t e big.' N o b o d y h a d a c l u e w h a t he
m e a n t by that but n o b o d y d a r e d to contradict him either.

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 ' T h e m a n is c u c k o o , ' said i n c r e d u l o u s r e p o r t e r s as
he stalked the c o r r i d o r s , d u c k i n g u n a n n o u n c e d i n t o
cabins, walking into the n e w s r o o m , p e e p i n g over
s h o u l d e r s and even d o i n g s p o t c h e c k s of the l o o .
S o m e of Parthiv's m o v e s w e r e v e r y s m a r t , like the
o n e that s u c c e s s f u l l y b l o c k e d T a r a n t u l a ' s p l a n s f o r a
n e w political w e e k l y a n d , incidentally, d e r a i l e d G o d .
W h e n he g o t w i n d of their p l a n s , h e i m m e d i a t e l y g o t
w o r k i n g on c o u n t e r m o v e s of his o w n s t a r t i n g w i t h
the d i s t r i b u t o r s . H e called an all-India sales c o n f e r e n c e
in B o m b a v a n d t r e a t e d t h e l o w l y v e n d o r s o f h i s
p u b l i c a t i o n s like they w e r e royalty. It w a s o n e a r e a his
father had n e v e r b o t h e r e d a b o u t , c o n s i d e r i n g it b e l o w
his dignitv to involve h i m s e l f w i t h m e n i a l s . B u t Parthiv
k n e w better. At the t w o - d a v affair, he w o r k e d o n the
v e n d o r s systematically, c a j o l i n g and bullying by t u r n s .
T h e m e s s a g e w a s o b v i o u s : Lift the rival m a g a z i n e a n d
w e ' l l f r e e z e o u r s . T h e r e w a s far t o o m u c h at stake with
Samachar f o r the v e n d o r s so thev c o u l d n ' t o b j e c t t o
blackmail of this kind. B e s i d e s , he t o l d t h e m he w o u l d
hike their c o m m i s s i o n s and even c a m e u p with incentive
schemes. 'Press Baron Plays D i r t y With Rivals,' s c r e a m e d
a t a b l o i d , b u t Parthiv j u s t l a u g h e d it o f f . ' T h e s e g u y s
are such a m a t e u r s . D o n ' t they r e a d a b o u t M u r d o c h
and his m e t h o d s ? A m e r i c a n m e d i a is full of d i r t y t r i c k s .
That's how the g a m e w o r k s t h e s e days.'
His n e w a p p o i n t e e , A m a r , w a s p l a y i n g little g a m e s
of his o w n . G a m e s that i n v o l v e d t e r r o r i z i n g o l d - t i m e r s

330
and reducing them to being office furniture. His methods
w e r e c r u d e and direct. If the staff he inherited didn't
go along with his bizarre editorial plans, he just pretended
they didn't e x i s t , and hired freshers to do the job. This
led to e n o r m o u s antagonism, especially since the freshers
d e m a n d e d the s o r t of perks that had been unheard of
in the stuffy office previously and got them. Amar wanted
to prove himself in a hurry since he was m o r e than
aware of what colleagues w e r e saying about him.
'What does he know of journalism? He s an outsider
p i t c h f o r k e d into the p r o f e s s i o n . Give him a year or
two and he'll g o right back w h e r e he c a m e f r o m . Where
was it, by the way? Wasn't he selling m o t o r - o i l or spare
p a r t s or s o m e t h i n g ? '
Amar's g r e a t e s t asset was his gift of the gab. The
m a n could talk. And sell. Plus, he wasn't a quitter. He
was d e t e r m i n e d to stay on and fight it out to the bitter
end, tripping over a battlefield full of c o r p s e s along
the way. ' T h e r o u t e to victory isn't easy. T h e r e will be
casualties a m o n g s t you,' he cautioned the staff. ' M a k e
sure y o u ' v e g o t your ass c o v e r e d and a r e n ' t a m o n g
them.' His style of functioning was bull-doggish and
belligerent. He didn't disguise the fact that he preferred
to hire g i r l s — p r e t t y girls. 'It's a m a t t e r of aesthetics,'
he declared in an interview to Tarantula ( b e f o r e the
c o n s p i r a c y to s c u t t l e her plans g o t o u t ) . ' W o m e n ,
beautiful o n e s , are easier on the eye. I'd rather have a

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g o r g e o u s - l o o k i n g r e p o r t e r a r o u n d than s o m e ugly t o a d
w h o can file brilliant copy. F o r that I hire f r e e l a n c e r s . '
Later, T a r a n t u l a p r e d i c t a b l y i n s i s t e d h e ' d m a d e a
pass at her, w h i c h she had d i s d a i n f u l l y d i s m i s s e d , b u t
this m u c h w a s t r u e , she'd g o t s o m e g r e a t q u o t e s o u t
of h i m . N o t that that w a s d i f f i c u l t . A m a r always s p o k e
f o r p o s t e r i t y , his c o n v e r s a t i o n l a c e d w i t h p o m p o u s
p r o n o u n c e m e n t s and g r a n d i o s e s t a t e m e n t s .
'It 's a c a s e of o v e r - c o m p e n s a t i o n , yaar,' said o t h e r s
w h o ' d k n o w n h i m as a c o r p o r a t e s m a l l - t i m e r . ' H e has
to p r o v e h i m s e l f in Parthiv's and the w a t c h i n g w o r l d ' s
eyes. Plus, he has a c o m p l e x a b o u t his l o o k s . D o y o u
know he w e a r s a t o u p e e to c o v e r his b a l d p a t c h and
that his f r o n t t e e t h a r e f a l s e ? '
N o b o d y , n o t even the g i r l s f r o m his h a r e m , g o t c l o s e
e n o u g h to him to find o u t o n e way o r the o t h e r , b u t it
b e c a m e a m a j o r s p o r t at m e d i a p a r t i e s t o try and g e t
him to stand u n d e r a fan o r to have h i m hang on t o his
head at a windy p o o l s i d e b a s h .
' O n e day I'll g e t my d o g to c h e w on his wig,' w o w e d
Tarantula darkly. ' A n d it w o n ' t be in p r i v a t e . I'll have
a b a t t e r y of p h o t o g r a p h e r s ready.'
T a r a n t u l a s h o u l d have k n o w n j u s t w h o m she w a s
t a k i n g on w h e n s h e d e c i d e d t o l a u n c h a b r o a d s i d e
against the Samachar. It w a s w h e n s h e b a r e d h e r f a n g s
and d u g t h e m i n t o A m a r that t h e shit hit the c e i l i n g .
In A m a r , she had an a d v e r s a r y m o r e t h a n w i l l i n g t o
play the g a m e as d i r t i l y as she d i d . A n d T a r a n t u l a h a d

332
g o t h i m w h e r e it h u r t the m o s t . S h e ' d d o u b t e d his
m a n h o o d a n d i m p l i e d that he w a s in reality, i m p o t e n t .
S o m e o n e w h o s t r u t t e d a r o u n d as a s t u d j u s t t o k e e p
his s e c r e t f r o m g e t t i n g o u t . She q u o t e d e x - s e c r e t a r i e s ,
m o d e l s and society w o m e n w h o ' d b e e n linked with
h i m . All o f t h e m t e s t i f i e d t o his ' n o - c a n - d o - n e s s ' w i t h
sadistic glee.

Yashwantbhai didn't want to get involved when

A m a r s t a r t e d e x p o s i n g T a r a n t u l a . At l e a s t , n o t initially.
' F o r g e t all this jhamela, yaar,'he said to God
w h e n he a s k e d f o r his i n t e r v e n t i o n . 'Saali ko marne
dey... tera kya jaata hai ( L e t the b i t c h d i e . . . w h a t
d o you have at s t a k e ) ? ' W h i c h w a s , in f a c t , a m o s t
pertinent question.
E v e r y b o d y w a s a m a z e d at G o d ' s s u d d e n c o n c e r n
and said so. S o o n b l i n d i t e m s b e g a n a p p e a r i n g a b o u t
G o d ' s c o n n e c t i o n w i t h T a r a n t u l a . Was t h e r e m o r e to
their relationship than just a shared byline? G o d dismissed
it as g a r b a g e b u t c o n t i n u e d t o l o b b y on h e r b e h a l f .
For the first timeTarantula herself was shaken and running
s c a r e d . She s t o p p e d g o i n g t o w o r k and s t a f f e r s w e r e
t o l d t o say she w a s on leave and had p r o b a b l y g o n e
a b r o a d f o r a vacation. T h e t r u t h w a s Tarantula had dived
u n d e r g r o u n d . She'd actually g o n e into hiding. F r o m
her u n k n o w n d e s t i n a t i o n she k e p t in t o u c h w i t h G o d
and a f e w t r u s t e d f r i e n d s , c h e c k i n g on the s c e n e and

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asking a b o u t the overall a t m o s p h e r e . G o d a s s u r e d her

that he w a s w o r k i n g h a r d o n h e r c a s e a n d t h a t a
b r e a k t h r o u g h w i t h Yashwantbhai w a s r o u n d the c o r n e r .
' B u t y o u k n o w t h e m a n , yaar. He doesn't do
a n y t h i n g f o r n o t h i n g . A r e y o u w i l l i n g t o pay h i m his
p o u n d of f l e s h ? '
She w a s . Even t h o u g h she d i d n ' t k n o w w h a t f o r m
it w o u l d take. She p l e a d e d , ' J u s t g e t t h o s e g o o n s o f f
my back.TellYashwantbhai t o settle my case with t h e m .
I can't live like this forever.' It was m o s t u n c h a r a c t e r i s t i c
f o r Tarantula t o b e r e d u c e d to b e g g i n g f o r f a v o u r s . But
she was obviously under e x t r e m e stress. A m a r and Parthiv
had k e p t u p the p r e s s u r e , l e t t i n g d i r t y little s t o r i e s
leak o u t a b o u t her h i t h e r t o c l o s e l y - g u a r d e d p r i v a t e
life. They u n e a r t h e d the e x - h u s b a n d t u c k e d away in
the foothills of the Himalayas, a c u r r e n t b o y f r i e n d y o u n g
e n o u g h t o b e her s o n , and a m e s s y s t o r y a b o u t her
s l e e p i n g her way t o the t o p o f her p r o f e s s i o n , u s i n g
everv man a l o n g the way. T h e usual g a r b a g e that m e n
e m p l o y to assassinate a w o m a n ' s c h a r a c t e r .
But the s t o r y that really d e s t r o y e d her w a s the o n e
a b o u t her m o t h e r . Samachar sleuths had m a n a g e d to
track d o w n the o l d ladvj to D e h r a d u n w h e r e she lived

a lonely life in a small h o u s e o n a f a r m , e k i n g o u t a

m i s e r a b l e e x i s t e n c e by d o i n g o d d j o b s o n n e i g h b o u r i n g
f a r m s and g e t t i n g by with w h a t little p r o d u c e her o w n
patch of land y i e l d e d . ' M y D a u g h t e r D i s o w n e d M e , '
s c r e a m e d headlines f r o m h o a r d i n g s all o v e r the city,

334
while print ads c a r r i e d a pathetic picture of a little
old lady with lost eyes, sitting near a well, holding a
billy-goat close to her b o s o m . They q u o t e d her as saying
her daughter was a merciless, selfish woman, who kicked
her o u t of her own h o m e when she n e e d e d it after her
(Tarantula's) divorce.
'My husband was dead. I was a prisoner and a servant
in the h o m e he'd left for m e . M y d a u g h t e r t o r t u r e d
m e physically and emotionally. She u s e d to hit m e if
I ever o b j e c t e d t o her way of life. 1 t o l d her to find
s o m e other g o o d man and settle d o w n . Was that wrong?
She a b u s e d m e and t h r e a t e n e d to t u r n m e o u t . It was
a cold winter that year in Chandigarh. I was t o o scared
to o p e n my m o u t h after that. All s o r t s of m e n u s e d
to visit h e r — a r m y g e n e r a l s , p o l i t i c i a n s , g o v e r n m e n t
o f f i c e r s . T h e n e i g h b o u r s u s e d t o g o s s i p and taunt m e
while she was away, I felt so a s h a m e d . I tried to s t o p
her. I even tried to hang myself. But my dupatta t o r e
w h e n I t r i e d to tie it to a fan. She was f u r i o u s when
she d i s c o v e r e d it and w a r n e d m e never to do such a
thing again. I w e p t and t o l d her I w a n t e d t o end my
m i s e r y . A n d she shut m e into the small c o a l - r o o m
n e x t to the kitchen w i t h o u t f o o d or water. The m e n
w h o c a m e u s e d t o g e t d r u n k and behave badly. O n c e
the neighbours c o m p l a i n e d . But the n e x t day the police
c a m e and told them to withdraw their complaint. After
that e v e r y b o d y k e p t q u i e t . T h e n she m e t that m a n .
I d o n ' t r e m e m b e r his n a m e now. T h e o n e w h o t o o k

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 Shobhaa De

her away t o B o m b a y and g a v e h e r s o m e j o b . She u s e d

to s e n d s o m e m o n e y h o m e at f i r s t . T h e n she s t o p p e d
even that. I h a d t o l o o k f o r w o r k as a c o o k o r an ayah.
My late husband w o u l d have died another death. I m a g i n e
m e w o r k i n g as a naukrani, when my daughter was
such a f a m o u s w o m a n . T h e n she s t a r t e d t e l l i n g p e o p l e
that I w a s d e a d . I w i s h I w a s . It m u s t have b e e n s o m e
c u r s e on m e . I m u s t have s i n n e d in m y last janam to
have g i v e n b i r t h t o s u c h a shaitan. B u t I a m n o t like
her. I h o p e she will find G o d ( i r o n y ! ) a n d m a k e h e r
p e a c e . Tell her I f o r g i v e her.'
Tarantula w a s livid with the r e v e l a t i o n s . B u t m o r e
than livid, something died inside her. She lost her fighting
spirit. She finally s t o p p e d r u n n i n g . T h e r e w a s n o t h i n g
left to hide a n y m o r e . She t h r e w in the t o w e l . A n d w e n t
crawling to Yashwantbhai.

It was already t o o late. A m a r r e a l i z e d he had finished

Tarantula. H e d i d n ' t n e e d to w a s t e a m i n u t e o f his t i m e
talking to s c u m like Yashwantbhai. V i c t o r y w a s his a n d
he w a n t e d to revel in it. H e t o l d G o d as m u c h w h e n
the latter called to fix an a p p o i n t m e n t forYashwantbhai.
' B l o o d y p i m p . . . f u c k o f f . . . why s h o u l d I s p a r e t i m e
for the likes of you t w o ? A n d that t o o f o r that b i t c h
w h o tried to d e s t r o y m e ! Tell y o u r b o s s t o g o s u c k his
c o c k . I have b e t t e r things to do.'

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 G o d should have known right then that Amar was
on to a big thing. A m a j o r e x p o s e that would establish
Yashwantbhai s nexus with powerful brokers manipulating
stocks on the e x c h a n g e and defrauding the public of
millions. God's contacts within Amar's office had leaked
a f e w confidential p a p e r s and d r o p p e d several hints.
It was possible that A m a r was o p e n to ' n e g o t i a t i o n s ' .
As his flunkey put it, 'All that m a t t e r s is the price.'
G o d was aware that Amar and Parthiv were vulnerable
t o o , involved as they were in shady n e w s p r i n t deals,
to say nothing of tax evasion on a massive scale. He
should have p a s s e d on all this to Yashwantbhai. He
m i s s e d the signals and f a i l e d t o r e p o r t m a t t e r s to
Yashwantbhai—thereby b e c o m i n g suspect. In any case,
G o d was far t o o busy politicking. The state elections
were round the c o r n e r and m o r e than just Tarantula's
tail was at stake. Yashwantbhai was fielding his men
and there w e r e still a c o u p l e of tickets going. G o d was
certain he was in the running. Yashwantbhai's sweeping
the elections was taken for granted by everybody including
Yashwantbhai.
'My boys don't lose elections,' he boasted in various
n e w s p a p e r s . 'And neither do I.'
G o d ' s father was in the fray as well, and was sure
of his chances in a p r e d o m i n a n t l y labour constituency.
Yashwantbhai s candidate f r o m the s a m e area was a
n o t o r i o u s g o o n d a , a small-time b o o t l e g g e r w h o had
g r a d u a t e d to b i g - t i m e s m u g g l i n g . Yashwantbhai was

337
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g o i n g to save m o n e y o n this o n e , s i n c e t h e r e w a s n o
real n e e d f o r official c a m p a i g n i n g . T h e c a n d i d a t e ' s m e n
had t e r r o r i z e d the e l e c t o r a t e s u f f i c i e n t l y t o g e t t h e m
into the p o l l i n g b o o t h s and s t a m p his s y m b o l — a b o a t
( ' H e feels b o a t s are l u c k y f o r h i m since his first
c o n s i g n m e n t of silver w e n t o u t o n o n e ' ) . G o d ' s father
w h o had l i m i t e d r e s o u r c e s w a s h o p i n g his g o o d w o r k
with the mill w o r k e r s in the a r e a w o u l d pay o f f . H e
was g e t t i n g o l d and frail now. H e hardly a t t e n d e d any
g a t e - m e e t i n g s these days, e x c e p t those in the i m m e d i a t e
n e i g h b o u r h o o d . G o d l o o k e d in on h i m o c c a s i o n a l l y and
left m o n e y b e h i n d in a b a t t e r e d o l d tin n e a r the o l d
man's b e d . T h a t was a b o u t the only c o n t a c t they
m a i n t a i n e d a f t e r G o d had m o v e d o u t .
Yashwantbhai w a s c o u n t i n g o n G o d ' s p r e s s c o n t a c t s
to g e t p o s i t i v e p i e c e s w r i t t e n o n h i m . It w a s n ' t easy
for G o d t o sell Yashwantbhai t h e s e days, p a r t i c u l a r l y
since Yashwantbhai had s t o p p e d d o l i n g o u t l a r g e s s e t o
j u n i o r r e p o r t e r s , and c u t o f f the b o o z e s u p p l y t o the
i n f o r m a l p r e s s c e n t r e that was r u n by the chief r e p o r t e r
of Samachar at his o w n h o m e . G o d w a s always r e m i n d e d
ofYashwantbhai's early w o r d s of advice to h i m , ' C o r r u p t
t h e m at the t o p first and then w o r k y o u r way r i g h t
d o w n to the p e o n and c h a p r a s i l e v e l . . . that way y o u
k e e p e v e r y b o d y happy.'
U n f o r t u n a t e l y , Yashwantbhai d i s c o v e r e d a bit t o o
late that n o t e v e r y b o d y w a s happy. In f a c t t h e r e w e r e
t w o p e o p l e w h o w e r e m o s t unhappy. A n d they w e r e

338
at the top. Right at the top. T h e fall-out was bad. Very
bad. Especially for G o d .

W h e n ugly stories a b o u t Yashw antbhai s u n d e r w o r l d

connections b e g a n to circulate in the p r e s s , it was G o d
who was pulled up.
' C a n you explain to m e , you n i n c o m p o o p , what is
going on?' Yashwantbhai snarled. 'It's your j o b to fix
these t h i n g s — p e o p l e like that swine Rathod, and who's
that other fellow? Borkar. Chief r e p o r t e r hai—so what?
Kill the stories or kill t h e m . That is if you aren't on
their payroll yourself.'
G o d was stunned by these accusations. And deeply
o f f e n d e d . Yashwantbhai had called him a two-timer, a
double-crosser.
Had he slipped up s o m e w h e r e or was there an enemy
in the c a m p poisoning Yashwantbhai's mind? Maybe this
p e r s o n was feeling threatened by G o d ' s power, access
and success. T h e m e s s a g e was clear: G o d ' s c o u n t d o w n
had b e g u n . It was only a m a t t e r of t i m e b e f o r e he t o o
b e c a m e a discarded victim. G o d had to m o v e quickly.
And he tried. But it was already t o o late.

I'd k n o w n all along that G o d was m e s s i n g things up

for himself by getting involved with Yashwantbhai. He

339
didn't see it that way, of c o u r s e . H e thought he was
being s m a r t and clever. Staying ahead in the race. A
race to nowhere and nothing. T h e r e w e r e no winners
in this kind of c o m p e t i t i o n . And the l o s e r s often e n d e d
up dead.
Meanwhile, the writing b u g had bitten m e . Perhaps
it was G o d ' s indirect influence. O r maybe I was trying
to upstage him ('Anything you can do, I can d o better.')
But 1 was enjoying fooling around with w o r d s , m o r e
so when I saw them in print.
Getting a break wasn't t o u g h , I d i s c o v e r e d . M o s t
editors were hard up for fillers. Anything reasonably
well-written and neatly r e a d y m a d e was fit to p r i n t .
Besides, even if I do say so myself, my stuff wasn't bad
at all. It was different. And easy to read. Gradually my
byline b e c a m e a familiar o n e and I j o i n e d the ranks of
the p o o r l y - p a i d but w i d e l y - r e a d f r e e l a n c e h a c k s .
I had no p o l i t i c a l savvy t o s p e a k o f — a n d d i d n ' t
pretend to have any. My pieces w o r k e d chiefly b e c a u s e
of this—politicians t e n d e d to treat m e patronizingly.
And I in turn played up my naive i m a g e . T h e y d r o p p e d
their g u a r d s — a n d I g o t my q u o t e s .
I did one such piece on Yashwantbhai and perhaps
because of it I was asked to see A m a r and Parthiv when
they went on a mad talent-shopping binge for their
publications. Initially, I'd played it c o o l , not wanting
to give up my chick peas business for another full-time
job, this time in journalism. Like s o m e of my old friends

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at the a g e n c y w o u l d o f t e n sneer, 'In this b u s i n e s s w e
only l e n d o u r ass t o the c l i e n t . In j o u r n a l i s m y o u sell
your s o u l t o the p r o p r i e t o r . ' B o t h a l t e r n a t i v e s w e r e
equally revolting, b u t selling b a s m a t i w a s n ' t particularly
challenging, even if the sight o f m y o w n K a w l a - d e s i g n e d
l o g o on a g u n n y s a c k still c o n t i n u e d t o thrill m e . As
Aarti finally p o i n t e d o u t , 'You can d o both even if y o u
j o i n t h e Samachar... or you can hire s o m e o n e to
sell y o u r s t u f f t o t h e A r a b s f o r y o u . . . l i k e m e , f o r
i n s t a n c e . . . I'd love t o c h e c k f o r m y s e l f w h a t they a r e
l i k e . . . the sheikhs. In m y f a n t a s i e s they a r e all O m a r
S h a r i f s . ' T h a t w a s an i d e a . H i r i n g A a r t i s o l v e d several
p r o b l e m s . . . and c r e a t e d a few, but those w e r e n ' t terribly
b o t h e r - s o m e . She n e e d e d e x t r a m o n e y . I n e e d e d e x t r a
help. B e s i d e s , I w a s n ' t the s o r t t o g e t t o o involved in
the n i t t y - g r i t t i e s . A a r t i m u s t have b e e n r i p p i n g m e
off-—at l e a s t a little. It w a s fine by m e .
T h e SamacJiar interview was unreal. I wasn't prepared
to a n s w e r q u e s t i o n s that had n o t h i n g to d o with my
abilities as a w r i t e r . A m a r l e e r e d and s t a r e d p o i n t e d l y
at my b r e a s t s , w h i l e P a r t h i v m u m b l e d incoherently
into his c o f f e e c u p and s p o k e a b o u t his g r a n d p l a n ,
which i n c l u d e d an investigative t a b l o i d — a l o n g the lines
of the Sun. I w a s t e m p t e d t o say that it w a s n ' t a very
o r i g i n a l i d e a , w h e n I r e m e m b e r e d that n o t h i n g in
Indian j o u r n a l i s m w a s all that original anyway. T h e y
had d e c i d e d t o call their t a b l o i d Bharat, a n a m e they
were immensely pleased with.

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 'The first state-of-the-art paper,' A m a r stated,
r u b b i n g his c r o t c h w i t h an a g a t e egg.
I'd heard that d e s c r i p t i o n b e f o r e — e v e r y n e w journal
c l a i m e d it w a s j u s t that t h e s e days. Eventually, it w a s
the h a r d w a r e that s u r v i v e d the p u b l i c a t i o n s .
' B u t I ' m n o t f a m i l i a r w i t h c o m p u t e r s , ' I s a i d . All
the w h i l e , I w a n t e d t o d o n o t h i n g m o r e than w i p e the
s m u g s m i l e o f f A m a r ' s f a c e w i t h a m a i l e d fist.
' T h e p a p e r n e e d s bright y o u n g p e o p l e with ambition
and insight,' Parthiv d r o n e d o n .
My eyes w a n d e r e d to the walls o f his i m p r e s s i v e
r o o m . They were covered with c o n t e m p o r a r y art. A
lurid Iqbal on a c r y l i c s t o o d o u t f r o m the r e s t o f the
c o n f u s e d display ( ' e c l e c t i c c o l l e c t i o n ' critics had
d u b b e d it in i n n u m e r a b l e w r i t e - u p s ) . T h e r e w a s also a
s e l f - p a r o d y i n g p o r t r a i t o f P a r t h i v , d o n e in s o m b r e
t o n e s by Basu. It d e p i c t e d h i m as a b e j e w e l l e d , c h a i n e d
dog. P a r t h i v c a u g h t m e s t a r i n g at i t , ' Y e s . . . r a t h e r
a p p r o p r i a t e , isn't it?' I s m i l e d .
A m a r had s w i t c h e d f r o m the a g a t e e g g t o a lapis
o n e (it m a t c h e d his j e a n s ) . 'I liked w h a t y o u d i d on
that shit-head,' he d r a w l e d .
'Which one?' I asked.
'You m e a n you have r u b b i s h e d so m a n y o f t h e m ? '
he a s k e d , his e y e b r o w s r a i s e d in fake a s t o n i s h m e n t .
Parthiv intervened. ' H e means your profile of
Yashw antbhai. We t h o u g h t o f h i r i n g you a f t e r w e r e a d
it. That's the s o r t o f stuff w e w a n t in Bharat. C o r r u p t i o n

342
and i n c o m p e t e n c e are the t w o b i g g e s t b u r e a u c r a t i c
c r i m e s . We w a n t t o e x p o s e b o t h . '
Amar continued smoothly, ' H o w m u c h are you making
selling r i c e . . . five g r a n d ? T e n g r a n d ? We can m a k e you
an o f f e r you c a n ' t r e f u s e . '
'Fine,' I said. ' B u t I'd still w a n t t o c o n t i n u e to sell
my rice.'
' W h y ? ' Parthiv a s k e d .
' B e c a u s e 1 enjoy i t . . . and I like b e i n g my o w n b o s s .
If I c o n s i d e r j o i n i n g you at all, I'd p r e f e r to w o r k o u t
s o m e s o r t of a l o o s e a r r a n g e m e n t . M a y b e you c o u l d
c o n s i d e r a r e t a i n e r . I d o n ' t w a n t t o g i v e u p my
b u s i n e s s . . . and in case you are i n t e r e s t e d , it m a k e s m e
a g r e a t deal o f money.'
A m a r and P a r t h i v e x c h a n g e d g l a n c e s . 'We had a
p a c k a g e in m i n d actually. Plus, a fancy designation. You
w o u l d be features e d i t o r with c o m p l e t e control. T h e
only p e o p l e you'd be r e p o r t i n g to is the two ot us.'
'Well, like I said, I'll have t o think this thing through.
I d o n ' t k n o w how m u c h t i m e I'll be able to spare.'
' W h y d o n ' t y o u d o one thing while you are m a k i n g
u p y o u r m i n d — B h a r a t is g o i n g t o be d o i n g d u m m i e s
for a d v e r t i s e r s over the n e x t f e w w e e k s . We n e e d s o m e
f i l l e r s . . . w e ' l l pay for t h e m , of c o u r s e . W h y n o t eight
p r o f i l e s over t h r e e m o n t h s f r o m y o u ? '
' T h a t s o u n d s r e a s o n a b l e . . . and I ' m i n t e r e s t e d . '
A m a r g o t u p f r o m his c h a i r and c a m e o v e r t o
shake h a n d s . Parthiv g o t busy on the i n t e r c o m b a w l i n g

343
o u t his m a r k e t i n g m a n a g e r w h o ' d g o o f e d o n s o m e
i m p o r t a n t d e t a i l s in t h e p r o m o t i o n a l l e t t e r s e n t o u t
by h i m . T h e l a n g u a g e e m p l o y e d t o b e r a t e t h e m a n
w a s w o r s e than G o d ' s .
A m a r w a l k e d m e to the d o o r a n d t r i e d the o l d
schoolbov trick of reaching over to flick s o m e i m a g i n a r y
dust off my s h o u l d e r . H e w a i t e d till w e w e r e in full
view of the e d i t o r i a l d e p a r t m e n t b e f o r e d o i n g it. I saw
his s e c r e t a r y s m i r k i n g . She'd p r o b a b l y w i t n e s s e d it a
t h o u s a n d t i m e s b e f o r e . I t o l d A m a r I'd g e t b a c k t o h i m
and l e f t .
The Yashwantbhai p i e c e had c r e a t e d bad b l o o d
b e t w e e n G o d and m e . H e ' d s t o r m e d into the h o u s e
and v e i l e d , ' N a s h a ! Yeh tuneykya kiya?Kyon kiya, huh,
why the hell did y o u d o t h i s ? ' T h i s had b e e n fairly s o o n
a f t e r a r u n - i n his father had h a d w i t h Yashwantbhai's
g o o n - s q u a d , so I w a s a little s u r p r i s e d by his r e a c t i o n .
G o d c o n t i n u e d , 'You d o n ' t k n o w that m a n the w a y
1 d o . . . he will n e v e r f o r g e t this. You'd b e t t e r w a t c h
o u t . Tell that baap of v o u r s also.'
' W h y the s u d d e n i n t e r e s t in o u r w e l f a r e , D e b ? '
I said. 'You are d o i n g w e l l , b e i n g his l a p - d o g . You m a y
have b a r t e r e d away y o u r c o n s c i e n c e f o r the p r i c e o f a
M a r u t i . . . s o m e of u s have o t h e r p r i o r i t i e s . '
G o d had s t a r e d at m e t h o u g h t f u l l y and said tiredly,
sadly, 'It's n o t a c a s e o f p r i o r i t i e s , N a s h a . D o n ' t b e
d u m b . And d o n ' t p u t on y o u r h o l i e r - t h a n - t h o u act w i t h
m e . If Yashwantbhai is c o r r u p t , s o a r e w e all, in v a r y i n g

344
d e g r e e s . So is your father. And so is mine. And so are
you. O u r means may be different, but the ends are the
s a m e . You will r e g r e t this. Rather, you will be made to
r e g r e t it.'
'Are you passing on s o m e s o r t of a sinister message?
Have you b e e n r e d u c e d t o this? This is disgusting.
I d o b e l i e v e you are threatening m e . Why d o n ' t you
just c o m e o u t with it, spell it o u t , huh? What is that
m a n p l a n n i n g — t o kill m e ? K i d n a p m e ? R a p e m e ? O r
all of t h o s e ? '
' L e t us just say that whatever happened between
us in the past is why I am here today. Had you been
s o m e u n k n o w n b r o a d acting s m a r t , I w o u l d n ' t have
b o t h e r e d . But I know that man and what he's capable
of. O n c e he d e c i d e s on s o m e t h i n g — t h a t ' s it. Today,
you happen to be his target. I ' m here to warn you as a
f r i e n d — b e careful. D o n ' t fool with him.'
Was that s o m e s o r t of a g o o d b y e , I w o n d e r e d . G o d
and 1 were m e e t i n g after w e e k s — i t felt like years since
we'd last laughed t o g e t h e r at o n e of his silly jokes.
We n o l o n g e r s p o k e the s a m e l a n g u a g e . . . . We
barely r e c o g n i z e d each o t h e r . . . or our shared past.
I'd e v e n f o r g o t t e n w h e n e x a c t l y it w a s t h a t we
h a d officially ' b r o k e n u p ' . I d o u b t e d w h e t h e r G o d
remembered—or cared—either.
G o d ' s s h o u l d e r s had s l u m p e d . H e l o o k e d weary
and for the first t i m e , d e f e a t e d . I asked him t o play
the flute, just to cheer him up.

345
 Shobhaa De

'It broke,' he said flatly, and left.

So, the flute had gone too.There were times I thought
of G o d as he was when I had first met him nearly six
years ago. I r e m e m b e r e d Bijli and our joint adventures.
But if G o d had changed, so had I. I missed m e too. The
old me. My parents rarely spoke, either to each other
or to me. Didi was far too frail to do anything m o r e
than shuffle weakly around the place, d r e a m i n g of
returning to her beloved Darjeeling one day. My mother's
hair had started to grey and she didn't bother to dye it
anymore. She'd stopped bothering about her physical
appearance for some time now. And my father had stopped
bothering her about it. We lived our lives in near-isolation,
the c o n v e r s a t i o n r a r e l y g o i n g b e y o n d mundane
pleasantries. If they were at all concerned about my
single status ( ' T h e Vermas' unmarried daughter,' was
how 1 was often introduced by c o r p o r a t e friends of
my parents as if there were half-a-dozen other m a r r i e d
daughters) they didn't show it, though my mother vaguely
talked about s o m e 'nice boy' she'd been told about.
1 thought about Anil sometimes. But couldn't get
myself to pick up the phone and talk him into an evening.
My social life, such as it was, was dominated by girlfriends,
divorcees, widows and other singles. We m e t up once
or twice a month, generally at a five star bar. After far
too many tequila cocktails, we drifted to dinner at one
of the fancier new restaurants. Occasionally, we went
to the disco at the Taj and danced with each other, making

346
o u t as if we w e r e having the t i m e of our lives. At the
end of it all, plastered and d e p r e s s e d , we'd land up in
one of the h o m e s to s u m up the evening and our lives.
What wrecks we looked with our smudgy kaajal, twisted
m o u t h s and half-eaten lipstick. The g r o u p c o n c e d e d
in more candid moments that these outings were pointless,
expensive and frustrating. But what alternative was there?
Like Mona would sav in her hard-edged, almost metallic
voice, ' L e t ' s face it g i r l s . . . we are hard up. N o m e n ,
no future. We w o r k , we e a r n . . . we d e s e r v e s o m e fun.
And who k n o w s . . . maybe, one day while we are sitting
at Lancer's a g r o u p of g o r g e o u s guys will walk in and
m a r r y us all.'
She'd p u t her f i n g e r on it neatly... w e lived with
that o n e h o p e — t h a t w e ' d be ' s a v e d ' by s o m e m a n .
M o s t of us h a t e d t o a d m i t this, b u t it was t r u e . Being
single w a s n ' t such a h o t a l t e r n a t i v e , though many of
our m a r r i e d friends thought so. But even those w o m e n
c o u l d s e n s e our d e s p e r a t i o n , our l o n e l i n e s s , and feel
s m u g that they had h u s b a n d s to call their o w n . They
were Mrs So-and-So.
It was at such a party that I met Lotika, who introduced
a n e w p e r s p e c t i v e into being single. 'I was an apsara
in my last life,' she g i g g l e d , fiddling provocatively with
a strand of hennaed hair. T h e kitty party was in full
swing and m o s t of us w e r e punch d r u n k .
' O h , how s w e e t , darling. W h o told vou that?'

347
 'My numerologist,' confessed Lotika p o p p i n g a prawn
p a k o r a into her m o u t h . ' H e t o l d m e I w a s s o ravishing
that I d i s t u r b e d a rishi's m e d i t a t i o n . '
' T o o m u c h , yaar. It's s o u n d i n g m o r e and m o r e like
the Ramavana... or is it the Mahabharata,' someone
giggled, reaching for a ciggie.
'You d o n ' t believe m e ? All his p r e d i c t i o n s have c o m e
t r u e so f a r . . . i n c l u d i n g Ravi's d e a t h . H e h a d t o l d m e
a b o u t it a f e w m o n t h s b e f o r e m y B o b b y d i e d . '
T h e r e w a s a h u s h in a r o o m . . . the s i l e n c e b r o k e n
just by the c r a c k l e of p o t a t o c r i s p i e s a n d the m e t a l l i c
click-clack of d i a m o n d b a n g l e s as they c l a n g e d against
each o t h e r o n fat w r i s t s and i n t o d e l i c a t e china.
' W h a t e l s e did he tell y o u , d a r l i n g ? ' the h o s t e s s
urged L o t i k a to tell her tale.
' O h . . . so many things. T h e rishi's c u r s e will
t r o u b l e m e in this l i f e t i m e . T h a t ' s why I left m y first
husband- all b e c a u s e o f the c u r s e . '
We held o u r b r e a t h s and r e a c h e d f o r the s e v - p u r i s .
' T h e n u m e r o l o g i s t t o l d vou that a l s o ? '
'Hahn baba... that m a n is t o o m u c h . N e x t t i m e ,
let's have a n u m e r o l o g y kitty.' E v e r y b o d y a g r e e d . ' T h e
rishi w a s so angry w i t h m e f o r s e d u c i n g h i m , h e said,
"You will m a r r y t w o m e n . T h e first o n e will leave y o u .
A lover will die. And the s e c o n d husband y o u will leave."
N o w I ' m waiting f o r t h a t . . . it is my destiny.'
' A f t e r that what will h a p p e n ? '

348
 'I will only have o n e night s t a n d s . . . and then 1 will
c o m m i t suicide. This fellow doesn't go wrong. I know
this is h o w it will b e . '
A f t e r a p a u s e , the h o s t e s s said, 'It d o e s n ' t s o u n d
t o o b a d — a t least v o u will have a l o t of f u n b e f o r e vou
d i e . W h y n o t f o r g e t a b o u t a s e c o n d m a r r i a g e and
c o n c e n t r a t e on y o u r o n e night s t a n d s , yaar?'
' B e c a r e f u l , ' s o m e o n e l a u g h e d , ' o n e of t h o s e m i g h t
turn out to be your husband.'
Lotika was a sought-after w o m a n on the social circuit.
C o n t r a r y t o o u r o w n s o r r y s t a t e , her b i g g e s t asset at
the m o m e n t w a s her single status. Especially as, a f t e r
a c e r t a i n a g e , it was hard t o m e e t a t t r a c t i v e w o m e n
who weren't already m a r r i e d to creeps. Lotika was
a t t r a c t i v e in her o w n way. But it w a s her c o l o u r f u l past
that sent out signals. And in the recent magazine interview
f o r a w o m e n ' s m o n t h l y that specialized in h o r r o r s t o r i e s
a b o u t ' v i c t i m i z e d ' w o m e n , L o t i k a h a d n ' t left a single
s e x y detail o f her life t o a n y b o d y ' s i m a g i n a t i o n . S o ,
n o w the w h o l e t o w n k n e w that she w a s the victim of
child a b u s e at a g e eight ('I w a s v e r y d e s i r a b l e even as
a k i d ' ) , that a raunchy cousin had raped her at age fourteen
( ' A t least he was c u t e l o o k i n g ' ) , that she'd b e e n m a r r i e d
off
t o h u s b a n d n u m b e r o n e at a g e n i n e t e e n ('Chalta
hai, he w a s into b o o z e and d o g s ' ) , that she d i v o r c e d at
t w e n t v - f o u r ( ' P l e a s e n o t e , I d i d n ' t ask f o r a l i m o n y or
anything. I w a l k e d o u t in my b a r e feet w e a r i n g a nightie )
that she'd had an u n h a p p y affair t w o y e a r s later which
349
ended with her lover's death ('Suicide? What nonsense.
He had me to live f o r ' ) . And now here she was, ripe
and ready, c u r s e or no c u r s e . It went without saying
that there were enough takers to keep her in o n e night
stands forever. The old rishi m u s t have had one hell of
a foresight. Lotika had successfully converted his ' c u r s e '
into a ' b o o n ' .

Nothing happened after G o d ' s visit. 1 waited for a signal

f r o m Yashwantbhai. I e x p e c t e d a midnight phone-call,
a letter or even a g o o n in p e r s o n threatening m e with
acid bulbs, rape and murder. Weeks went by and I relaxed,
thinking to myself that G o d had over-reacted. G o d had
felt protective and responsible. I was t o o m u c h of a
small-fry, after all;Yashwantbhai had big-time adversaries
to combat with. Why would he bother with a r o o k i e
like me?
'Yashwantbhai has a long m e m o r y . He r e m e m b e r s
everything and e v e r y o n e . T o p to b o t t o m . D o you know
he was once insulted by s o m e minister's chaprasi?This
was when he was a nobody. J u s t a m a a m u i i clerk in
the fisheries d e p a r t m e n t . But he did not f o r g e t the
insult. After he earned his millions and became powerful,
he tracked down the fellow, had him s a c k e d — a n d that's
not all. He sent his m e n to the guy's village near Sangli.
They burnt his small paddy field and the sugar cane he

350
had h a r v e s t e d . T h e y t h r e a t e n e d his w i f e and children.
T h a t ' s the s o r t of m a n he is. H e m a v n o t d o anvthing
to you just now. But vou w a i t . . . just you wait,' a
w e l l - m e a n i n g lackey had w a r n e d m e .
I w a s far t o o p r e o c c u p i e d f o r a w h i l e a f t e r the
A m a r - P a r t h i v o f f e r t o pay m u c h a t t e n t i o n t o the threat
h a n g i n g o v e r my h e a d . 'Dekha jaycga,' I said airily to
C h a n d n i w h e n she c a l l e d . T h e m e d i a g r a p e v i n e had
rapidly s p r e a d the w o r d . A a r t i p h o n e d as w e l l . A blank
i t e m had a p p e a r e d in a w e e k e n d tabloid that specialized
in m u c k .
'Yaar, this is t o o m u c h , ' she said, ' w h o c o u l d imagine
v o u ' d g e t into such a m e s s ? W h y d o n ' t vou ask D e b to
help you?'
I i g n o r e d the calls and t h r e w m v s e l f into the p r o f i l e s
o n h a n d . T h e f i r s t o n e I t a c k l e d w a s , naturally, Iqbal's.
W e ' d w o r k e d o u t an e a s v e q u a t i o n . I'd f o r g i v e n h i m
f o r t h e ' i n c i d e n t ' a n d he h a d s t o p p e d m a k i n g his
obligatory passes.
I k n e w I couldn't c o m p e t e with Tarantula's tantalizing
n u m b e r on h i m . I also k n e w I c o u l d n ' t d o an arty p i e c e
full of h i g h - s o u n d i n g shit that c o n v e y e d nothing. Iqbal
h i m s e l f w a s c o - o p e r a t i v e b u t insistent on a shocker. I
r e a s o n e d with him that it had b e c o m e rather predictable
and p a s s e to d o e v e - p o p p e r s on h i m . I n e e d e d a different
a n g l e — a n original one.
His d i r t y m i n d o f f e r e d t w o o p t i o n s : ' W h y d o n ' t
you cover a session w h e r e I paint Boxer b u g g e r i n g

351
o n e of the C u f f e P a r a d e f i s h e r m e n — B i l l o o a l l o w s
him these p e c c a d i l l o e s these days, p r o v i d e d it isn't
t o o o f t e n . O r if that is t o o b o r i n g for y o u w e can
make it an orgy. T h r o w in a f i s h e r w o m a n . O r let m e
t h i n k . . . I have a still b e t t e r idea. L e t ' s set up a lesbian
orgy with my w h o r e s . '
I politely s u p p r e s s e d a great big yawn and nearly
said, 'So what else is n e w ? ' Iqbal had t r i p p e d into his
familiar world and as usual, everything else had m e l t e d
away leaving him to m a s t u r b a t e with his own e g o for
inspiration.
Without m u c h real interest, I s t a r t e d asking him
stray questions about his early y e a r s . . . his childhood,
m e m o r i e s of his place of birth. Something suddenly
clicked at s o m e point and I g o t to see the real Iqbal.
Or, at any rate yet another p e r s o n a . T h i s one was almost
likeable, almost human. The w h o l e thing w o r k e d . It
was innocent, revealing and touching. Behind the fancy
facade, the great Iqbal was not special at all. H e was
one of us.
The other profiles t o o k longer and r e q u i r e d m u c h
more leg-work. But I was enjoying them. And discovering
myself in the process. Discovering a cold-blooded, ruthless
voyeur who had no qualms about digging o u t all the
small details that m o s t celebrities take such pains to
bury. I found I had a knack with p e o p l e . I could d i s a r m
them and get their tongues rolling. It was surprisingly
easy to get the m o s t intimate revelations. I also found

352
that my e y e s and e a r s m i s s e d n o t h i n g — t h e small
gestures, the tiny tics, the nervous laughs, the unguarded
c o m m e n t s . People t r u s t e d m e . They thought I was a
friend, a well-wisher, s o m e o n e they could open up to.
For my part, I tried not to betray them. But the temptation
to d o just that was often far t o o g r e a t .
T h e r e c e p t i o n to my interviews was positive, even
flattering. While I enjoyed flirting with this kind of
writing, it w a s n ' t i m p o r t a n t enough for m e . People,
however, viewed it as a p o w e r f u l i m p l e m e n t
G o d c a m e over to tell m e , ' N i s h a . . . you have now
b e c o m e the city's nasha.' H e wasn't bitching.

353
 ashwantbhai s t r u c k w h e n w e w e r e least e x p e c t i n g
it. It s t a r t e d w i t h t h r e a t e n i n g calls at h o m e w h i c h
my m o t h e r a n s w e r e d and hastily p a s s e d on t o m y father
if he was a r o u n d . 'Aapki ladki ki jaan khatre mein hai
(Your d a u g h t e r ' s life is in d a n g e r ) , ' a m u f f l e d v o i c e
w o u l d w h i s p e r and r i n g o f f . N e x t c a m e the s t a n d a r d ,
t y p e d l e t t e r s asking in c r u d e English: ' H a v e y o u felt
acid on skin? Your f a c e y o u r f o r t u n e will n o t b e s o o n . '
It was g e t t i n g t o a s t a g e w h e r e life w a s b e g i n n i n g to
imitate a Hindi f i l m . I e x p e c t e d t o s e e Shakti K a p o o r
in white s h o e s and g l o v e s , l u r k i n g n e a r the h o u s e w i t h
a snub-nosed pistol.
G o d wasn't a m u s e d . ' D o n ' t b e a b l o o d y f o o l , Nasha,'
he told m e . 'You don't know that haramilike I do. Anything
could happen.'
Mv father w a s t e r r i f i e d b u t c o u l d n o t think o f w h a t
to d o . 'Shall w e g o t o the p o l i c e ? ' he a s k e d m y m o t h e r ,
w h o s h o o k her h e a d f i r m l y and said s c o r n f u l l y , ' P o l i c e ?

354
H u h ! W h a t will the p o l i c e d o ? T h e y are all on
Yashwantbhai's payroll. N o . . . we will have to think of
s o m e t h i n g else.'
' B u t . . . b u t . . . d o w e have the t i m e ? ' my father
b l u b b e r e d . My m o t h e r gave him a withering look. ' O f
course we d o n ' t . . . but we'll have to think of something.'
This reversal of roles was m o s t interesting. Suddenly,
my m o t h e r w a s in full c o m m a n d after the first few
n e r v o u s davs.
j She'd answer the caller in a f i r m voice
and look at the letters without betraying anv emotions.
' C o w a r d s ! ' I heard her telling Didi who was stone-deaf
now. I continued my routine without letting anyone
but G o d know about the d e v e l o p m e n t s . G o d wanted
m e to hire b o d y g u a r d s .
' D o n ' t be absurd,' I said, dismissing the suggestion.
'Let m e send you a c o u p l e of mv chaps,' he o f f e r e d .
At that point, he probably didn't know who the real
target was. I flatly r e f u s e d to have s o m e scruffv fellows
hanging around m e .
My father was aghast. ' H o w could vou r e f u s e Deb's
kind a s s i s t a n c e ? ' he d e m a n d e d . It w a s a m u s i n g to
see how Papa's a t t i t u d e had a l t e r e d . Suddenly D e b
was no l o n g e r the s t r e e t s i d e ruffian out to ruin his
pristine p u r e daughter. My m o t h e r was m o r e realistic
and foresighted.
'I still think this is a trick.Yashwantbhai is bluffing.
H e is using Nisha. So what if she w r o t e an unflattering
piece. So many others have a p p e a r e d which have been

355
far m o r e damaging. No,Yashwantbhai isn't after Nisha.
T h e r e has to be s o m e t h i n g m o r e to this.' This hadn't
o c c u r r e d to any of us. My m o t h e r was the only one
who was thinking straight. I was so a b s o r b e d in noting
the dramatic change in her, that all the phone-calls and
letters b e c a m e incidental. She even l o o k e d taller and
heavier. T h e r e was an assertiveness in her voice that
I'd never heard b e f o r e . It was Papa w h o shocked m e .
He seemed like a crumpled-up ball of paper, his shoulders
sagging, his eyes haunted, his gait a listless shuffle.
G o d had other business to attend to. T a r a n t u l a ,
amazing creature that she was, had b o u n c e d back with
a new project backed by yet another ambitious p r o m o t e r
(a political maverick this t i m e ) . It was being readied
for a super launch with a massive ad c a m p a i g n that
used Hanuman as its s y m b o l .
'Why Hanuman?' I asked G o d .
'We are capitalizing on the current Hindutva craze,'
he replied shamelessly. ' B e s i d e s , it's a symbol that's
understood all over India. We want reach and penetration.'
'But isn't it all terribly d o w n - m a r k e t ? '
'We don't care about such superficialities.The symbol
was something I c a m e up with and shoved d o w n the
ad agency's throat. Left to them, they w o u l d ' v e c o m e
up with S u p e r m a n or King Kong.'
'Will the paper back your m e n t o r ? '
'At the m o m e n t the policies are fluid, and alignments
are being worked o u t . It's all very new for our b o s s e s .

356
T h e y a r e n ' t o l d h a n d s at this g a m e — j u s t monied
a m a t e u r s , with mighty ambitions to set up a publishing
empire.'
'What aboutYashwantbhai's own ad campaign? How's
Anil handling it? And my e x - b o s s ? '
'Fine. Just fine. I've spent quite a lot of time briefing
Aarti.'
' O h . . . have you? Briefing her on what?'
'What do you think... the fucking c a m p a i g n . . . what
else?'
'What are his chances? H o w d o you rate Yashwant-
bhai s popularity?'
'I've been busting my ass trying to tell him to cool
i t . . . your w i m p y boyfriend's survey didn't present a
positive picture. The agency people are pretty
d i s a p p o i n t e d . T h e y were hoping to make quite a killing
out of us.'
'They still can and will. After all, what isYashwantbhai
to them? Another p r o d u c t to be f l o g g e d , along with
boot-polish and toilet-cleaners.'
'This is their first political a c c o u n t . . . they don't
want to blow it.'
' W h a t has your strategy been?'
'I d o n ' t want to tell y o u . . . you might use it in one
of \ o u r pieces and spoil the impact.'
I ' m not that h a r d - u p for c o p y . . . d o n ' t tell m e if
you d o n ' t want to. H a d I still been with the agency, it
would have been my account.'

357
 'Point is, vou aren't with t h e m . . . so let's not discuss
hypothetical situations.'

The news that God had been shot reached us at breakfast.

Papa came back after answering the phone and s t o o d
dumbly at the table with a b u r n t toast dangling f r o m
his limp fingers. 1 l o o k e d u p , saw his face and went
back to my c o f f e e , thinking it was o n e m o r e m a d call,
perhaps a dirty one this time.
'It's D e b . . . ' I heard Papa say flatly.
' D e a d ? ' mvj m o t h e r asked.
' D o n ' t know. Shot,' my father replied. It still didn't
sink in. I continued sipping my c o f f e e and reading my
newspaper. ' D i d n ' t you hear m e . . . D e b has been shot,'
Papa repeated.
My m o t h e r nudged m e gently and said, 'I think we
should go to the hospital immediately.'
'Is h e . . . ?' I asked her and she shook her head.
'Intensive c a r e . . . Nair H o s p i t a l . C o m e o n . . . we'd
better rush.'

In the car, I sat by the w i n d o w staring out at Bombay

during rush hour. It was oppressively hot. I had, rivulets
of sweat streaming down the length of my body. I cursed
the muggy weather as my d a m p clothes clung to m e . I

358
couldn't stop cursing the heat that was burning up my
insides and preventing m e f r o m breathing normally.
It hadn't r e g i s t e r e d at all. I didn't even want to
k n o w the d e t a i l s . I n s t e a d , I c o n c e n t r a t e d on the
dabbawallahs charging out of the railway station and
hurtling d o w n the street, bearing h o m e - c o o k e d lunches
for thousands of d o w n - t o w n o f f i c e - g o e r s . All s o r t s of
pictures flashed through my mind: I thought of the wives
w h o w o k e up at five a . m . to start c o o k i n g for their
husbands so that lunch would be ready at 8 . 3 0 — t h e
time the dabbawallah arrived at the d o o r s t e p to pick
up the lunch b o x . And I w o n d e r e d what s o r t of lives
these c o u p l e s l e d . D i d they c o m m u n i c a t e or merely
t a l k . D i d t h e y have i n t e n s e r e l a t i o n s h i p s or j u s t
m a t t e r - o f - f a c t ones? D i d they relate to one another
or did they merely tolerate their mates? D i d their kids
g e t their share of 'quality t i m e ' or did they have to
make do with whatever scraps that c a m e their way?
D i d the husbands appreciate the lunch and share it with
colleagues proudly? O r did they go h o m e complaining
a b o u t the thickness of the chapattis? Did the dabbas
o c c a s i o n a l l y g e t m i x e d - u p ? D i d a v e g e t a r i a n Tamil
s o m e t i m e find a chicken leg in place of an idli in his
lunch-box? And if so, did he eat it?
What about the wives and their lives? W h e r e did
they work? At the Mantralaya? L I C ? T h e Bank of India?
Forward Markets C o m m i s s i o n ? What did they do with
t h e i r D i w a l i b o n u s e s ? Buy t w e l v e V i m a l s a r i s ? A

359
Raymond's pant piece for the hubby and shiny shirts
for the s o n . . . no, m a y b e a c r i c k e t bat? A n d for the
little girl? A Barbie doll in a pink disco dress? Plus, a
sal war kameez with m i r r o r s on the yoke for themselves?
I envied these w o m e n their u n c o m p l i c a t e d lives.
All thev had to b o t h e r a b o u t w a s getting the dabba
rcadv on time for the dabbawallah. N o b o d y of theirs
ever got shot. N o b o d y threatened them through the
mail or over the phone. They didn't have to f e r r e t out
interesting little nuggets about p e o p l e in o r d e r to w r i t e
hot copv. Thev didn't have deadlines to t o r m e n t them
and m o u s t a c h e s to bleach. I telt e n o r m o u s l y tired. And
sixtv vears old.
The streets were full of p e o p l e . . . crawling o u t of
their dirty little holes and scurrying around till nightfall,
when they c r e p t b a c k into their g a r r e t s . T h e y ate
pao-wadas from streetside vendors and drank sugar-cane
juice infested with f l i e s . T h e trains w e r e c r a m m e d with
them, hanging out precariously f r o m the c o m p a r t m e n t s ,
occasionally getting knocked off their perches and landing
in a bloody p u l p on the t r a c k s . T h e s e p e o p l e u s e d
p e r f u m e d hair oil on their heads, but it was their 'wash
and wear' shirts that stank ('Wear-and-wear, no t i m e
to wash,' as the clerks f r o m the State Bank laughed,
biting into over-ripe bananas bought f r o m saucy w o m e n
who b e c k o n e d passers-by with suggestive g e s t u r e s ) .
Watching s h o p p e r s b u y i n g n y l o n u n d e r w e a r f r o m
pavement hawkers and plastic buckets from over-stuffed

360
kiosks that sold just about every conceivable 'consumer
i t e m ' , I felt s o r r v for t h e m . And for myself. G o d was
dying on an iron cot s o m e w h e r e . And here I was racing
to m e e t him in a C o n t e s s a (yes, my father's car had
been u p g r a d e d ) with white towelling seat covers.

The fatal bullet had entered his s t o m a c h and lodged

itself in his spinal c o r d . W h e n I saw G o d lying there
with tubes c o m i n g out of his m o u t h and nose, 1 felt
nothing at all.This man wasn't G o d . He was frail, fragile
and helpless, like the rest of us. 1 watched the monitor
as his heart b e e p e d away on the tiny screen, little green
signals that looked so deceptively cheerful. ' L o o k folks,
I ' m still beating,' it s e e m e d to say. T h e r e was nobody
around. O r so I thought till I s p o t t e d G o d ' s father and
T o r o . T h e y were walking d o w n the long, dark c o r r i d o r
with a policeman and a d o c t o r flanking them.
C o m r a d e s a a b was arguing ferociously with both of them
w h i l e T o r o l o o k e d on. I could hear him clearly twenty
feet away.
T want to k n o w what is g o i n g on. W h e r e is the
FIR? W h o is responsible? If anything should happen to
mv son, I will b u r n d o w n Yashwantbhai s office and
have him killed. H e did this. A r r e s t him. I say, arrest
that scoundrel. He r u i n e d my son. Finished him. He
nearly finished m e . But I will not be defeated by a street
d o g like him. This m a t t e r will reach the p r e s s — m v

361
s o n — h e is an i m p o r t a n t presswallah. T h e r e will b e an
uproar, not just in B o m b a y — a l l over India. You wait
and see. W h e r e is the senior d o c t o r ? 1 want to see the
medical bulletin. H o w did you give my son a b l o o d
transfusion- - d i d you know he has a rare blood g r o u p ?
Show me the bottles. Let m e see the syringes. I will
e x p o s e all of you. My w o r k e r s will gherao you '
By now they'd reached our small g r o u p . I c o u l d n ' t
stop my tears. I could feel my m o t h e r ' s s o f t , p a m p e r e d
hands caressing my hair. She was busy looking around
for the registrar on duty. My father just s t o o d there
looking awkward. 'Why did he do it?' G o d ' s father kept
repeating. I couldn't answer. I really didn't know. After
a while, we both calmed ourselves d o w n and r e t r e a t e d
to a corner. We had to assess the situation. Chalk out a
plan of action. 1 thought of ringing up Amar or Tarantula
but G o d ' s father told me not to bother. ' D o you think
those p e o p l e will help you? N o , no, no. My dear, vou
will have to fight this bv yourself. N o b o d y will want
to get involved. Try and phone anyone n o w and see.
They will all be busy.'
God's condition was still p r e c a r i o u s and he was on
the 'serious' list. I told my parents to g o h o m e , but
my mother insisted on staving. I think Papa was relieved
when he saw we didn't really n e e d him. G o d ' s father
had walked up and e m b r a c e d him. I'd seen my father
cringing. I was glad when he left after telling all of us

362
a w k w a r d l y , ' L e t m e k n o w if y o u r e q u i r e something.
I'll b e s e n d i n g the car b a c k . '

It took about ten days for G o d to recover. N o t completely,

b u t e n o u g h t o g e t o u t o f the I C U and into the G e n e r a l
W a r d . H e m a d e it to a o n e - c o l u m n , f i v e - c e n t i m e t r e
mention on page three in m o s t local p a p e r s . T h e r e weren't
any f o l l o w - u p s t o r i e s and Yashwantbhai's n a m e d i d n ' t
a p p e a r in any of the n e w s r e p o r t s . I w a s n ' t s u r p r i s e d .
B u t G o d certainly w a s .
' T h i s c a n n o t b e t r u e , ' he k e p t saying. ' H i s m e n did
it, e v e r y b o d y k n o w s t h a t — e v e n the c o p s . '
' W h y did they w a n t t o kill y o u ? ' I a s k e d h i m .
H e s h o o k his h e a d forlornly. ' H e t h o u g h t I was g o i n g
to stab h i m in the b a c k , yaar. I w a s the m a n w h o k n e w
t o o m u c h . You k n o w . . . all that P r a m i l a chakkar and
everything. His land s c a m s and o t h e r d e a l s . F o r g e t it,
the b l o o d y b a s t a r d d i d n ' t n e e d m e any m o r e , plain and
s i m p l e . H e also t h o u g h t I had h e l p e d y o u with your
story, g i v e n y o u m o s t of the d e t a i l s . H e ' d b e e n after
my b u t t since that a p p e a r e d . I t r i e d t o tell h i m . . . it
w a s n o use.'
'You mean he thought you were going to
blackmail him?'
' M u s t b e , yaar. It's all v e r y c o m p l i c a t e d . A n d I
k n o w so m u c h a b o u t h i m . You d o n ' t k n o w what he did
to Pramila.'

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 'You m e a n t h e y ' v e b r o k e n u p ? '
' L o n g a g o , yaar. H e f o u n d a n e w c h i c k . B u t that's
n o t the real r e a s o n . B e f o r e he d e c i d e d t o t h r o w her
o u t , a lot had already taken p l a c e . '
'Like what?'
'You k n o w , the usual shitty s t u f f . H e f o o l e d her
into b e l i e v i n g he w a s g o i n g t o m a r r y her. T h a t m a d
w o m a n actually fell for the story. W h e n she t o l d m e , I
told her to f o r g e t it. H e w o u l d n e v e r leave his family.
She was so sure of herself. She d i d n ' t care what h a p p e n e d
to Shruti. J u s t t o o k it f o r g r a n t e d I'd l o o k a f t e r her.
She was d e t e r m i n e d t o g o t h r o u g h w i t h this r a s c a l .
H e m a d e o n e big m i s t a k e — h e k n o c k e d her up. She
c a m e to m e c r y i n g , " H e l p m e , h e l p m e . W h a t s h o u l d I
d o n o w ? " I t o l d her t o g e t an a b o r t i o n since I k n e w
this m a n ' s m i n d . I n s t e a d , she w e n t and t o l d h i m a n d
then t r i e d t o f o r c e h i m i n t o m a r r y i n g her.
'As you know, Yashwantbhai d o e s n ' t have a s o n . O n l y
three d a u g h t e r s . She lied to h i m that she'd had .that
s e x - t e s t d o n e - w h a t is it c a l l e d ? A m n i o - s o m e t h i n g .
She said she w a s c a r r y i n g his s o n . H e g o t t a k e n in, b u t
not for long. T h e y m a d e a d e a l . H e said he w o u l d m a k e
the w h o l e thing l e g i t i m a t e a f t e r c o n f i r m i n g the s e x o f
the child in the f o u r t h or fifth m o n t h . She said O K .
She was so d e s p e r a t e , she b r i b e d o n e of t h o s e sidey
d o c t o r s into c e r t i f y i n g that t h e baby w a s m a l e . N e x t
thing Yashwantbhai knew, she had s u m m o n e d a p r i e s t ,
g o t a few g a r l a n d s , lit a f i r e a n d w a s all set f o r the

364
w e d d i n g . She'd also taken c a r e t o have m e as a w i t n e s s
a l o n g w i t h a v i d e o c a m e r a m a n and still p h o t o g r a p h e r .
'Yashwantbhai felt t r a p p e d . H e w e n t t h r o u g h the
faltu c e r e m o n y . . . but t o l d m e p r i v a t e l y t o g e t the f i l m s
f r o m the c a m e r a m e n . This p a r t w a s O K . But w h e n he
also t o l d m e a b o u t his plan t o h a r m P r a m i l a physically
and force a miscarriage on her, something in m e protested.
It w a s s h e e r cruelty. I felt s i c k listening to the m a n .
B u t I d i d n ' t say t o o m u c h to h i m . I d e c i d e d to k e e p
q u i e t and w a r n P r a m i l a a b o u t his p l a n . T h a t b l o o d y
w o m a n w e n t and b l a b b e d to h i m . All you w o m e n a r e
the s a m e — b l o o d y b i t c h e s . I m a g i n e ! I was trying to
p r o t e c t her and she w e n t and f u c k e d things u p f o r m e .
O n e o f Y a s h w a n t b h a i ' s b o u n c e r s told m e that P r a m i l a
b e c a m e h y s t e r i c a l and s t a r t e d t h r e a t e n i n g him with
e x p o s u r e . She m e n t i o n e d my n a m e — a n d y o u r s . She
said she k n e w e n o u g h p e o p l e in the p r e s s w h o ' d h e l p
her. S h e s t a r t e d a b u s i n g h i m and c r e a t i n g a s c e n e . She
even m a d e u p a s t o r y that I had k e p t c o p i e s of the
v i d e o t a p e and the p h o t o g r a p h s that I w o u l d u s e if
Yashwantbhai d i d n ' t play ball.
' H e d i d n ' t say anvthing t o her. H e played it s m a r t .
H e only m e n t i o n e d that he had c h e c k e d u p with the
clinic w h e r e she'd had her s o n o g r a p h y and f o u n d o u t
what she had d o n e . H e told her that he knew that the
baby w a s a g i r l — a n o t h e r kutti like h e r s e l f — a n d that
h e d i d n ' t w a n t e i t h e r h e r o r the u n b o r n c h i l d . H e
r e m i n d e d her that she h a d n o t h i n g t o g o o n . N o b o d y

365
w o u l d believe her story, and she w a s f r e e t o m a k e a
f o o l of h e r s e l f if she w a n t e d . " T h i n k o f y o u r f u t u r e
and Shruti's f u t u r e , " he said t o P r a m i l a , " A n d I w i l l
deal with D e b directly."
' T h a t was it. P r a m i l a p a n i c k e d and c a m e t o m e that
night. I t o l d her t o g e t the baby o u t at the e a r l i e s t a n d
shut u p a b o u t the w h o l e i n c i d e n t . I k n e w m y g o o s e
was c o o k e d . But I had n o e s c a p e . N e i t h e r did y o u . I
tried to w a r n you, b u t you didn't listen. If Yashwantbhai's
m e n had s u c c e e d e d in b u m p i n g m e o f f , it w o u l d have
been e x p l a i n e d away easily as a v e n d e t t a killing. I'd
been d o i n g so m u c h of his dirty w o r k for h i m , especially
with the b u i l d e r s . N o w , with all the e l e c t i o n n o n s e n s e
g o i n g o n , it w o u l d have b e e n a n o t h e r " p a r t y w o r k e r
shot by u n k n o w n a s s a i l a n t s " r e p o r t . I d o n ' t k n o w w h a t
he would have d o n e to you. Probably nothing. O r m a y b e
he w o u l d have sent s o m e r u f f i a n s to f r i g h t e n y o u or
your family. N o w the g a m e has c h a n g e d a little. T h a t
silly bitch P r a m i l a , she's the o n e w h o has really b o t c h e d
everything up. She t r i e d to g e t the M a r a t h i p r e s s t o
c a r r y h e r s t o r y , b u t n o b o d y d a r e d t o p i c k it u p .
Yashwantbhai's m e n m a d e s u r e o f that. I can a s s u r e
you that even y o u r A m a r and Parthiv w o n ' t t o u c h it.
T h e v have far t o o m u c h at stake. R e m e m b e r all t h o s e
raids? And h o w their n e w m a c h i n e s g o t s t u c k in the
d o c k s ? They k n o w b e t t e r than to m e s s with this
m a n . . . chalo ek b e e d i to pilao.'

366
G o d s u f f e r e d a r e l a p s e f o u r d a y s later. It w a s a
touch-and-go situation during which the doctors couldn't
really say whether or not he'd pull through. He was
back again in the I C U . Back again to lifelines e m e r g i n g
f r o m his m o u t h and n o s e . T h e sight was truly horrible.
The bullet had penetrated a vital p o r t i o n of G o d ' s spine
and was still sitting there r e f u s i n g to be d i s l o d g e d .
Surgery was scheduled, rescheduled, cancelled and finally
performed. God's overall condition wasn't strong enough
to withstand it, and he collapscd soon after, lapsing
into a s e m i - c o n s c i o u s state with scattered m o m e n t s
of lucidity.
His father and 1 t o o k turns staying by his s i d e . T o r o
drifted in and out as he also had to look after his mother
w h o was b e d - r i d d e n with arthritis. Meanwhile, it was
my m o t h e r who'd g o t really busy. T h e first thing she
did was track d o w n Pramila. I didn't believe her when
she told m e .
T had to, dear,' she explained patiently, like one
would to a slow child. ' H o w else could we mobilize
public opinion?'
'Public o p i n i o n ? W h a t are you talking a b o u t ? ' I
questioned her, alarmed by her d e t e r m i n e d expression.
'Well, dear, it was really Pratimaben's idea. She
meditated on the p r o b l e m for hours and finally found
a solution in the G i t a . Y o u know s o m e t h i n g — t h e Gita
has all the answers. You just have to know where to
look for them. Anyway, we both agreed thatYashwantbhai

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had to be e x p o s e d thoroughly. She has b e e n v e r y active
with a mahila mukti g r o u p f o r the last f e w y e a r s . She
c o n t a c t e d a lawyer a t t a c h e d t o their legal cell and a s k e d
for her o p i n i o n . T h e lawyer t h o u g h t w e had a p r e t t y
g o o d case. But f o r all that w e n e e d e d P r a m i l a s h e l p
and c o - o p e r a t i o n . 1 had to find her.'
She m a d e it s o u n d so s t r a i g h t f o r w a r d and s i m p l e .
Yet, I k n e w the t r o u b l e s h e m u s t have p u t h e r s e l f
through to locate P r a m i l a w h o had g o n e u n d e r g r o u n d
after the fiasco. She'd b e e n t h r e a t e n e d by Yashwantbhai's
m e n t o lie low and p r e f e r a b l y d i s a p p e a r a l t o g e t h e r .
T h e y ' d hinted that S h r u t i ' s life w o u l d b e in d a n g e r if
she s q u a w k e d .
My m o t h e r , displaying e n o r m o u s r e s o u r c e f u l n e s s
and enterprise had tracked d o w n Pramila to s o m e o b s c u r e
gali in G i r g a u m , w h e r e she w a s h o l e d u p w i t h S h r u t i .
She was back with her o l d M a h a r a s h t r i a n p u b l i s h i n g
c r o n i e s . Back to the p e o p l e she had a r r o g a n t l y r e j e c t e d
b e f o r e m o v i n g on to the g l a m o r o u s w o r l d of English
language journalism. Shruti was going to a neighbourhood
Marathi m e d i u m s c h o o l and P r a m i l a w a s busy p u t t i n g
together a collection of Marathi p o e m s in t o r t u r e d m e t r e .
Initially, she r e a c t e d to my m o t h e r w i t h hostility and
s u s p i c i o n . It was a f t e r she m e t the l a w y e r that she w a s
p e r s u a d e d to c o m e o u t o f hiding. T h e plan w a s n e a t .
P r a t i m a b e n ' s activist a c q u a i n t a n c e s had d e c i d e d t o take
a morcha to Yashwantbhai's house with prominent placards
calling him a m u r d e r e r , s a d i s t , s c o u n d r e l a n d o t h e r

368
n a m e s . T h e r e was another p r o g r a m m e chalked out for
later. A series of street plays showcasing Pramila's story
in symbolic t e r m s . T h e r e were a few press conferences
lined up as well. Pramila had a fairly busy schedule ot
her o w n , talking to various w o m e n ' s magazines and
writing her version for w e e k e n d p a p e r s . O n e of the
m o r e militant activists had recommended a hunger-strike
('fast unto death') at Hutatma Chowk to focus attention
on the 'atrocities' she had s u f f e r e d .
T h e p r e s s lapped it up. Pramila m a d e it to a video
m a g a z i n e b r o u g h t o u t by a sensationalistic t a b l o i d .
T h e r e was talk of a T V film based on her e x p e r i e n c e .
But this was still in the planning stages. At one point,
1 r e c e i v e d a frantic call f r o m A m a r who wanted an
exclusive. ' D o an inside j o b on this,' he instructed.
' N o b o d y will be able to beat your angle. Imagine you
could be sitting on the hottest m e d i a story without
knowing it. Believe m e , I'll really play it up. Cover
p a g e and all that. Star t r e a t m e n t . Nothing less. What
was your precise role in this m e s s — y o u were the "other
w o m a n " at s o m e point, weren't you?Take it from there.'
I half-listened. 1 was feeling t o o exhausted with all
the sleepless nights to get my mind working.
Besides, the w h o l e thing stank. Was I going soft? O r
just getting cynical? O f c o u r s e Amar was right. There
was a m a j o r story in there s o m e w h e r e . Only, I didn't
want to w r i t e it.

369
 A few m o n t h s earlier, I m i g h t have j u m p e d at a
story like this one. Particularly since I did have privileged
a c c e s s . But this t i m e I w a s n ' t even t e m p t e d . 1 w a s
only c o n c e r n e d about G o d ' s recovery. My G o d ! That
was it. I WAS O N L Y C O N C E R N E D A B O U T G O D .
I thought he was dying. He looked so weak and helpless.
As I sat on an u n c o m f o r t a b l e , bug-ridden w o o d e n stool
at his bedside, my mind c o u l d n ' t stop itself f r o m g o i n g
into flashbacks. It was just like in the movies. An anxious
w o m a n , once t h w a r t e d , sitting at the b e d s i d e of a m a n
she loves, hoping against h o p e that he w o u l d n ' t die on
her. Praying that he'd pull through, wishing desperately
to crawl into the soiled b e d with him to c u d d l e his
fragile body u n d e r the g r i m y s h e e t . . . I was longing to
hold this impossible man in my a r m s and whisper to
him, ' D e a r G o d . . . be mine.'
Yashwantbhai w a s s t a y i n g c o o l . T h e p r e s s h a d
been badgering him to issue a statement, say
something... anything... a denial, clarifications... but
the wily fox kept silent. His m e n s c o f f e d at the charges
when contacted by r e p o r t e r s .
Among the things they said were, 'A frustrated woman
will g o to any lengths to e m b a r r a s s a m a n , particularly
a powerful man. Yashwantbhai is not b o t h e r e d by such
petty things. He has m o r e important issues to deal with.
Remember, he is launching a major "Safe Drinking Water"
s c h e m e in his village n e x t w e e k . Yes, y e s . . . all of you
are invited. Air-conditioned video coaches, overnight

370
stay in a n e w h o t e l — t h r e e star. Plus,Yashwantbhai has
s o m e o t h e r s u r p r i s e s f o r y o u . We are p l a n n i n g a lucky
d r a w f o r j o u r n a l i s t s . T h e p r i z e is zabardast—a Maruti
1 0 0 0 . W h y d o y o u p e o p l e w a n t to w a s t e y o u r t i m e on
u s e l e s s w o m e n with bekaar s t o r i e s ? She is d o i n g all
this t o g e t c h e a p p u b l i c i t y f o r h e r s e l f . A f t e r all, what
d o e s she have t o l o s e ? N o t h i n g . A d i v o r c e d w o m a n of
b a d c h a r a c t e r . N o m o r a l s , nothing. L e f t her h u s b a n d ,
left her children. And n o w she w a n t s to destroy a
r e s p e c t a b l e m a n ' s c a r e e r and p r i v a t e life. W h y d o n ' t
y o u ask her a b o u t her r e l a t i o n s h i p with that n o - g o o d
fellow, y o u r c o l l e a g u e D e b ? D i d you k n o w he was living
w i t h her? A n d her y o u n g d a u g h t e r ? Are, w h o k n o w s ?
S h e m a y b e the p e r s o n w h o t r i e d t o kill h i m . T h a t
w o m a n is d a n g e r o u s . She is f r i e n d l y with all s o r t s of
p e o p l e — d a d a s , g o o n d a s , s m u g g l e r s . She w a s o n c e the
m i s t r e s s of the Silver K i n g w h o n o w lives in the G u l f .
Baba, ych sab m a m / a ajeeb bai (All this is really s t r a n g e ) .
Jao, Jao... you d o n ' t involveYashwantbhai in this nonsense.
H e has n o t h i n g t o d o w i t h it.'
S o m e s e c t i o n s o f the p r e s s b o u g h t this s t o r y and
p a i n t e d P r a m i l a as a b o r d e r l i n e w h o r e w h o e x p l o i t e d
m e n t o g e t a h e a d , s u g g e s t i n g that she had t r i e d to g e t
r i d of D e b b e c a u s e he w a s playing the j e a l o u s lover
and s p o i l i n g all her f u n w i t h the o t h e r s . Yashwantbhai
w a s p o r t r a y e d as a w e l l - i n t e n t i o n e d m i d d l e m a n w h o ,
in trying t o p r o t e c t his p r o t e g e , D e b , g o t inadvertently-
c a u g h t in the c r o s s f i r e . T h e r e w e r e s e v e r a l s e p a r a t e

371
pieces about G o d , too. M o s t of them harsh and
unflattering. H e was described asYashwantbhai's chamcha
and p i m p . A s c r i b e w h o h a d s o l d his s o u l t o stay o n a
politician's payroll. O n e o f the p a p e r s w e n t so far as
to s u g g e s t that he d e s e r v e d to d i e . A c o u p l e t r a c e d his
r i s e t o the t o p of the h e a p s t a r t i n g w i t h his lowly c h a w l
b e g i n n i n g s . A f e w p o t - s h o t s w e r e t a k e n at his f a t h e r
and a c o u p l e of well-aimed ones at m e . T h e m o s t amazing
version of the e p i s o d e was d o n e by Tarantula, w h o w r o t e
an 'I w a s t h e r e ' p i e c e , falsely s u g g e s t i n g that she had
b e e n in the k n o w all a l o n g , thanks t o h e r ' c l o s e n e s s '
to G o d ( S h e ' d slyly hinted at an a f f a i r ) . H e r ' t r e a t m e n t '
was different t o o . Steamy, p e r s o n a l i z e d and provocative.
She w a s a l s o t h e o n l y j o u r n a l i s t Y a s h w a n t b h a i h a d
' a g r e e d ' to see and t h o u g h t h e r e w a s n o m e a t in his
limp q u o t e s she'd played u p the stray s e n t e n c e o r t w o ,
m a k i n g o u t as if he h a d o p e n e d his h e a r t to her a n d
revealed all.
1 w a n t e d to p r o t e c t G o d f r o m all the d i r t flying
a r o u n d . P a r t i c u l a r l y f r o m the h u r t f u l bits a b o u t his
f a t h e r and h i m . T h e r e w a s o n e n a s t y s t o r y c a l l i n g
G o d a spineless lackey, Yashwantbhai's hit-man, a
self-seeking o p p o r t u n i s t , w h o had o r c h e s t r a t e d a savage
attack on his o w n father. In any c a s e , G o d w a s in n o
condition to r e a d anything. O u r anxiety over his
d e t e r i o r a t i n g health k e p t m o u n t i n g . T h e r e w e r e days
when he h o v e r e d p r e c a r i o u s l y b e t w e e n life and d e a t h ,
getting d e l i r i o u s f r o m t i m e t o t i m e , his l i m b s t w i t c h i n g

372
violently, his eyes rolling back, his face turning ashen.
T h e r e was n o q u e s t i o n of m o v i n g him. And, in any
case, there wasn't m u c h m o n e y left. Between his father
and m e , w e ' d m a n a g e d to get enough together to keep
him w h e r e he w a s and buy m o s t of the e x p e n s i v e
m e d i c a t i o n r e q u i r e d . 1 was beginning to r e s e m b l e a
ghost myself.
It was mv m o t h e r w h o held things together. H e r s
was a constant and reassuring p r e s e n c e , fetching and
carrying m o s a m b i j u i c e and other n o u r i s h m e n t . The
activists were getting restless and fading away. They'd
flogged the story for all it was worth and had found a
new cause to s u p p o r t . Pramila had run out of quotes.
And Yashwantbhai's c a m p was all set to make sure that
he r o m p e d h o m e victorious at the hustings. Even the
m e d i a was beginning to lose interest in G o d , and they
were through with flashing his b l o o d i e d p h o t o g r a p h
all over.
Amar called to remind m e . ' T h e storv is dead now,
baby. Why d o n ' t you get back to work? Parthiv isn't
g o i n g to sit a r o u n d waiting forever for Your Highness
to m a k e up your m i n d , you know.'
O f c o u r s e I knew. But I didn't really care. I had
put everything on hold sincc the shooting. And the last
thing on my mind was the golden carrot so tantalizingly
dangled under my nose by Amar. In any case, I wouldn't
have been able to deliver. It was only the chick peas
and rice business that couldn't be ignored. I was thankful

373
to my m o t h e r and Aarti for taking that off my hands
too. Chandni called a couple of times to enquire after
G o d . So did Aarti and Anil. The D . O . M . surfaced out
of the blue at the hospital and read out his new p o e m s
to G o d ' s non-hearing ears. Shruti arrived unexpectedly
with s o m e new 'uncle' in tow during one of G o d ' s lucid
m o m e n t s . And that was the last time 1 saw G o d smiling.
When the final m o m e n t came, I wasn't there. Neither
was his father. We had both s t e p p e d out to attend to
urgent m a t t e r s . C o m r a d e s a a b to touch o n e of his Lai
Nishan cronies for m o n e y for his son, and I to see my
father w h o had chosen that very dav to suffer a minor
heart a t t a c k . I never forgave him for his badly-timed
cardiac infarction.Though s o m e t i m e s , when I look back
on that dreadful day, I feel it was better that way. G o d
had probably picked the time to die with c a r e — d e f i a n t
and alone. I found a packet of beedies s m u g g l e d in by
an i n d i f f e r e n t n i g h t - n u r s e u n d e r his pillow. A n d a
half-smoked one on the floor. G o d had g o n e off in a
puff of foul-smelling s m o k e without saying g o o d b y e
to anyone. D i e d like a dog. O r like a g o d . . . if you prefer
to r e v e r s e the l e t t e r s like I do. It was vet another
mercilessly hot day in Bombav when we r e m o v e d him
from the hospital.
 MORE THAN
100,000
COPIES SOLD

Also in Penguin by
 n a sultry, rainy B o m b a y day, Nisha. an impressionable

O teenager, meets G o d in the college canteen and falls

in love with his ragged, bearded looks and crude,
streetwise manners, G o d patronizingly accepts her into
his ' g r o u p ' and it is in this way that their long and
passionate romance begins . . .
Jf I \ .
G o d ' s driv ing ambition leads him into the unreal world
of pseudo poetry, art for hire and compromised journalism
while Nisha lands a j o b in advertising. Sycophants, court
jesters, whores, dirty old men. fixers, pretty boys and
party girls drift in and out of their lives (and interrupt
their r o m a n c e ! ) as their careers take o f f with dizzying
speed ... And then, abruptly and harrovvingly,
everything about their lives g o e s wrong . . .

Cover photograph of Shruti Chauhan by Ashish Chawla

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ISBN 0 -14 -3D32bfl -2

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