Those Pricey Thakur Girls (25 page)

‘I do
not
–’

‘Because you live in a bubble of smug superiority. You never take emotional risks or go out a limb for anyone. The deepest emotion you’re capable of is pity – perfect for dogs and losers.’

‘That’s not true! You’re the liar here, you’re the pretender – why aren’t we talking about that?’

‘Goodbye, Debjani,’ he says dismissively. ‘Have a nice life telling yourself every day of your married life that you’re better than the poor D for dumbass you’re sure to end up with. And now if you don’t mind, sir,’ he strides up to the door, opens it and addresses the Judge, who is standing just outside, ‘my family and I would like to take your leave.’

9

Three months later

‘D
id Dabbu like the boy, Bhabhiji?’

Mrs Mamta shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so,’ she says shortly. ‘She said he was a ball of atta.’

‘Hai. But he was an engineer, na? From IIT! And tall also.’

‘This girl won’t be getting married anytime soon, Bhudevi.’ Mrs Mamta sips her tea. ‘Which is good, I suppose – how could we have a wedding with so much construction going on next door?’

The noise from the construction site at Number 13 is certainly deafening. Cement mixers spin busily all day. Brick-red bajri lies about in huge mounds, like burst pimples upon the road. Dust sits thickly on the leaves of the amaltas trees. The ranks of snot-nosed urchins in the back lane have swelled exponentially, as have the number of Modernites who squat in the sand every day to teach the children their ka-kha-ga as part of their SUPW curriculum. And at the crossroad of Hailey and Barakhamba roads, a giant, red-faced Raavan in a stiff, multi-coloured anarkali kurta stands glowering at passers-by; a grim, dependable promise of more cacophony to come.

‘Aur… what about Bombay? Any news?’

‘None,’ says Mrs Mamta. ‘And frankly, I don’t think there ever will be.’

She had phoned Juliet Bai the day after the disastrous tea party at Hailey Road to apologize for Dabbu’s volte face and to somehow close the whole ugly mess with a neatly tied, civilized bow. Juliet Bai had told her (in a rather airy, off-hand manner, Mrs Mamta felt) that Dylan was back at work and very busy and that of course the Brigadier would remain friends with Justice Laxmi Narayan. That went without saying. But the doctor had advised him to do something more active in the evenings, so please not to misunderstand if he didn’t show up for cards. It was only because, Juliet Bai had explained earnestly, he was taking up squash.

‘So they just squashed us and went off!’ Chachiji says gloomily. ‘And half the community knows our girl has been rejected. What sad days for the Thakurs of Hailey Road! First girl is Banjjar, second girl is a Khanjjar – she has filed a court case against her own father! Third girl ka toh what-to-say, and fourth girl has been rejected by a Christian! And fifth girl wears such short-short skirts and plays basketball with boys. Hundred per cent she will blacken our faces one day. And,’ she adds fairly, ‘in the younger brother’s family, the father has gambled away his inheritance and run away with the cook while his son has failed his law exams for the third time. Someone has done jaadu-tona on our family, Bhabhiji. We had better do a Satyanarayan ki puja.’

‘Don’t be silly, Bhudevi,’ Mrs Mamta says wearily. ‘He didn’t reject her, she rejected
him
.’

Chachiji sniffs. ‘That’s what everybody thinks,’ she says. ‘You can keep saying what you like till your face is blue.’

Which is true enough, Mrs Mamta has to admit.

‘Waise, I toh think ki he hadn’t made up his mind properly only,’ Chachiji says frankly. ‘He was still doubting. Must have started sweating when he saw the tea tray and the snacks and the whole family all dressed up and thought ki we were about to put a ring through his nose. So when she shouted at him just a little bit, he jumped on that excuse, pretended to be offended and ran away. Boys panic like that sometimes.’

‘Let’s not talk about it.’ Mrs Mamta looks around. ‘I wonder where Dabbu is. Nobody tells me anything any more.’

‘Respected judges, honourable principal sir, members of the staff and my dear friends. This house believes that
there is power in honesty but no honesty in power
and I am strongly against the motion…’

What a tongue-twister of a topic, Debjani thinks as she fiddles with her JUDGE place card and smiles encouragingly at the young speaker, Jai Kakkar. He is a tall, handsome boy from Eshu’s class and she remembers him from her last year in school as a skinny, stammering class six squirt. He’s definitely licked the stammer, she thinks. Good for him.

The crowd cheers for Jai: he is clearly popular, and he looks earnest and well combed as he plunges into his argument with the usual quotations and self-consciously outrageous statements.

‘They say power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely… great men are almost always bad men. Our principal Mr Bakshi wields a great amount of power in this school. Is he then a bad man?’

I’ll give him five on five for expression, Debjani decides as the students applaud this sally. But only two for content. I mean, he’s totally mixed up and
very
stale.

But then Jai says something that makes her look up.

‘Today’s
India
Post
tells us that Anandam Dhas, the only civil services officer to testify to Hardik Motla’s infamous cancers speech, has been accused of embezzling and has been dishonourably discharged from service. He is to get no pension after thirty years of service and could even be imprisoned. The journalist who wrote this story, a Delhi boy called Dylan Shekhawat, is on a sticky wicket too, with MPs calling for his immediate sacking. Where then is the power in honesty?’

That bloody Eshu, Debjani thinks as her heart gives a lurch. She’s been blabbing about me in school. Why else would Kakkar bring up Dylan in his debate? He’s hardly
that
famous.

An hour later, the motion is sustained and Jai Kakkar ends up coming second overall. Eshwari and Debjani discuss the verdict as they walk home together.

‘I can’t believe the other judges loved that invertebrate,’ Eshwari snorts. ‘He hasn’t stopped talking since he lost his stammer. He’s even become some sort of stud
.
And he has no beliefs at
all
, you know, Dubz, he’d have argued just as passionately against the motion.’

‘He’d make a good lawyer then,’ Debjani points out. ‘BJ would love him.’

‘I’m glad I got to show you off in school, though,’ Eshwari says, moving onto a more interesting topic. ‘You’re so famous! The English teachers go gaga over your diction and all the boys think you’re hot.’

This is indeed the national opinion on Debjani. Her popularity has sky-rocketed over the last few months – she is recognized wherever she goes, her dentist on Pusa Road has stuck a picture of her wearing braces at fourteen in his shop window and a very famous star son has officially declared in
Stardust
that he is crushing on her.

My supta vastha really
is
over, Debjani thinks, giving her glossy waves of hair a complacent pat. Just then a shower of wet cement falls from the construction site at Number 13, peppering her thoroughly. Eshwari chuckles.

‘I wish this stupid building would just hurry up and complete itself,’ Debjani huffs. ‘I’m sick of their hammering!’

She is also sick of her elder sisters’ visits. They are both back, kids in tow, and are sitting around sipping tea when Eshu and she walk into the kitchen. Chachiji isn’t there, mercifully.

‘Ma, is it really true, what Chachiji keeps saying about Dadaji pushing Dadiji off the terrace?’ Binni is asking. ‘I thought she fell because it was dark.’

‘What?’ Mrs Mamta Thakur’s head snaps around. ‘What rubbish! Who told you that?’

Binni looks uneasy. ‘Chachiji only. She said the Pushkarni was murdered by her husband after she had a big fight with him about selling off one more house.’

‘That’s nonsense, Binni,’ Mrs Mamta says firmly.

But Binni is in full flow.

‘And now Chachiji says she’s haunting the construction site, spooking the labourers, causing accidents and delays, and she will never let the building be built.’

‘All this wet cement fell on Dabbu just now,’ Eshwari exclaims, hugely thrilled. ‘You think that could be…?’

‘
No
,’ her mother snaps. ‘And please don’t repeat any of this in front of your father, girls. He’ll get extremely upset.’

‘He’s
already
extremely upset,’ Anji says gloomily. ‘How long is he planning on sulking at Ashok chacha? It’s so immature.’

‘It’s understandable,’ Binni says with a sympathetic air. ‘Life has been rough on him ever since he retired. First Chandu ran off, then Ashok chacha and he fought, then Balkishen Bau died, and then Dabbu caused a fight between him and his best friend.’

Debjani stays quiet – her father hasn’t been talking to her of late.

‘Maybe you should withdraw the case you’ve filed against him, Binni,’ Anji says bluntly. ‘That might cheer him up.’

But that Binni will not do. Vickyji needs the money from her hissa to consolidate his business. What she’s asking for, she insists, is well within her rights. And that’s that.

Everybody sips their tea.

‘Let’s go to the tailor,’ Eshwari says suddenly. ‘I’ve borrowed a really good sample from a friend of mine. They’re Levi’s – actual
Levi’s
, imagine – with a skinny fit and a cinched-in waist. We’ll get Amreek tailor of Up-To-Date boutique to rip it off in light blue denim for all of us!’

The borrowed Levi’s jeans are tried on by everybody, and even though they sag on Debjani and strain on Binni, they decide that Amreek tailor will surely be able to adjust that much. A search is launched for the cranking handle and soon Anjini drives the old Ambassador to the buzzing tailoring block that is CP’s Mohan Singh Place.

Inside Up-To-Date boutique, Amreek tailor himself greets them with a cordiality that borders on obsequiousness. As he is an extremely sought-after personage and actually has tattered posters of Farrah Fawcett and Brooke Shields to testify to his Up-To-Dateness upon his plywood walls, this is extremely gratifying.

‘Kuch cold drink vaghera?’ Amreek offers, smiling coyly at Debjani as he motions to a minion to turn the revolving ceiling fan towards her. ‘Campa ya Frooti?’

Eshwari giggles. Anji, who has always been Amreek’s muse amongst the Thakur sisters, looks surprised. Debjani shakes her head quickly. ‘Oh, no. Bas, yeh sample hai, please will you copy it for us?’

Amreek accepts the Levi’s from her outstretched hand. ‘Amreekan hai,’ he says knowledgably as he turns them inside out, pinching the rivets and fingering the double seams. ‘Yes, I can do it. When your friends ask, say ki your jeans are also Amreekan.’ He winks. ‘Because
Amreek
tailor made them!’

Debjani laughs dutifully at this well-worn joke and allows him to slip his yellow measuring tape around her slim waist. He notes down the measurements quickly, discreetly covering his notations with one hand – too many slanging matches have started in his shop because the sisters sniggered at the size of one another’s hips, waist or thighs.

Debjani sits down on a little revolving stool at the back of the shop and twirls on it idly. In front, Mrs Mamta and Amreek bicker about the delivery date for the jeans (
Diwali season hai, Bhabhiji, at least two weeks it will take!)
. Suddenly she sees Juliet Bai, who has just entered the shop, bearing a bulging plastic bag.

Juliet Bai spots the Thakurs and utters a surprised squawk. For a moment it looks like she’s about to turn tail and run out, but then she squares her shoulders and steps up with dignity.

‘Hello, Mamta,’ she says, and nods graciously at the gaggle of girls. ‘How are you all?’

‘We’re well, thank you, Juliet,’ Mrs Mamta replies with equal politeness. ‘And all of you?’

‘Fine.’ Juliet Bai’s voice is a little high. She puts her plastic bag down on Amreek’s counter top. ‘Alteration karana hai.’

Amreek nods majestically. ‘When I am finished with these ladies, I will see to it, ji.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Juliet Bai says gracefully.

‘What are you getting altered, aunty?’ Anji asks.

‘An old jacket of my husband’s,’ she replies. ‘He’s put on a little weight but he wants to wear it for our thirtieth anniversary party.’

There is an awkward silence as everybody recalls the last time Juliet Bai and the Brigadier’s thirtieth wedding anniversary was discussed with them.

‘And also some old shirts of the boys that I’m getting cut down to my size – I like to wear them when I’m painting.’

Debjani stares down at the plastic packet. It has
Vaz Bakery, Mangalore
emblazoned along one side. Some of the shirts inside could be Dylan’s, she thinks with a weird, forlorn pang.

‘What a clever idea,’ Anji exclaims. ‘I must do that with some of my husband’s shirts!’

‘I started doing it when I first got pregnant,’ Juliet Bai confides and Anji’s face falls.

Cow, thinks Debjani, not very fairly.

‘He makes nice jeans,’ Juliet Bai continues. ‘My boys come here usually, but this year, as Dylan is travelling to Canada and all, Amreek here,’ she turns to him and smiles, ‘has lost out on some business!’

‘Is he travelling on work?’ Mrs Mamta asks politely.

Juliet Bai nods, her eyes shining with pride. ‘For an interview,’ she explains. ‘Waise, you must have seen his articles in the
India
Post
? With his byline? And photo also?’

They politely assure her that her firstborn has become world famous. Juliet Bai smiles a little uncertainly and says, ‘We will be sending you the invitation for the thirtieth anniversary party, of course.’ She looks Debjani straight in the eye. ‘You
must
come.’