Socialite Evenings Read online

  She started at me glassily and said, “Look, cherie, a fuck is a fuck is a fuck.”

  “That I know. But is this one done in French?”

  “Let me put it this way—Pierre has kissed me in places and ways no other man has before.” I nagged her for details but she wouldn’t let on. “It’s really too beautiful to discuss,” she’d say mysteriously. “It’s a different sort of trip. Pierre can make love with just his eyes. Sometimes I come when he’s only looking at me. Love is music and food and wine and touch. He has black satin sheets. I’ve never made love on satin sheets. If you ever do, you’ll know what I’m talking about. But really darling, I’m finding all this rather tiresome. Why don’t I just fix you up with one of the other Alliance bods so you can find out for yourself.” I wished my French had not been as nonexistent as it was. I might have had something witty to say to that—in French of course.

  CHAPTER 7

  WHY DID I KEEP UP MY ANJALI CONNECTION LONG AFTER I HAD NO real reason to be with her? Maybe because I’ve always needed someone. For what I don’t know. To stave off the boredom perhaps. My husband certainly was no help, but with all her faults Anjali kept me occupied. The long and short of it was I was bored, desperately bored with my situation. And as Anjali had gone off to the south of France (the irony) to recover after her affair with the Frenchman, I was left pretty much to my own devices. This simply meant I retreated more and more into my fantasy world. I’d relive my college days—listening to the Beatles, reading Ayn Rand, reliving the superficial intellectualism that was cool.

  Those days we thought reading Camus (and not understanding a word) was a vital process in our development, our “organic growth.” It all came alive for me once again—heated discussions on Jung and Freud, watching Ghosts or Marat Sade, discussing Medusa and the Snail, crying over a flimsy love story with a haunting background score (Man and aWoman).

  I don’t know what I got out of all this. Maybe I was reminding myself that my life wasn’t a total write-off. I suppose the marriage was OK by conventional standards but O God how I hated it. And the social life that went with the marriage was worse. Party time, whether at home or elsewhere, went like this: two or three drinks and the men had reached the backslapping “ha-ha” stage, while the wives spent the evening admiring each other’s jewelry and boutique saris.

  Sometimes I’d gravitate to the men’s section (yes, we were usually as segregated as people under an apartheid regime) after growing terminally bored with fashion talk, until one evening a beautiful Jewish woman, with eyes like opals, said to me, “You know, you give off predatory signals. You are going to be very unpopular with us women if you hang around our husbands.” Just like that I asked her if she was the spokesperson of a specially formed committee, and she smiled. “Let’s just say I speak for all of us.” OK, the message was loud and clear—lay off. Feeling indignant I foolishly went and spoke to the husband about it. “Of course, they’re right.Why do you come and join us every time? What do you want to do? Cut us off from the party circuit? Why can’t you be like other wives?” That last sentence was most telling. I guess I wasn’t like other wives. And didn’t wish to be. It was on that night that I decided to stop pretending that everything was fine—to myself at any rate.

  The next time we were dressing to go somewhere, I didn’t climb into a textured organza from Indian Textiles, and I didn’t match it with pearls. I pulled out a ghagra—something I used to wear in my college days.

  “Are you crazy? You want to go out with me dressed in that? You’ll look like a sweeper woman! And don’t tell me you’re planning to wear that junk?” he yelled, pointing to my precious hoard of old silver jewelry.

  Quietly, I said, “I want to wear this for a change. I hate wearing all those saris.”

  “You mean you hate looking like all the other wives?You want to look ‘different’ and attract attention. OK, hurry up now—there’s no time to argue. But remember, you are upsetting me with your attitude. I don’t like defiance.” Well, well, he was certainly playing assertive husband to the hilt! I was tempted to ask him about his attitudes. What about all those things he did that upset me? What about his insensitivity and, yes, defiance? What about the nauseating stench of stale cigarettes and the stomach-turning smell of whisky combined with oily tandoori food? What about my revulsion over his horrible safari suits or my anger at the gum he constantly chewed? What about his manners in bed, the loud belches in my face?

  “It’s only you, wifey. I can relax in my own room,” he’d say in self-defense. No, you can’t, I’d want to scream. Do I ever bleach my face in your presence? Do you catch me shaving my legs? Do you find used tampons in the bathroom? Or come-stained panties on the floor? If I can be considerate enough to spare you these unsightly “woman” things—why can’t you be equally sensitive? “Oh, you’re trying to be fancy, are you? Like your friend Anjali,” he’d mock if I ever voiced any of this. And I had learned to switch off. Switch off. Switch off. Switch off. Switch off. But I didn’t want to any more. I didn’t want to deaden myself to life.

  lt was in such a frame of mind that I went to the party. It was at some finance director’s home. As we walked in, I spotted the usual faces, with the usual party expressions.

  “You’re looking different,” one of the usual wives said to me.

  “Yes—awful, isn’t it, this ‘new look’ of hers,” the husband indeli cately added.

  “I don’t care if I’m looking awful,” I said, “at least I’m feeling myself today—whatever and whoever that is.”

  He squeezed my arm savagely as a sign for me to shut up. “Don’t create a scene,” he hissed. “There are many important people here tonight.”

  “Go get yourself a drink and leave me alone,” I answered and walked away. As always, I went and sat down on the nearest available sofa. I was hurt and humiliated. Maybe I even looked close to tears. That’s when I saw her across the room. She was a new face and a beautiful one. The ugly little episode faded and I began to wonder about her. She was wearing an aquamarine blue chiffon, with a tiny choli. A slim figure, but not curvaceous. Waist-length hennaed hair (a definite minus), and a strange bindi on her forehead. It looked like rangoli. She was smoking but not drinking. I continued to stare, wondering who she was. A little later, she drifted toward me. “I saw you staring,” she said with a small laugh and I noticed her eyes. Like shiny blackberries or ripe jamun. There was just a touch of kajal in them. The laugh was open and easy.

  “Are you a wife?” I asked, sounding cynical even to myself.

  “Of course, I’m a wife. Aren’t you?” she countered easily.

  “No, I didn’t mean it that way, I meant, are you a ‘wife-wife’?”

  “Oh—like that, huh? . . . No, I suppose I don’t come in that category.”

  “Which one is your husband?” I asked.

  “Why don’t you try and figure that one out,” she challenged. “If you’re smart, you’ll guess.”

  I wasn’t all that smart, it turned out, since all my three guesses were wrong.

  “I can’t give you any more guesses. There are only twelve men in the room and one of them must be your husband,” she said and wandered away.We spoke a bit during the course of the evening. And though I failed to winkle out the real person from the party personality, I felt the gloom lifting as we drove home for Ritu was the first individual I’d even faintly liked in months. Two days later she called me—“I want to see you in your environment,” she said. “What are you doing right now—shall I come over?”

  I was delighted to hear her voice. “Do that,” I nearly sang and rang off.

  She arrived dressed in a canary yellow Lucknowi kurta outfit. “So, this is how you live . . . where you live,” she said thoughtfully, as she surveyed the house.

  “You approve?” I asked half jokingly.

  “No, but I could have guessed this is how it would be.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, you don’t really think of this as your hom
e, do you? And that shows.”

  Good God—how had she figured that out! I asked her.

  “Easy. Look at your bedroom. Nobody would guess a woman also lives there. It’s a man’s room—your husband’s room. You merely park yourself in it, because you have no place else to go.” This woman was scary.

  “OK. Since you are so smart,” I suggested, “why don’t you also tell me what the problem is and how I should solve it?”

  “You’re married to the wrong man. I saw it at the party. But I had to come to your house to confirm it.You aren’t happy. And you feel trapped.”

  I hated her and loved her. But more than anything else, I was embarrassed and angry at myself. Had I become so transparent? So obvious? I thought I had my masks so perfectly molded. If she, a stranger, could tell so much, so soon—what about the others?

  “Don’t worry,” she soothed, reading my thoughts. “Your mask is Perfect. It’s just that I recognized it instantly since I wear an identical one myself.”

  She spent the rest of the afternoon with me. As we relaxed in the study she told me about her life—the disastrous first marriage to a sadist. And the second uninspiring one to a chartered accountant. “It’s not so bad, really,” she said. “It’s all a matter of training.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh—husbands, of course.” Hers apparently, and I’d noticed it vaguely at the party, was a perfectly trained specimen. He was besotted by her and showed it. She had it over him in every which way and showed it too. “The trick is to make them feel you’ve done them a favor by marrying them. Once you achieve that, the equation works out.

  “The other trick,” she confided, “is to make them feel insecure. Let them think you’ll walk out on them if they don’t toe the line. That’s what keeps them in their place. If you don’t believe me, let me give you an example. There’s this woman I know, let’s call her M., who is married to this very rich guy whose only passion is yoga. He treats it like a religion but what I found interesting about him is that his only other passion is his wife—M. She’s not a sex bomb or anything which makes it all the more interesting. So I gradually drew her out on it.What I found was amazing. One day she told me, ‘I can get anything out of him.’ ‘Really! How?’ I asked her.

  “ ‘ Oh, by using sex.’

  “I sort of guessed what she was getting at, but wanted her to tell me. I prodded her to explain, pretending I didn’t know what she was talking about.

  “‘You know, you’re a pretty funny person,’ she snapped irritatedly.

  “‘ You mean, funny—ha-ha?You like my sense of humor?’

  “‘No. That’s not what I meant. You think you are smart. You believe in all this independence-shindipendence stuff. But what do you get out of it? This way, you won’t get anything out of your husband.’

  “For the sake of argument, I baited her. ‘Maybe I don’t want anything out of him. Maybe I’m too proud to use my body for gain.’

  “‘ Then you’re a fool. Every wife who likes good things knows how to get them. I don’t have to beg my husband for anything—he gets it for me even without asking. Do you know why—I let him think he is superior.’

  “‘But isn’t that a horrible game to play? Don’t you feel manipulative? ’

  “‘It may seem horrible to you. But I don’t think I’m doing anything dishonest. I’m not cheating him in any way. I look after his mother, his home, his needs. Why shouldn’t I expect something in return. If I didn’t fulfill him in bed—he’d look elsewhere. Maybe go to a prostitute.’

  “ ‘ Where does love, affection, that sort of thing come in?’

  “‘ Love-shove is OK yaar. Of course, I love him in my own way. I’m not looking at other men. And what is love? I do what he wants. Do you think I enjoy sex when I’ve got my come? Ugh! I hate it. It’s so messy with blood stains all over and gooey stuff on my thighs. But I do it knowing that he knows I dislike it. This makes him feel grateful and guilty. After that—anything I want is mine. Arre, we are different creatures.You’ve been to college, you have certain ambitions. So it’s OK. I would feel miserable in your place. What do you do all day—just sit in this room and think and think and think? Where does it get you? Be like me—pretend. Call your husband “darling,” at least in front of his friends. Pamper him in public. Press his feet sometimes. All this works like jaadu. But you’re useless, yaar. You think too much. A woman who thinks is not good for a man. Look at me. I hardly ever think—and there’s nothing wrong with my life. I’m happy, yaar, and you’re not.’

  “Listening to her,” Ritu said, “I realized here was a woman who had beaten the system. She got everything she wanted by making her husband grateful. And if she made the slightest signs of leaving he’d give her anything and everything she wanted.You’ve got to play him, Karuna, that’s what you’ve got to do, play him subtly.”

  “I wish I’d met you years ago,” I said and thought, my God, this friendship is too easy, much too easy, let it not fade. Years later I would still remember what she’d told me: that men, like dogs, could be conditioned through reward and punishment. It was a lesson I’d never forget.

  It was about the time I met Ritu that my marriage took a turn for the worse. I’d be sitting pensively in a chair when my husband would say, “Oh no! You aren’t thinking again.” It was worse when I tried to share any of my thoughts with him. “Not now, I’m reading,” or “Not now, I’m watching TV,” or “Not now, I’ve got important business problems.” “Then when?” I’d seethe. Soon it became never. I just stopped wanting to share anything with him. Initially, I felt stifled by this lack of communication. I used to experience a sensation not unlike physical suffocation. I’d start to choke and turn pale.Yet Ritu’s advice notwithstanding, I found it quite impossible to even consider pandering to him the way she’d suggested. So I opted for my own way out and the husband went along. Simply put, we kept out of each other’s way. We became quite clever at anticipating an emotional outburst and avoiding it swiftly. I taught myself to suppress my rage and switch on a button in my head that would instantly transport me to safer, more manageable terrain. When things became too tense, we switched to exaggerated politeness with plenty of “pleases” and “no, thank yous” sprinkling our nonconversations. He may not have been a monster like Abe, but he still horrified me. In fact things had got to the point when I’d get irritated by his smallest action. The sight of his underpants would bug me. I used to wonder why he couldn’t wear sexy undies. The sort I saw in foreign magazines like GQ. Why didn’t he throw away those hideous Victor Y-front briefs? Even the gargling sounds he made over a basin after a meal would fill me with revulsion.

  I recall an incident once, when he had invited a minor actress and her brand-new husband to dinner at the Taj . The husband was all out to impress both of them—and I couldn’t stand his obvious awe and adulation. After all, as Anjali had told me, this actress was nothing more than a hard-up extra who had made her way up the film industry ladder by the most trusted method in filmdom—the casting couch. Why would anybody waste time trying to impress her? Anyway, the husband ordered champagne and tried to show his familiarity with the stony-faced maître d’.

  “Oh, Gomes.” He clicked his fingers to summon him.

  “The name’s D’Souza . . . sir,” the man corrected and I almost died. The actress wasn’t at all interested in either of us. She merely wanted to show off her nonfilm “friends” to her dull bridegroom, a semi-literate moneybags from Delhi. The meal was ordered with much throwing around of fancy names and French dishes . . . till husband asked for some “jerkins.” I’m certain D’Souza understood perfectly what he meant, but stood there with a blank face and said, “Jerkins, sir?” I was furious and deeply embarrassed. “Perhaps, you’re looking for gherkins?” “Of course, ha-ha. How could I have mixed it up,” laughed my oafy husband. I saw the actress’s eyes glazing over. She was, in any case, busy surveying the room and admiring all the new rings on her fingers. With a stupid flourish the husband got
up and stood with his hands on her chair. “Shall we dance?” he asked. His expression was that of a hungry puppy. I wanted to kill him. If she accepted, it would have meant my dancing with her paunchy husband. I’d already noticed the dandruff flakes on his jacket. The thought of those fat fingers being placed on the bare portion of my exposed waist (I was in a sari) gave me the creeps. “Later, perhaps,” said the actress with a practiced smile and the matter ended there: I’ll never forget the expression on the husband’s face. But, from my point of view, he deserved much more than a snub from a faded actress.

  Now that the soul baring is on, I might as well say it all. I couldn’t stand his bada saab act, for instance. And, even if I’m repeating myself, I was sick to death of his compulsive socializing. He wanted to be out every evening and it didn’t matter with whom or where. “Why don’t you call up someone?” he’d say almost as soon as he’d stepped into the house and flung his briefcase down. “Anyone in particular?” I’d ask, knowing full well he wouldn’t come up with the names. His mother would come by at seven thirty to ask “Dinner?” also aware of the fact that her darling son probably had other plans. This had become an oppressive exercise for me. Phone. Fix up. Dress up. Buzz off. Get bored. Come back. Sleep.When I expressed my resentment he’d ask, “Do you have better alternatives, wifey?” Frankly, I didn’t. But I had my books and my fantasies. I was happy enough with those. I also had the phone and my few girlfriends. “Don’t you get bored sitting in the house all day?” he’d ask with fake concern. “I plan our evenings just for you.You need an outing.” No, I don’t. Not these kind of idiotic outings anyway, I’d want to yell. But even yelling required an effort. It was easier to dutifully climb into a mother-in-law-approved sari (with matching jewelry, of course) and go along. How I detested those empty evenings.The men would talk “bijness” over their Black Dogs and the women would stare at their diamond-studded Piaget watches and wait to go home. Did he embarrass me or I him? Thinking about it now I’m not sure. If I found him gauche and pretentious, he probably found me the same. If I got impatient with his tactless attitude, he probably got pissed off by my passivity. There was just nothing for me to do all day and there was nothing I wished to do at night. “Let’s both learn bridge,” he suggested brightly one day. “Or golf.”