Socialite Evenings Read online

  “Well, I sure as hell tried. I even gave his toesies a nice massage.”

  “That was too sweet.”

  “You think so? Do you think I should tell Anj about Abe or will it kill her?”

  “I think she’ll be able to survive it.”

  “What fun! I can’t wait to see my old friend. I wanted to get her something but I was broke. Everything’s so expensive these days.”

  Anjali was waiting for us. She all but ran toward the car as it pulled in, muddying her marble chips. She gave Si a big hug and I winced. We were never on hugging terms, so she just patted me awkwardly on the shoulder and said, “Nice sari.” After a long time I had taken the trouble to dress up, so I was happy that she’d noticed. Anjali was overpainted. Great big gashes of color over her cheekbones, a very shiny mouth, too much green over the eyes and a fancy bindi to boot. The sindoor had disappeared. “Seems a bit much, doesn’t it? And it’s awfully difficult to wash out. After a shampoo, the tub looks like somebody was murdered in it. Doesn’t it?”

  “But why have you slapped on so much gook?”

  “This is how wives of prosperous Punjabi men are supposed to dress at all times. Kumar has told me never to emerge from my bedroom in a dressing gown. I have to be ‘properly’ clad in a sari, makeup, jewelry, the works.”

  “Your bedroom?You mean . . . ?”

  “Don’t be silly—of course we have separate bedrooms.You know that.Thank God. I’ve always thought it more civilized.We women have our own little secrets, best left behind in the boudoir, don’t you agree? And I’m sure most men like to do their thing on their own as well.”

  “Lucky you,” I said, and meant it. “I would have preferred to have a room of my own, but the husband wouldn’t hear of it. ‘What will Mother think? As it is, we don’t have children.’”

  Anjali fluttered all over the place, while Si, as was her disgusting habit, went around inspecting everything in the house, opening cupboards, examining bathrooms. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if I’d seen her pocketing a Lalique anemone or a silver supari box. Anjali insisted on taking us on a grand guided tour. She showed us her bedroom proudly, threw open the padded (yes, padded) door with a grand sweep and announced “Sleeping Beauty’s boudoir.” It would have given Barbara Cartland nightmares with its pinkness. Everything in sight was pink, not baby pink, but shocking pink.There were satin bows and lace insets, frills and canopies—and heaven help us—wallpaper with rose-buds all over it. “So girls—what do you think? I designed it myself! Kumar told me, ‘You have such wonderful taste. Why do we need an interior designer? Have fun—do it all yourself and don’t worry about the budget.’ Of course, I had to wait for a long time for some of the imported things—you know, like the gold taps in the bathroom and other fittings, but the rest of it took just eight months. Even the contractors were surprised. They said to me, ‘Madam, we have worked with so many professionals, but nobody has such good ideas.’ Come and see my Japanese rock garden. I’ve created it just outside my bathroom, to give me the feeling of showering outdoors—super idea, no? I saw it in House and Garden—some countess had one in her villa. I thought it was so cute. Kumar is very generous that way—he doesn’t mind my spending on such things. And did you see the shower curtains with the tulips? Harrods. I’d seen them on my trip two years ago and loved them. The taps aren’t really made of gold—it’s plated. But it looks classy. And the canopy over my bed—divine! I love it. It’s like sleeping inside a cozy tent. Remember, Liz Taylor posed in a similar bed? Don’t remember? Anyway, I do, and I sketched it for my contractors. They were so impressed. ‘Madam, you have a lot of talent, ’ they said. See those porcelain figures? And that vase—Baccarat. Costs a fortune. I’m not very happy with the chandelier. I wanted a pink one—you know—from that famous place in Italy—what is it? Morana, Moreno—something like that? But the dealer here said, it’s better to wait and buy it from some maharaja—you know, when they sell off their stuff? I said OK, but in the meanwhile you don’t expect me to live in the dark. Give me something as a stopgap—and that fool produced this. It’s not too bad—but it isn’t pink.”

  I asked her whether we were going to be fed a pink meal to match the bedroom decor. Even as I said this my mind flashed back to her green luncheon with the Frenchie. Anjali caught on. “Naughty girl,” she said, “you’re taunting me about Pierre, aren’t you? I can give you a pink falooda if you want. Or strawberry ice-cream. But theWestern cook has really taken trouble over our meal today.”

  “Western cook? You mean you have an Eastern one, and a Southern one and a Northern one?”

  “No, silly.This guy used to work for some British family. He prefers to work for foreigners since they appreciate his food.”

  “But Brits eat the most awful food in the world. Don’t tell me you’ve lined up mulligatawny soup for us? If you have—I’m leaving. I’d rather eat at an Udipi.”

  Si came over sniffing. “I went to the kitchen while you girls were yacking. Something was smelling very yummy. In any case—I haven’t had a decent meal in years. All those bean-sprouts and raw vegetables. Ugh. Anj—since you are in a pink mood, how about a pink gin?”

  “Let’s go to the upstairs bar,” she added. “We have another one in the basement—but that’s for the boys. They play darts and things there. It’s a bit too macho for me.”

  “Is the upstairs one pink like your bedroom?” I inquired.

  “Are you being bitchy as always? The answer is no. But in case you’re interested, it has also been designed by me and everybody just loves it. Most of Kumar’s friends actually prefer it to the other one, but they dare not say so.The basement bar has been done up by Kumar himself and he’s very proud of it.”

  We trooped upstairs behind Anjali. Once again she flung open the door. I must admit, this was an improvement on the boudoir. It was color-coordinated, but in pleasing tones. There was lots of cane and plenty of green all over (“plastic ferns, from Hong Kong”). The Shyam Ahuja dhurries were not on the parquet floor (“Everybody throws them there, darlings. But I prefer them on the walls—like works of art”) but stared at us from just about everywhere else including the ceiling.The inevitable mirrors were fixed behind the bar and reflected the soft hues of the room. Anjali told us proudly, “It looks even better at night, because the lighting is so clever. I spend a lot of time here—not drinking, mind you, but just lounging. When the bearer sees me here, he knows what to tell people over the phone. I have trained him to say ‘Memsaab is lounging and cannot be disturbed.’ Sounds good, huh? That’s one thing about Kumar—he knows how to train servants. I don’t have to supervise anything in this house. He has all his old fellows who know exactly what’s what. I only have to ring this bell.” With that she picked up a silver bell on the bar and went ting-a-ling-a-ling. “You know electric call bells, are so inelegant, darlings, so I’ve scattered a whole bunch of silver bells all over the house. And, you know, the servants are so alert, that in two seconds after I ring someone knocks.” Someone didn’t. She scowled impatiently and went ting-a-ling again. I burst out laughing. “You look so comic ringing that silly bell,” I couldn’t resist saying. She pulled herself up, gave me a drop-dead look and reached for a button under the bar. There was a call bell, after all. And it worked. A slave materialized in no time.

  The lounging got boring after a while and as I wasn’t drinking I said, “Show us Kumar’s room.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea—he doesn’t like intruders.”

  “Intruders? What do you mean intruders? We are not intruders, we are his wife’s friends.”

  “Still, he gets jumpy about things like that.”

  “Oh come on, what’s he hiding in there—whips and chains? Little boys? Skeletons rattling in the cupboard? Cross our hearts and may we die, but we won’t tell.”

  Si piped up, “Maybe wifey has not been given the key to the kingdom. What say, wifey, are you allowed to enter or do you come under the intruder category too?”
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  “You women are so shameless, I don’t believe it. All right, I suppose it’s OK. But don’t go and drop your hankies in there.”

  “What about the slaves floating around the place. I’m sure Kumarikins has a spy to keep tabs on you. Won’t they squeal?” Si asked. She was already sloshed, after two quick pink gins and a swig from Anjali’s Spritzer.

  “I’ll take you when the servants retire to their rooms to watch video after lunch.”

  “Wait a minute—what was that? The servants have a video in their rooms?” I said.

  “Yes. In fact, I suggested it to Kumar. It was one way of keeping them out of my hair.”

  “That’s smart thinking woman.What other tricks have you come up with?”

  “Take it easy, or I won’t feed you any lunch. What tricks? I’m being good these days.”

  “And chaste too?”

  “Let me convince you girls—look at my eyes, skin and hair? Do I look like I’ve been screwing around? Everything is dull—eyes, skin and hair.That happens when a woman stays off sex. I used to glow in the old days, darlings—glow!”

  “I’m sure. So what’s it now—‘just me and my friendly vibrator.’”

  “I don’t have to dignify that question with a reply. Let’s have lunch.”

  “Listen, you fancy broad, you’ve promised us a Tour D’Argent lunch—it had better be good.”

  Si chimed in, “You mean that swanky joint in Paris?The one that’s better than Maxim’s? I nearly went there one night—but my date stood me up.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said under my breath, but Si flared up.

  “What did you say—I heard you, you bitch. I never did like you. I always used to tell Anjali that. So holier-than-thou and all that shit. What makes you so virtuous, huh?”

  Anjali put a restraining arm around her and hissed, “Si, Si. Down girl. Now behave yourself. She didn’t mean it.”

  Then turning to me, “Tell her you didn’t mean it even if you did. You both are ruining my lunch.”

  We went into the dining room, Anjali still playing tour guide. “Oh, this was practically the way you see it now. I haven’t really done anything much to it. Just fooled around with the curtains and bought that painting for the wall. Like it? It’s by a Delhi painter—Krishen Khanna. Very classy, don’t you think? Just what this room needed. And I picked up that fruit bowl somewhere—where was it—in New York, I think. Stuff like that—nothing major.”

  She reached for one of her silver bells and rang it with a delicate twist of her wrist. “Don’t you love the tinkling sound it makes?” she asked. Again no bearer appeared but a sleek cat did. “Oh, come here, my darling Cleo. Look girls—isn’t she just too gorgeous? Kumar gave her to me on some occasion—I forget which—saying, ‘The only pussy I can bear to touch.’ Cute I thought.”

  “What? The remark or the pussy?”

  “Oh both. He’s quite funny really. When we first met—you remember he was still pretending he was straight in those days?—he put his hands inside my choli and commented, ‘Hmm—quite a handful.’ I was quite surprised when he said that, I mean, you girls know the size of my tits. And then he added,‘Aren’t you lucky I have such small hands?’”

  “I would’ve killed him,” Si said. “How awful. Maybe he was trying to give you a complex. You should have reached for his crotch and said something nasty like—I don’t know—‘Is dicky-boy away on vacation?’ or something like that—but anyway, that’s typical gay humor. I should know. I’m a gay groupie myself. I was heavily into the gay scene sometime back. That’s how I knew about Kumar even before you told me. I must say that husband of yours has managed to keep his little secret very secret—over the years. Three wives, not bad.”

  Actually that was something I’d been dying to ask Anjali. How did Kumar manage to seduce beautiful women and talk them into marriage, quite apart from the money angle that is. “He is utterly charming,” Anjali said as if in reply to the unspoken question. “He is very attentive, generous and attractive in his own way. I have seen him at parties. Women fling themselves at him—and he flirts away. He isn’t one of the ‘obvious’ gays—I mean, he isn’t limp wristed and he doesn’t mince when he walks.”

  “He wears far too much jewelry for a straight guy,” I said. “But so do all the movie stars. And living in Juhu, that’s the crowd we hang out with, so nobody really notices his chains and rings.”

  Finally, lunch was served with a great deal of ceremony. The bearers were indeed perfectly trained. They brought in warm Royal Doulton plates (“this is our informal luncheon set”), and removed them after each course.The food was superlative, with mellow wine to wash it down.The cheese platter had an impressive assortment of the best, and we were even offered Havanas and cognac later. “Let’s cut out the crap and invade Kumar’s room,” I suggested. Hesitantly, Anjali led us to another section of the house and put a key into an intricately carved wooden door. (“Chettinad. Must introduce you to this guy—he has the most phenomenal old furniture”)

  We walked into total darkness. “Kumar likes the dark,” she explained.

  “It figures,” I said.

  She reached for the lights. “Concealed.” So they were. But at least we could see the room now. It was enormous, with the largest bed I’ve ever seen.

  “Large enough to have an orgy in,” Si giggled.

  “That’s the general idea, I suppose,” I added.

  “You’re both wrong.This room is sacred. No fooling around here. He just likes a large bed, that’s all.”

  “Did you do this one up too?”

  “No—this is Kumar’s domain. He has picked everything down to the potty.” There was a mahogany table along a wall with an exquisite Japanese vase. The wood paneling had a rich grain, and the colors were very discreet—beige, walnut and salmon. Si landed on the bed without warning and started bouncing around.

  “Stop it,” Anjali warned. “Don’t do that. He’ll be able to smell you.”

  “Is he a bloodhound or what?”

  “Just get off that bed.”

  “OK. OK. Take it easy. I’m not going to pee on it or anything. Don’t get hysterical.” While this was going on I was surveying the row of bottles on his dressing table. Anjali saw me looking. “He has a weakness for aftershaves and lotions. The minute a new one appears in the market—it’s on his table. He loves women’s fragrances too.”

  “Of course, he would,” I hitched.

  “It’s not just gays who like perfume. Abe used to constantly finish all my favorites. And you know how un-gay he was.”

  “Don’t I just,” Si giggled. I pretended I hadn’t heard.

  “Let’s see the loo,” I suggested. Anjali opened the door and we stepped into miles of marble and granite. Everything was gleaming and perfect. A sunken bath tub, Jacuzzi, a stuffed chair in one corner and a fair-sized library.

  “What does this man do? Spend half his life in the bathroom? It’s so well-equipped.”

  Anjali missed the irony. “Yes—it even has a mini-fridge and a bar. Anjali showed us where these were cleverly hidden within easy reach of the tub.

  “Hey that’s pretty neat,” Si said. “I once spent the night with one of these Sheikh types in Dubai—he had a similar one in his bathroom. It was such fun—we spent all our time in the tub, filled it with bubbles and drank lots of champagne. I even shampooed my hair with what was left over in the third bottle. It was the swankiest shampoo I’ve ever had—Dom Perignon.”

  “Kumar keeps a small hoard of Godiva chocolates hidden somewhere—but Si don’t you dare touch them. He counts. He’ll know if even one is missing.”

  “Tell him you fed them to your pussy—and don’t specify which one,” Si laughed.

  “You are so low class and cheap. I don’t know why I tolerate you. You pollute the atmosphere. And, please, the next time you come here—if I invite you again, that is—kindly shave your underarms and put on a bra. My bearers were staring at lunch.”

  “Fuck yo
ur bearers,” Si said.

  “You do it.You’ll probably enjoy it more. But I’m not sure they’ll oblige. They have high standards.”

  “Touché, Anjali,” I said and clapped.

  “OK—now lead us to his gizmos. Where does he keep his naughty things?Where does he, well, bugger his boyfriends?” Si said, unfazed.

  “I am too disgusted for words. And really horrified,” Anjali said. “You girls go too far sometimes. You’re talking about my husband, you know. This is his house. You’ve just had a meal at his expense. Drunk wine from his cellar. Really!”

  “Now that you’ve said your loyal-and-outraged wife piece—let’s go. Lead us to kinky-land.”

  But Anjali surprised us both by saying, “Let me show you my puja room, instead.”

  “Your what? Puja room? What a minute. When did you get on to that trip? What’s with this puja angle? I didn’t know you prayed,” I said.

  “You don’t know many things, Ms. Know-it-all—I can still surprise you.”

  When we got to the puja room Anjali instructed us solemnly: “Please remove your shoes before you go in.”

  Si asked saucily, “What else? No bath?”

  “Well you could certainly do with one,” Anjali countered. I kept my silence as she unlocked a door and ushered us into a smallish room. She’d covered her own head demurely with her sari pallav. Once we were in, Anjali went down on her knees and touched her forehead to the floor. She remained in this position for about a minute, while Si and I shifted uncomfortably with Si’s eyebrows dancing up and down, silently demanding, “What’s going on?” I didn’t think Anjali was acting for our benefit. As soon as she’d entered the puja room, she seemed lost in a trance. When she finally raised her head, she had a beatific expression on her face. “I have found him,” she sighed. “I am at peace at last.” Seeing our expressions she blushed and pointed to an exquisite deity of Krishna which she had installed in an ornate shrine.

  “Anjali—have you been reading Mirabai?” I asked her.

  “I knew you’d say that. You’ve become so predictable. You girls haven’t lived my life.You won’t be able to understand what spiritual bliss is all about.”