Socialite Evenings Read online

  “Next you’ll tell us you’ve joined the Hare Krishna guys. They operate from Juhu, don’t they?” Si laughed, “I can just imagine you jumping around with them on the beach every evening like a hijra.”

  “Nothing either of you says will affect me now. I have Krishnaji with me constantly.” Then she reached inside her low-cut blouse and pulled out a locket. It was a beautiful image of Shrinathji painted on ivory and framed in gold. “This gives me a lot of strength, nothing can get me down now. But enough of all that—it’s a very personal thing, and I don’t want to talk about Him like we gossip about other people. Why don’t you look at my mandir? When I asked Kumar if I could have one, he was so delighted. ‘It’s yours!’ he said. ‘You don’t even have to ask me. Go ahead, spend as much as you like. I think religion is wonderful.’Wasn’t that too sweet of him? He even helped me to choose the marble. I wanted the best Italian, but I couldn’t get this pure white shade so I got the Makrana one instead. It has a lovely milky tone which I thought was appropriate for Krishna—the naughty makhan-chor.”

  “All this is marvelous, my dear,” I said, “but does it also include a vow of celibacy?”

  “What is sex compared to religion? Nothing! The ecstacy I experience when I’m praying or listening to my bhajans is far better than an orgasm. I’m into this totally, and sex has become irrelevant. In fact, I hate to use the sort of language we used to—you know—fuck-shuck and all that. I feel impure. I go and gargle immediately if these words come out by mistake. If I’m not near my own bathroom and it happens in someone else’s house, I quickly take out my mint breath-freshener pump and do a fast whoosh whoosh.”

  Si looked at me and said, “I think the woman has flipped. Come on, let’s get out of here before she tries to convert us. I don’t believe it—bhajans, malas, prayers. Anjali, dear heart, why don’t you see a shrink and get this whole nonsense out of your system? It’s sick. You’re sick. You need treatment, not a temple. Doesn’t that bloody bugger realize this? I may be a screwed-up bitch, but I ain’t cuckoo.”

  Anjali continued to look at us calmly while fingering her locket. “I have not joined an ashram or given up on life. As you girls can see, I still love my luxuries—nice saris, jewelry and all that. I’m just in a heightened state now, and I can feel my kundalini rising and lifting me out of the mess I was in. What’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with peace and love?”

  “That kind of crap went out in the sixties for Christ’s sake. It’s so unfashionable to be a peacenik these days. Anjali, if for nothing else, give all this up at least to remain ‘in’ with the trends. Everybody will laugh if you come out with your peace and love rubbish,” Si advised seriously.

  I felt obliged to put in my two bits’ worth. “I don’t agree with you, Si. Hindu revivalism is going to be the big trend of the 80s—Anjali is, in fact, ahead of her times. Have you joined the RSS yet? I think it’s very chic to rediscover your roots and proclaim it to the world.”

  “This is getting spooky. I don’t think I want to know either of you. I prefer sin anyday to this holy shit,” Si remarked and reached for a ciggie.

  “Not here,” Anjali stopped her sharply. “Oh, forgive me, Mirabai,” She bowed with folded hands.

  We left the house and strolled out toward the pool. Si wandered off by herself. Anjali put her arms on my shoulders and stared intently into my eyes. “You believe in what’s happening to me, don’t you?You believe I’m on the right track?”

  “Yes, Anjali. If it means so much to you—it really is entirely your business. And you don’t owe anybody any explanations, least of all someone like Si. Just forget about her cheap remarks.

  “I forgive her, I really do—I forgive everybody. My heart is filled with love.”

  “That’s great. But don’t overdo this trip. You know how disappointed you feel when things don’t work out the way you’ve planned them? But your temple is very beautiful. It smells lovely—better than your Nina Ricci and I’m glad you’ve got this room to escape to when things get rough. We haven’t really talked today. How are things between you and Kumar?”

  “There’s a lot to tell you—but I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have asked Si to come here. I can feel her bad vibrations everywhere. She spreads paap wherever she goes. She is so morally corrupt.”

  “Let her be—she’s not really evil—just mixed up. Maybe she’ll find her Krishna also—till then she won’t be able to understand what you’re going through.”

  “Thanks for being gentle. And for sticking up for me. It’s important you know. I feel so friendless and alone. As it is, living at Juhu I’m cut off from my world in South Bombay. At one time these filmi types seemed OK. But now. Oh God, they drive me up the wall. And then—Kumar—I call him K now—entertains compulsively every night. I have to organize a banquet for twenty or more people at least thrice a week. It is a bore—but I’ve got used to it. Plus, we do have excellent servants.”

  “What about the rest, Anjali. You haven’t said anything about Murty or your life with Kumar—surely, it doesn’t begin and end with parties and pujas?”

  “Murty, look, I don’t want to discuss that little jerk. I detest him and he detests me.”

  “Does he live with you guys?”

  “Off and on—K has given him some sort of a job. So, he hangs out at various branch offices doing God knows what. When he’s in town, he shacks up here. But not in K’s bedroom—servants talk, and it’s just not done.”

  “Do you and Kumar discuss this relationship?”

  “Not really. I’m supposed to go along with the pretense that Murty is like an adopted son of the family. At least, for public consumption. I’ve told K to make sure he stays out of my way.We rarely run into each other—if he’s around at a party, he stays behind the bar, fetches and carries for K and makes himself useful.”

  “But what does Kumar see in him?”

  “Hard to say. Murty is cute in his own way, like Sabu the Elephant Boy—remember that movie? And he’s great for Kumar’s ego. He absolutely adores K, worships him.”

  “That’s the least he can do, considering the style he’s kept in. Is he given pocket money?”

  “K controls that very strictly. As I told you, he’s on a salary, and K gives him presents from time to time—watches, shirts, shoes, plus an extra allowance on his birthdays. By the way, his birthdays are big numbers. We have a huge party—not a gay party—just about the entire city—and the birthday boy cuts a cake, is given birthday bumps—and the whole thing is recorded for posterity on video.Then, till his next birthday comes around, we have to watch the previous year’s film at least once a fortnight. Oh, and K gives him jewelry on the occasion—a thick chain, cuff-links, ring. Plus, Murty insists on National Savings Certificates for his future and his security.”

  “Sounds like a neat arrangement. What have you worked out for yourself?”

  “We have a joint account which I operate. I draw from it whenever I require cash. He gives me the housekeeping money at the beginning of each month. If I run out, I show him the accounts and he supplements it. I’m supposed to buy my own stuff out of this—the smaller things like saris, bags, shoes. But if there is a major piece of jewelry to be bought he clears it.”

  “No pension plan? No contract in case the marriage collapses? No nest egg of your own?”

  As usual, she missed the sarcasm. “The Lonavala property has been transferred to my name. And I already have the apartment Abe gave me. So that’s OK. I have given that to Mimi—poor child, she needs a place of her own. He gave me substantial shares in his company when we got married. Plus the jewelry. I think I’m pretty well provided for. Oh yes, there’s the insurance policy and some other blue-chip shares. I’m being careful with my money these days.”

  “Good girl. Just don’t blow it this time.”

  “I’m becoming very professional, my dear. I have hired Abe’s old tax consultants to help me sort out all the money angles. Abe had given me enough after the talaq—that’s been
invested too.”

  “That makes you quite an heiress. And what does Mimi do?”

  “Shuttles between homes. She prefers living abroad, and has decided to go back to school and take courses. Abe has money there, so that’s no problem. She is keen to earn her own—though she doesn’t need to. But I encourage her. A woman has to be self-sufficient these days.”

  “She’s not a kid anymore. Let’s see—how old is she? Late twenties?”

  “Yes. She’s nearly thirty, you know. Mimi has always been very hyper—you remember her as a kid? Far too sensitive. Sometimes I think she can’t handle this whole situation.”

  “What about K? How’s he with her? And what about his two ex-wives ? Where are they?”

  “The first one keeps out of his way. She sends the older kid during the vacations. A sweet, sad child. The other one is not as easy. In fact, she’s left a lot of her stuff behind.”

  “Don’t you mind that?”

  “Well, I did, in the beginning. But K said, ‘Look, Anjali, she did share my home for a few years and she does have some rights. So what if she leaves a few things behind? She’ll remove them once she settles down.You don’t have to feel threatened.’ But you know something—I resent her shadow in our home. Not that she’s done anything to me or said anything. But I still don’t like reminders of her all over the place. Albums full of photographs, books with her name in them, records which she has dated and signed. Two enormous wardrobes full of her clothes, cosmetics and shoes. Why would a woman want to leave her bras and panties in an ex-husband’s house?”

  “Maybe she really loved the guy, maybe she thinks she’ll be coming back one day.”

  “But isn’t that evil? She still phones the servants and asks after their health. As if she cares! It’s all a strategy to keep tabs on me and find out what’s going on in the house. I think it’s cheapo. I don’t keep calling Abe. She also tries to act very palsy-walsy with Murty. Once or twice I heard them on the extension—but I think they knew I was listening.”

  “Why don’t you be firm with Kumar about this and tell him it bothers you.”

  “I’ve tried—but he laughs it off. ‘You are my Kohinoor,’ he says. ‘Nobody else matters.’”

  “Then, I guess it’s best you leave it at that. Now, if you don’t mind, I must leave. Shall I abandon Si? I can’t bear the thought of driving back all the way with that stinky creature.”

  “Where is she?”

  We went to look for her and found her in the pool, stark naked, swimming up and down like a tadpole.

  “What the hell are you doing there?” Anjali screamed. “Get out this minute. Are you mad? I’ll have to empty out the pool and disinfect it—you little tramp—get out immediately.”

  Si took her time to emerge, then she walked slowly up to Anjali and said with great deliberation, “Darling, I should be the one screaming about infection, with all these faggots floating around. Your fucking pool stinks—and I don’t think it’s just urine. If I pick up some unmentionable disease, you, my dearest Anj, can bet your sweet ass, I’ll be the one doing all the suing.” Then turning to me she spat out, “As for you with an Arctic Zone between your legs, I don’t need your frigging lift into town. I’d rather hitch.”

  The last the two of us saw of Si was her small figure in ugly mules going clomp, clomp, clomp through the marble chips.

  It was obvious Anjali didn’t want me to go. When she asked me to stay on longer, her eyes pleaded as well. I knew I’d be inviting the husband’s wrath, but I decided to stay.

  “Tea?” she asked brightly once she knew I wasn’t leaving.

  “Why not? I could do with a cuppa.”

  “We have our own blend which one of K’s planter friends sends us every three months by the case. But if you want something else—we have quite a variety. K’s an absolute tea freak. Murty, being a southie, sticks to coffee. I must say I hate the smell of idli sambhar on Sunday mornings—so does K—but he spoils that boy—silly. Anyway . . . what’s it going to be—Darjeeling? Orange Pekoe? Jasmine?”

  “Let’s not get posh, Anjali. Red Label is what I usually drink at home, which I don’t suppose your servants would deign to have. But what I’d really love is some real Gujju masala tea, well-brewed and strong.”

  “That’s a good idea. Why didn’t I think of it? Silly me!” There’d been something strange about Anjali (apart from her conversion of course) that I couldn’t place but now I discovered what it was. She hadn’t touched a cigarette in all the time I’d been there. I asked whether she’d quit. She nodded and explained: “K’s second wife used to chain-smoke. He hated it. The whole house used to smell of cigarettes—the drapes, carpets, everything. When he asked me to marry him, my quitting ciggies was part of the deal.”

  “What else did you agree to give up?”

  “Come on, it wasn’t so difficult. In any case, I’m glad I did—give it up, I mean. I would have, in any case, after I met Krishna.” For a minute I started to wonder who this new guy was, when I remembered.

  “You must attend one of the bhajans at our place. K is very enthusiastic about them. He says they purify the atmosphere. We call mainly ladies, but a few husbands also show up.Why don’t you come with yours on Janmashtami day—that’s twenty days from now—let me look at the calendar. Yes—that’s it. Come then, that’s when we have one of our really big functions.We put up a shamiana in the garden and serve free prasad to everyone. At night, all the poor zhopad pattiwallas come for a free meal. Mind you, we don’t cut corners. They’re served on banana leaves, and what they get is a full vegetarian meal with puris and everything. There’s practically a stampede that night and we have asked for extra police. It’s quite a tamasha. The previous time we did it, the young girls from the locality organized a raas, and they came dressed up in ghagras and things.We got a lot of filmi people too. But that’s really a nuisance, because all these crowds hang around outside the gates to gape at them.”

  She gushed on. “My Krishna is brought out at midnight in a silver palanquin. One section is kept for reenacting his birth. We have a cradle decorated with flowers. It’s really, really pretty. I make a new outfit for him and change all the silk cushion covers and coverlets on his little bed. We generally have everything in one color, with one theme. Like, we use only dry fruits or only fruits or only vegetables. Or only flowers—like lotuses last year. It’s very creative. I start planning months in advance. Don’t ask me what the theme is this year. I want it to be a surprise.You’ll come, won’t you? And stay to dinner. I fast on that day—but you don’t have to.”

  “I’d love to, Anjali, but don’t expect me to become a born-again believer, an instant convert. You know how I feel about religion. I only celebrate some of the festivals because the old girl will squawk otherwise. As it is I’m not hitting the high spots on her popularity poll.”

  “That’s all right. I’d just like you to be there. This means a lot to me.”

  We sipped our masala tea in silence. I thought I saw her lips moving.

  “What are you mumbling?”

  “Nothing. I’m repeating my Krishna mantra. It calms me down.”

  “I didn’t know you were agitated.”

  “Not agitated. Just a little tense. I always get like that before K comes home.”

  “I know that feeling all right. I feel the same way every evening. Which reminds me, I should be off. It will take me at least an hour to get back, that is, if the traffic isn’t too heavy.”

  Just before I got into the car, I saw a quick flash of the old Anjali. She picked up a stray strand of my hair. “Split,” she said tch tching. “Do you know your hair is splitting? You must take care of your appearance. I saw your feet also.You haven’t been going for pedicures obviously.And am I imagining it or have you gained around the waist? This is the time a woman has to watch it—you let yourself go—and you’re finished. I have this wonderful bai who comes and gives me a daily massage. Warm almond oil—divine, divine, divine. I could send her to yo
u once a week.You might have to pay her something extra for coming that distance. But she’s worth it.What about work-outs? Are you working out regularly? That waist, darling, I don’t like what I see there. Middle-age spread. Most Indian women have a cow mentality. Get married and get fat. Disgusting. Anyway, you’re lucky to have a good skin. Have you started weekly facials? In case you’re looking for someone—this woman who comes home—remember that Parsee female, Panda?—she is now into natural stuff. Apricots, seaweed, cactus—takes care of the lines. Want her?” I smiled and said nothing at all. I didn’t feel like defending myself. Maybe she was right about the lethargy. Maybe I had turned into a complacent cow. But there was no incentive. My husband barely noticed me.Whether or not my waist had expanded a couple of inches was of little interest to him. He’d put on quite a bit of weight himself. And it didn’t matter to me either.

  The car was nearly out of the gate when I saw the durwan running toward us. “Memsaab is calling you back.” There she was waving frantically. I asked the driver to reverse and we backed to where she was standing with a small container wrapped carefully in foil. “I forget to give you this—it’s the house pâté. Francis does a marvelous one—smooth and silky. You’ll love it. I would’ve given you a full-bodied burgundy to drink with it—but the cellar’s locked. And here—a small box of homemade pedas—pure ghee and malai. We make them fresh daily.” “Thanks,” I said and left.

  Pâté and pedas—how perfectly contradictory, yet appropriate. They summed up Anjali’s present life. I popped one of the pedas into my mouth—it melted. It was very good. And very rich. I pinched my waist to see if it had gone straight there. I could have sworn I felt a small lump.

  A couple of days later, I got an early morning call from Anjali. I was a little surprised, knowing that, for her, anything before eleven a.m. was “the crack of dawn.” But that was the old Anjali. The pre-Krishna one. Now, she told me she was up at the real crack of dawn to wash her mandir herself and start her morning prayers. “It’s so invigorating. Everything is quiet in the house. The servants aren’t up, except for K’s valet. K is an early riser, he goes for a jog on the beach before leaving for the golf course. He doesn’t expect me to hang around fortunately. I switch on Lata Mangeshkar’s bhajans and light agarbat tis. I’ve instructed the mali to make sure I have fresh flowers on a special silver thali that I’ve given him—he won’t steal it because it’s Krishna’s—then I string my own garlands. Sometimes it’s hibiscus, sometimes it’s champak. Then for one hour I pray. Bliss, my dear. But that’s not what I called about. I wanted you to be the first to know—I’m in business.”