THE HOUSE THAT BJ BUILT, page 29
Dilreen looks doubtful. She is clearly a girl who’s been disappointed in love.
‘Are you sure?’ she asks. ‘Soulmates are hard to find nowadays…I’m starting to think they don’t exist.’
Zeeshan glances at his slumbering friend, waiting for him to deny this, or make some wisecrack, or react in any manner whatsoever. But Samar remains still, eyes resolutely closed. A tiny pulse jumps at the base of his throat.
‘We’re sure,’ Zeeshan tells the girl.
‘I’d break up with the first person,’ Dilreen says decisively. ‘As kindly as I could, because anyway that relationship is going nowhere. And I’d do it ekdum phataphat—before this second person finds somebody else—there must be a long line waiting, if they’re that special.’
‘Well said!’ beams Zeeshan. He prods Samar meaningfully. ‘What d’you make of that, bro?’
Samar pulls down his eyemask and sits upright. Pretty little Dilreen gets a start. The famous film-maker looks haunted, ravaged.
‘But what if the first person told you they’re in love with you now,’ he says, his voice rough. ‘That they hadn’t planned on that happening but it’s happened, and to please not break up with them because the trauma and humiliation of being jilted twice in quick succession is more than they can stand? That they might harm themselves?’
‘Lies!’ says Zeeshan vigorously. ‘All lies! Lemme tell you, bro…’
But Dilreen is staring down at Samar, her brandy-brown eyes slowly starting to look as troubled as his own.
‘Then…’ she hesitates. ‘Then you should, I mean, the character in the film should—’
The seatbelt sign comes on with a loud dinngggg! Dilreen looks up, startled, murmurs an apology and hurries back to her position at the front of the plane, her expression switching back smoothly to the standard glossy mask of good airhostesses everywhere.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, we have commenced our descent into Amritsar…’
She speaks to him again as he is exiting the plane. Lays a manicured hand upon on his sleeve as he hands her a napkin signed by both him and Zee.
‘Don’t let her go,’ she whispers. ‘Don’t.’
Samar’s lips tighten. ‘I’ll tell the scriptwriters,’ he says, his voice clipped, and strides away.
Mrs Mumtani turns out to be a formidable, ancient lady who lives in a white Plaster of Paris and marble kothi, the size of Mehboob Studio, in a rather seedy part of the city. She possesses a mammoth, shelf-like uniboob, a long, wispy grey plait, a mole with several stiff hairs growing out of it, and a rolling, sailor-like gait.
Fresh from her morning prayers at the gurdwara and dressed in white lace, she fails to recognize either Zeeshan or Samar as celebrities but is hospitable enough to offer them a breakfast of freshly squeezed pomegranate juice and freshly fried French toast because ‘Gambhir ke munde hain’.
‘Old age mein she has become very proper,’ Old Mr Gambhir had briefed the boys earlier that morning. ‘Goes to the gurdwara regularly, and is class conscious and cunserwaitive. But in her young days, she was a real phuljadi. Twenty years younger than Mr Mumtani! He was crazy for her, crazy, and he told her everything. Husbinds didn’t used to tell the janani much those days, we were shy fellows, but Mumtani was frank with his young wife, fully frank. They used to chat all night—he would tell her all the kissas and kahanis and adventures, and later she would tease us by dropping hints. But she never told on us to our wives. Jisse kehte hain one-of-thee-boys! But hundurd percent female! If anybody knows the real story of your great-grandfather and his wife, she will! Bas usko daaru pila dena, Samar beta. Get her drunk, then she’ll talk.’
When they ask her about Samar’s great-grandfather, the old lady nods. ‘Yes, Mumtani was very friendly with Pushkar bhaisaab. He stayed with him whenever he went to Dilli—never took me along, of course, girls didn’t travel with their husbands those days, it wasn’t considered nice. Very fine family, the Thakurs of Hailey Road, very khandaani. No sons, but. The name will die out now. What do you want to know?’
She is so dignified and so formidably correct that they’re stumped. How on earth are they to get her drunk and bring up murders in this prim and proper environment?
‘Uh, yes, well,’ Samar attempts. ‘His eldest granddaughter is my stepmother.’
‘Oh?’ she says, her old eyes glinting. ‘His eldest granddaughter married a Singh from Allahabad. Good family, very good family. We went for the wedding. I gave two hundred rupees and a pair of gold earrings. They gave me a sari, chiffon but not the best quality—plain si thi.’
‘Anjini Thakur,’ Samar murmurs.
‘Lovely girl,’ the old lady concedes. ‘Only pretty one in the family. We had heard a lot about the Thakur sisters, but they were nothing great. You put any five girls together with hair and make-up and all, and people start to say so pretty, so pretty. Fools. ’
‘It’s called the Cheerleader Effect,’ Zeeshan nods intelligently. ‘Fools me every time.’
‘Er, yes,’ Samar says. ‘So Mrs Mumtani, actually, I don’t know if Old Mr Gambhir told you, but—’
‘And one of them married a phorener,’ continues the old lady with a disdainful sniff. ‘And one an isaee. Girls marry any aira-gaira nowadays. Nobody checks caste or background. Chalo, theek hai, I suppose, kum-se-kum they’re not musalmaan. Or achhoot.’
Zeeshan chokes. So does Samar.
The old lady seems to have reached the end of her reminiscences.
‘So what did you want to know, puttar?’
Samar leans forward.
‘Er, auntieji, it was a long flight and we’re tired. Do you mind if we…?’ He produces a quarter bottle of Old Monk from his bag and shakes it suggestively over the pomegranate juice.
The old lady nods, pushing her glass forward.
‘Haan haan, vy not?’
Samar pours Old Monk into their glasses until the red of the juice turns dull brown. Everybody sips.
Ten minutes later, old Mrs Mumtani is waxing eloquent. ‘Mumtani and Pushkar bhaisaab used to go to this gambling den together. But then Pushkar bhaisaab gave it up. He was mad for his wife, absolutely besotted. He stayed home and pressed her feet and taught his younger son math. Full bore he became! The business of the kothawallahs began to suffer. But I was happy. I told Mumtani to learn something from him. But then Pushkar bhaisaab found out that his simple-si wife had a Yaar.’
‘A Yaar?’
‘Yes. A Luvver, an Aashiq. He used to hook a rope ladder to the cement jaali of her balcony and climb up every Monday night to be with her. The kothawallas only told him. And then, one Monday night, they showed him—a handsome young man clambering up a rope ladder like a saanp on a seedi, smelling of ittar and jasmine and anticipation, to warm his wife’s bed! Pushkar bhaisaab loved his wife too much to touch a hair on her head, so he ordered his trusted servant to loosen the jaali next Monday, so that when the Aashiq climbed up, the jaali would break and he would fall and break his neck, like he had broken Pushkar bhaisaab’s heart. But the Aashiq didn’t come that Monday. When Pushkar bhaisaab, who’d gone to his village to avoid the unpleasantness and also to make an alibi, came back on Tuesday morning, he saw his beloved wife in the balcony, freshly bathed, hair still wet, leaning on the freshly-loosened jaali, throwing birdseed to her white pigeons. Step back! he shouted up to her, his blood freezing inside his veins. What, my love? she called, leaning forward. Step back! he shouted again What, my heart? she asked, leaning forward even more. Pushkar bhaisaab cursed and waved and shouted, but it was too late—she leaned more and more forward, the jaali broke away, she fell, screaming out his name and broke her neck. He rushed up to her and she died in his arms. Bas! That’s the story.’
She picks up her glass and tosses back the last of the anar and Old Monk. Then she burps, a small, lady-like burp.
‘And the Aashiq?’ Samar manages to ask, stunned.
She shakes her head, stroking the stiff hairs on her mole rhythmically.
‘Nobody knew who he was. Pushkar bhaisaab definitely didn’t. We still don’t know.’
The next day, Anjini Singh arrives at number 16, ahead of the District Court hearing of Ashok Narayan Thakur versus Heirs of Laxmi Narayan Thakur, dressed in the latest sleeveless-long-kurti-paired-with-flouncy-peasant-skirt fashion, hair gorgeously curled and skin dewy fresh. She settles into her parents’ bedroom in a business-like manner, not at all disconcerted by the fact that they’d both died in their beds—just getting her maid, a healthy young thing named Asharfi, to beat the mattress hard and place a dainty new set of organic cotton sheets from Anokhi upon it.
‘I’ve come to do full and final of this house,’ she tells Eshu and Chandu, over a bracing morning cuppa. ‘I’m not leaving till it sells.’
When questioned on how the ’paper is going to cope without her, she airily says, ‘Oh, peak summer is a slow season for Allahabad Buzz—things will pick up only when the festive season starts. And don’t you worry about the housekeeping—Asharfi can do ten times the work that two-faced Lachhu did! What use are two faces in a servant, anyway? Double the talk, and double the food. Better to have only one face and four arms and legs, which I assure you is what Asharfi has.’
The neglected house does start to blossom under the healthy young Asharfi’s ministrations. Curtains are washed, rooms are aired, papers are sorted through and dust is banished. Food appears on the table at regular intervals, piping hot and steamingly fragrant and Chandu grows decidedly bubblier.
‘How much do you pay Asharfi, Anjini?’ she asks, lashless eyes gleaming as she ladles large amounts of fragrant lasagna and five-greens salad onto her plate. ‘In the US this kind of service would be prohibitively expensive!’
‘Oh, would you like to split the bill for her salary for while she’s here?’ Anjini says sweetly. ‘That’s nice of you, Chandu. Thanks.’
Chandu immediately stops looking so happy. Anjini beams around the table. ‘Eat, Bonu, eat, Eshu,’ she urges with a maternal smile. ‘Have some salad, take a napkin. The house is to be sold and demolished soon, yes—but in the meantime, there’s no reason for us to live like pigs!’
She’s clearly here to assume the mantle of the Eldest, Eshwari thinks, noticing, not for the first time, how much Anjini looks like their father. She has the same oval face and honey skin tone, narrow hands and feet, waves of walnut hair, eyes like aam-papad. And the tendency to be bossy. Bonu and I look more like Ma, she thinks, and Chandu, well, Chandu looks like nobody in particular. If there ever was a cackkoo in a family, it’s her.
Chachiji stumps in as they’re finishing lunch, iron-grey curls waving like antenna on the alert for ‘developments’.
‘I heard ki Zeeshan Khan is in Dilli?’ she asks eagerly. ‘Won’t he come to meet Samar?’
‘That is all a rumour,’ Anjini says with great authority. ‘He’s shooting in Korea.’
‘Achha?’ says Chachiji, disappointed. ‘Khair, now that I’m here, how about some tea, eh? I’ve really missed you, Anju beta. I still love you girls like you are my own, you know.’
‘And you love our house like it’s your own, too,’ Eshwari shakes her head. ‘Really, Chachiji, how do you sleep at night?’
But rhetorical questions are never the way to tackle Chachiji. She immediately launches into a long detailed description of the sleeping arrangements at number 13. Eshwari rolls her eyes but Anjini nods and smiles and hears her out and plies her with more tea whenever she stops for breath.
‘Tea is good,’ Chachiji pronounces finally, putting down her third cup with a satisfied sigh. ‘Girl is good too. Where is she from—Allahabad only?’
Asharfi steps forward and nods, eyes lowered.
‘She gives very good massages, Chachiji,’ Anjini says. ‘I can send her over sometime, if you like.’
Chachiji glows. ‘Hai, such a nice girl you are, Anjini! You understand that none of this is personal. All that court-kachehri should not enter the kitchen! These others are all fools!’
And the two of them hug and part on extremely good terms.
Later in the day, Anjini comes tripping prettily up the steps to bond with Bonu.
‘How lovely!’ she exclaims as she pops her head into the tailoring unit. ‘Hello, everybody!’
The tailors look up, charmed at once. Because this is a talent Anjini possesses, she commands instant adoration from everybody who works for her—tailors, carpenters, beauty parlour attendants, bankers, plumbers—regardless of age and gender.
‘Hi, Anji mausi,’ Bonu says awkwardly, feeling large and ungainly and dreadfully at a disadvantage. She wonders what Anji mausi would say if she knew what Bonu and her darling son have been doing recently.
‘Hi, Bonu Singh!’ Anji’s voice is determinedly cheerful.
She looks about the buzzing unit, eyes flitting over every bent, absorbed face, and Bonu wonders if she’s trying to identify Parveen. Once he had calmed down, vasectomied Parvez had begged that Parveen not be told about his attempt to murder Bonu, as that would lead to a loud fight in which the entire mohalla would come to know about his surgery, and he preferred to keep that under wraps. Bonu had agreed to stay quiet after extracting a promise that he would never, ever touch any of the women in his house in a manner that wasn’t affectionate and also that he would stop hogging the mutton pieces in the Sunday biryani. Parveen is stitching away serenely now (a consignment of little boys’ nightsuits, ironically enough) and Bonu doesn’t want anything to upset that serenity.
But Anjini clearly has other stuff on her mind.
‘Arrey, Bonu, did you ever get around to servicing Ma’s old machine?’ she asks. ‘I guess not, na? You’ve had so much on your plate recently.’
Chandu sticks her bald head into the unit at exactly this moment, her nose twitching hopefully in anticipation of a squabble.
But Bonu’s face lights up.
‘Oh no!’ she smiles. ‘We did pull it out—and I’m so glad we did, it was on the brink of ruin and it’s such a lovely old piece. Truly priceless! You’re lucky to have it, Anji mausi—here it is, look!’
She points to a place behind the central counter, the kind of space usually reserved for a religious photograph or a Godrej safe. There is a machine sitting there, encased in a crisp cream casement cover, hand-embroidered with pretty pansies, dainty wood roses and fat poppies in pastel Neelam threads. Bonu raises the cover with a flourish and there it is, Mamta Thakur’s trusty old sewing machine, beautifully restored, gleaming black and silver and gold on its teakwood stand. The embossed ‘Usha’ on the glossy black body has been blacked out and replaced with a beautifully calligraphed, hand-painted, old-gold ‘Mamta’.
Anjini gives a gasp of pleasure.
‘Oh!’
‘She’s trying to appropriate it,’ Chandu hurries in and mutters into Anjini’s ear. ‘That’s why she’s kept it hidden away like this—she doesn’t want anybody to know Ma left it to you.’
‘And on the other side it says Anjini,’ Bonu continues, turning the machine around. ‘Look! Samar…(she turns a little pink when she says his name, but continues composedly enough) mentioned it was going to be in a shoot, so I got them to tart it up a little.’
Anjini stares at the strong, sincere young face, and feels a lump rise in her throat.
Bonu Singh takes a deep breath. ‘Look, I’m really sorry I encroached on your hissa, Anji mausi. And one more thing—it was for sixteen months, not twelve. I have the rent cheque ready for the balance amount. Please accept it.’
‘Girls, she’s a good kid,’ Anjini tells her sisters with conviction as they huddle around the phone an hour later. ‘I really don’t think she’s going to appear in court as Ashok’s witness, especially after everything that happened the other day. I mean, she owes us her life!’
‘Hello, I’ve been saying that from the beginning!’ Dabbu’s voice protests from the speaker phone. ‘Bonu Singh is a good kid!’
‘So much love just because she got a machine serviced,’ Chandu sniffs. ‘Most companies offer the service for free. And embroidery is easy for her to do—she has ten embroidery machines in there!’
‘It’s the thought that counts,’ Dabbu points out. ‘Like instead of just giving you a cheque, if somebody hand-knitted a cap for you so you wouldn’t feel cold in winter, wouldn’t that be really sweet?’
Chandu stares down at the phone like Dabbu is mad. ‘No.’
‘Never mind,’ Eshu sighs. ‘Anyway, I realized I was fond of the little brat when Samar carried her home half-conscious in his arms. I suddenly had a vision of her as a scrawny little git with black knees and chapped cheeks, whining at me to teach her basketball.’
‘In his arms?’ Dabbu sounds most interested. ‘Achha? Is something cooking there?’
The sisters at this end of the call look at each other.
‘I think so,’ Eshu says decidedly.
‘Well, Dyl and the kids are convinced they’re in love,’ Dabbu says excitedly. ‘They said the chemistry when he came home was electrifying. They’re pretty pumped about it.’
‘It’s on her side only,’ says Chandu. ‘He can get anybody. Why would he want her?’
‘She’s nice,’ Anjini says decidedly. ‘I like her. Hopefully her children won’t look like Vickyji.’
‘I got all excited by Pasta and Dyl’s report,’ Dabbu continues. ‘I almost called you guys up—but then I met Samar at a dinner last week and he still had that Addam’s family in tow. I hope he isn’t taking poor Bones for a ride.’
‘Arrey, she is taking all of us for a ride,’ Chandu says with force. ‘And all this fuss about not wanting to sell, you all know where it’s coming from, don’t you?’
The others look at her blankly.
Eshwari says, ‘Uff, she told us na, she doesn’t want to sell because we wouldn’t sell when Binni didi wanted to sell—and because we thought Vickyji was ugly and weird, which, let’s admit it, we did.’
