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SULTRY DAYS Shobhaa Dé’s eighteen books include the bestsellers Socialite Evenings, Starry Nights, Spouse  and  Superstar India. Her latest book is Sethji. A widely read columnist in leading publications, she is known for her outspoken views, making her one of India’s most respected opinion shapers. Dé lives in Mumbai with her family.

Also by the author Fiction Socialite Evenings Sisters Starry Nights Strange Obsession Snapshots Second Thoughts

Non-fiction Speedpost Surviving Men Selective Memory Spouse Superstar India

SHOBHAA DÉ S U L T R Y D AY S

PENGUIN BOOKS USA Canada UK Ireland Australia New Zealand India South Africa China Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com Published by Penguin Random House India Pvt. Ltd 4th Floor, Capital Tower 1, MG Road, Gurugram 122 002, Haryana, India

First published by Penguin Books India 1994 This edition published 2013 Copyright © Shobhaa Dé 1994 All rights reserved 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. ISBN 9780143421320 Typeset in Sabon by CyberMedia Services Ltd, Gurgaon

Printed at Repro India Limited

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. www.penguin.co.in

For my children— Ranadip, Radhika, Aditya, Avantika, Arundhati and Anandita— finally, a book by me that they can read.

One

G

od wasn’t at all what I’d expected him to be. He spoke with a vernac accent and smoked smelly beedies. He also changed my name the moment we were introduced. ‘Forget it, yaar,’ he said, chucking his beedi into a half-drunk cup of tea. ‘I’m not going to call you Nisha. It’s a ridiculous name. From now on, you’ll be my intoxicant, my nasha.’ I wasn’t impressed. Not initially, at least. But I didn’t dare say anything by way of protest. One didn’t do that with God. The college canteen was dark and stank. It was pouring outside and most of the professors had stayed away from classes. There was nothing to do. The only option was to have a plate of greasy, frilly cutlets with a messy dollop of carrot ketchup all over them. The place was crumbling, with bats flying in and out of the high, Gothic windows. God was holding court in his favourite corner. I’d never really liked him but I must admit to a deep fascination. A sort of infatuation towards him that simultaneously attracted and repelled. It wasn’t just his nine-day stubble that put me off. It was his entire manner. I used to wonder whether he ever attended lectures. He was always in the canteen. Always, always. And smoking those God-awful beedies. His friends 1

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varied. Especially the girls who hung around his table. I couldn’t imagine what attracted them to him. Most of the time they were the ones who paid for his special chai, bought him his beedies and even offered to subsidize haircuts. Oh yes—his hair. I hated that too. Matted locks—which I was sure were full of lice-nests and other creepy crawlies. One hand of his was invariably engaged in scratching. The hand didn’t stop at the head. I’d never seen a man who itched so much. Scratch, scratch, scratch . . . his hand tore inside his filthy shirt and scratched up a bloody pool. It travelled down to his groin, up to his armpits, right round to his back. Sometimes he’d pause mid-scratch to make some point and then start all over again. He really was most revolting. And I? How must I have appeared to this animal? A prissy little good girl who carried far too many books around. Pretty enough, I suppose. But not special. ‘You look so frigid, yaar,’ he told me within three minutes of our being introduced. ‘Why don’t you carry a hot water bottle around?’ Everybody laughed, especially the girls. I was dumbstruck. Too taken aback to retaliate. Not that I could think up something smart enough. The chai-boy came around just then. ‘Mushtaq, get the poor girl something hot to drink before she freezes,’ someone shouted. I picked up my stuff and walked stiffly out of the canteen. Once I’d ducked into the library, I felt safe. I could dive into my books and pretend to read. I could strike my favourite pose and not be found out. The librarian knew me by name. I fitted in here, just like the other introverts and wallflowers around me. I didn’t know why I felt awkward in company. There wasn’t anything particularly wrong with me, though you wouldn’t know it by the question that was most often asked of me. 2

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It used to start first thing in the morning. The moment I walked into the dining-room for a cup of tea, my mother would look at my face anxiously and ask, ‘What’s wrong?’ I’d want to yell, ‘NOTHING,’ but that wasn’t done around our house. Father would follow shortly. I’d hear him enquiring en route to the kitchen, ‘Is Baby up yet?’ And then, on seeing me, that irritating question, ‘What’s wrong?’ Was it my expression? Did I look troubled? In pain? Depressed? Maybe it was that birthmark of mine. It had to be that. I was born with worry lines between my brows. The doctors had assured my parents that they’d get fainter with the years and eventually disappear. But they didn’t. They grew darker and gave the impression that I was constantly frowning or scowling. No wonder the teachers at school ended up writing the same remark in the report book, year after year! ‘She needs to cheer up and take more interest in extracurricular activities.’ My best friend (the only friend I had, actually, and I lost her as soon as I began to hang around God) tried to tell the others that I wasn’t in a bad mood, it was just a birthmark. Nobody was convinced. ‘What sort of a birthmark is that? We’ve never heard of anyone born with a frown.’ I still haven’t learnt to live with it—the frown. And often when I catch sight of myself in a mirror I’m startled. I nearly ask myself, ‘What’s wrong?’ God was the only one who thought my frown was ‘cute’. ‘I like it, yaar,’ he told me, and for that moment, at least, I’m sure it disappeared. ‘Hey! Where did it go?’ he asked in mock alarm touching my forehead. That was the first time he had touched me and I jumped. ‘Don’t electrocute her, yaar,’ his ugly friend with the horribly stained teeth laughed. 3

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‘Leave the kid alone,’ declared God before picking up his beedi packet and sauntering out. Someone settled his bill. ‘Why is he called “God”?’ I asked a boy in my class. ‘That’s his name,’ he answered. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said. ‘How can anyone be named “God”?’ ‘Not God-God. His name is Deb. Deb means God, or so he tells anybody who dares to ask.’ That made sense, though he was the first Deb or Dev I knew who had decided to be so literal about it. I liked the name God. Deb. Or Dev. I only wished God wasn’t so dirty. What Deb needed desperately was a bath.

My mother, being the eternal romantic she was, had named me Nisha or ‘night’ since that’s when I was born. My father, my sweet, doting father, insisted there was a full moon out when I arrived. Thank God both of them were considerate enough not to have called me Poornima. I’ve always hated that name. Nisha had a pleasant ring to it. I liked the way it sounded. It made me feel very sensual and sultry. . . but only in my fantasies. I thought of the other girls in my class who had awful names like Mona or Prema. What would God have changed those to, I wondered. He had had (yes HAD) several girls by the time he got to the second year at college. ‘I started early, yaar,’ he told me. ‘I was a randy little bugger at five.’ His early explorations apparently began with a neighbour’s servant girl. ‘She smelt so much. . . oof. . . but so did I. It was quite a feat trying to do anything with both of us holding our noses. It used to irritate me that she also held hers. I’d pull her filthy hand away from her nose and shout, “Why are you holding your nose, you dirty thing? You are only 4

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a servant.” She, being three years older, would pinch me hard on my bottom and threaten, “If you say that again, I’ll go and tell my memsaab what you were doing to me!”’ God’s stories used to fascinate me, I could listen for hours while he boasted about his exploits. In between stories, he’d lift up his thigh and let go, without any embarrassment whatsoever. The first few times I was too polite and formal to react even though I felt I was being gassed to death. I’d just sit there unable to move or, like the servant girl, to block my nose. I learnt to open my mouth and breathe in through it the moment God’s leg went up. I must’ve looked pretty stupid with my jaw hanging open. ‘You know, you resemble an imbecile sometimes,’ God commented once. ‘Why don’t you shut your mouth? It makes you look kind of stupid.’ It was years before he found out. By then I had learnt to anticipate the blast. I could see it coming even before he lifted his leg. After a point, we stopped laughing over it. I began to show my irritation. ‘You are being bhari inconsiderate, you know,’ I said to him on one occasion. ‘How would you like it if I did it back to you?’ God didn’t feel insulted. He scratched himself thoughtfully and said, ‘Try it. . . I’d probably not even notice. Why do you make such a fuss over a fart, yaar? You’ve too many hangups. Must consult a shrink—why don’t you?’ I knew it was no use explaining to him that a shrink had nothing to do with malodorous fumes choking me—so it was best to forget the whole business, as it was with almost everything else. God had made that clear from the start. ‘Look, I don’t want any of your fancy stuff. It does not impress me. If you want to hang around, it’s OK. But don’t 5

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expect me to change-wange for you. I am what I am—take it or leave it.’ This was before I’d even thought about ‘hanging around’. It was his presumption that I would fall in line just like all the others. But as usual God was right, of course, for that was precisely what I did—in time. In the beginning, I was nothing more than a devotee. He treated me like one. I hated the patronizing tone, the kindness and condescension. It irritated me no end when his friends would snigger as I approached their table. ‘Where are the offerings? What? No offerings today? How can you come empty-handed to a temple? Go back and bring something. Even a packet of beedies will do.’ God would grin maliciously and wave me off. ‘Jao, Jao. . . kuch ley ke ao (Go on. . . get something).’ It was humiliating and awful. But I took it. And I learned to like God, though I was probably more fascinated by him than anything else—initially. And I think he liked me.

There were things about God which appalled me. Like the first time, looking at a girl in class, he had said, ‘She needs a carrot.’ I hadn’t known what he was talking about. Foolishly, I asked him. ‘Forget it, yaar. You are such a tell-tale that if I tell you, you’ll go and tell her. Not that I care. But she’ll probably think I’m interested in offering her mine.’ I still didn’t catch on. I turned to one of his buddies, an obnoxious person with gingivitis and asked him what God was talking about. With a leer, he demonstrated it using his fingers and forearm. I was too shocked to react. God turned to me and said, ‘Next time don’t ask silly questions, OK?’ 6

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I learnt very quickly that I had to bury whatever little ego and pride I had if I wished to hang around God. His attitude towards girls was simple—use them and leave them. There were enough takers around—bold girls whose jaws never stopped working on the thick wads of gum in their mouths. For them God represented some sort of an anti-hero and they probably fancied themselves as sexy molls. As for me, I was plain moonstruck. And for once in my life I wasn’t going to lose out by default. I still don’t know and cannot explain where I got the courage to go for God in such an obvious way. I had had crushes before—silent, brooding ones where the chap never ever got to know. But with God, my entire behaviour altered. He had that effect on me—and on several others. I fancied I could see beyond the put-on menacing facade, the strutting around, the fake bravado. And I fancied that God fancied me—in his own clumsy way, of course. All I needed was a sign—even a small one. ‘Opposites attract, Nasha,’ he tossed at me airily about a month after our first encounter. And then, embarrassed by the confession, he chased me away saying, ‘Samosas—get four. The big ones, OK? And don’t forget the chutney.’ I’d been accepted. And I felt deeply honoured.

God’s father was called Comrade. At first, I thought it was some sort of a joke. But no, God Sr. was a card-holding commie. Being very committed, he didn’t want his son to be a fellowcomrade. Neither did God’s mother. They wanted him to ‘make’ something of his life. What precisely that could be was unclear to all of them. When God was sixteen he decided to be cheeky and find out. ‘Does that mean you’ve made nothing of your own life. . . Comrade?’ he asked his father. 7

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His brother, Toro, nearly gagged over his chai-biscuit. But God’s father was unshaken. ‘Ideals, my boy, ideals. I had them. . . still do. I believed. . . still do. You don’t. I don’t know what you value. It is up to you to find out. But the Party doesn’t need people like you. Even if you want to join it you won’t be accepted because you are a taker. The Party wants givers.’ ‘So where has “giving” got you?’ asked God. ‘A rat-infested hole we have to call a home? If you chose ideals, why did you have a family? Ma and you could have suffered in bliss by yourselves. How do you think Toro and I feel about not having good clothes? No pocket-money? No place where our friends can come? I’ll tell you how we feel—angry.’ ‘That’s enough. Now go and help your mother with the buckets.’ God said to me that he didn’t feel bitter any longer. Only cynical. ‘Comrades!’ he’d snort while passing a morcha. ‘Lal nishan, zindabad,’ he’d shout mockingly at the protestors. ‘Who pays your fees?’ I’d asked him once, rather indelicately. ‘I do,’ he said without any self-consciousness. ‘Meaning?’ ‘Meaning, I work as a freelance reporter. . . and do other stuff. . . correcting proofs, galleys. . . that kind of thing.’ ‘But your English. . . I mean, you went to a vernac school.’ ‘That has nothing to do with it. I was reading Chaucer and Karl Marx at ten. Don’t ask me whether I understood any of it, but those were the only books around the place. Besides, how about your English, my dear Miss Snooty? How well do you conjugate? Forget it, yaar, all your convent crowd is full of crap, you people put on a maha accent to cover up for your poor language. I bet I can write better than all the guys in your class. Or mine. I’d got a scholarship—to Columbia. Have you heard 8

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of that university? I couldn’t go because Comrade didn’t have the money to pay the air-fare. And he didn’t want to borrow. I tried telling him that had either Toro or I been a daughter he would’ve had to pay a dowry to marry us off. Where would he have got the money from then? But he ignored me and said, “First graduate in India. And then show off abroad.” After that, I lost all interest in studies, yaar. But not in languages—I’m fluent in German, can understand French and read Spanish. But what’s the point? I’ll stagnate here like everybody else. So. . . now you know where my fees comes from. Any other questions?’ ‘Yes—from where did you get those fancy jeans?’ ‘Oh these? I bought them off a junkie at Colaba. You know Dipti—the fruit juice place? We used to go there for a lassi after doing bakwas in the night. Grass dries up your throat. I met this guy—he was from Heidelberg. He couldn’t speak English and a pusher was trying to con him. He kept muttering in German. I felt sorry for the guy and I spoke to him in German. His face lit up. I told him the pusher was trying to sell him junk. I guess he felt grateful. We started chatting. Dipti shut shop and we strolled off towards the Gateway. ‘It was a beautiful night. We sat on the parapet watching the lights of the ships in the harbour. He talked of his family, his university, his dreams. It was too much, yaar. I bought him some chai. He must have been touched—because he asked me whether he could give me something in return. Poor fellow, he had hardly anything left. Everything had been stolen—his camera, bags—everything. I felt bad, yaar, but I couldn’t help it. I said, “I want your jeans.” ‘He looked so happy as he stood there in his chaddis. “Here—take them,” he said. I took off my pants and tried them on. They weren’t a great fit. . . but I’d always wanted imported jeans. I knew this was the chance. If I hadn’t taken it, I 9

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