The Red Carpet Page 16

  During the party, Lily, who is the maid Elsa’s daughter, will serve the snacks, while Elsa herself will wash dishes and help Subbu in the kitchen. A boy from her husband’s office will serve at the bar.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, the big Wedgwood plates that will hold the snacks are waiting on silver trays that Lily will carry as she has been taught—offering the guests a snack and a napkin from the dainty silver holder that rests alongside. The bar is ready: the crystal glasses have been meticulously washed, air-dried, and polished with a soft cloth and now glisten quietly on the ornate counter built from Karaikudi temple carvings. The bootlegger has been by, leaving expensive foreign whiskies and brandies in his wake for the menfolk. Wine, sherry, and soft drinks for the ladies. The after-dinner cognac and liqueurs are, strictly speaking, not necessary for a cocktail party, but people do ask for the strangest things sometimes.

  Mrs. Srinivasan peeps into the powder room to ensure that the embroidered hand towels and scented soaps have been laid out ready to use, and then wanders out onto the verandah. The white-painted rattan furniture is arranged in premeditated conversation clusters around the terrace garden.

  Mrs. Srinivasan loves her garden. Loves the way the sloping tiled roof and the climbing rose trellises that fall carelessly over the verandah give the house the appearance of the estate homes in which she spent the early years of her marriage, when Mr. Srinivasan joined the Madras-Malay Trading Company as a young management trainee and was posted to the company’s coffee estates all around the Nilgiri hills. The terrace garden is at tree level, and the astonishing Bangalore greenery that surrounds it and spreads in every direction almost gives one the impression of being far away in the green hills rather than in a penthouse in the middle of town.

  Standing on the lawn, one can look through the long windows into the glowing drawing room. The potted flowers outside are echoed in the lavish flower arrangements within. The vases spill over in a riot of birds-of-paradise, purple gladioli, and orange carnations. Delicate orchids float in crystal bowls on the low coffee table.

  She had once enrolled a prepubescent Tara in an ikebana flower-arranging course, organized by her friends on the Club Ladies Subcommittee. It would be so nice, now, if she could point to all the flower vases and say to her friends, see, that is what my daughter has done, as proof of Tara’s skill in the domestic arts. But that is another idle fantasy. As with so many other things, Tara had fought her way out of doing the flowers a long time ago.

  And Mrs. Srinivasan’s mind cannot help asking: all said and done, what is wrong with being skilled in maintaining a good home? Career or not, women need to know this—it is an essential female something, to do with being mothers and wives, and nurturing families and societies. None of which, try though Tara might, can one negate. After all, if you look at it scientifically, the whole biological purpose of being female is to bear children. No children equals no femaleness. And without femaleness, where would her daughter’s beloved feminists be?

  Mrs. Srinivasan searches in her own past: had she ever clashed so with her own mother? Certainly they had argued. But, fundamentally, they had both understood the importance of women’s work, disagreeing only on the best way to get it done. The rights and wrongs, for instance, of Mrs. Srinivasan supporting her husband’s decision to depart from a traditional Iyer Brahmin lifestyle, and to anglicize their life in accordance with the culture of his firm. Or the wisdom of sending one’s only child to America for further studies instead of, as the old lady suggested, getting her married at home.

  Yes, Tara was her only child, and so Mrs. Srinivasan had sat with her through all her exams, providing endless cups of midnight coffee and moral support while Tara applied to American universities. Her mother had passed away before Mrs. Srinivasan could share with her the sense of achievement she felt when Tara eventually decided to pursue her PhD. Her husband may have a master’s degree, but her daughter, Mrs. Srinivasan would have liked to have boasted, will have a Doctorate.

  But now there is no doubt about it. Tara is twenty-seven, and no matter how many PhDs she earns, it is time now for her to learn to be a good wife and mother, just as her mother and grandmother have done in their turn.

  Mrs. Srinivasan turns on the garden lights and crosses over to Tara’s room. She hesitates; then, with old habits, opens the door without knocking. Her daughter is seated in front of her computer, entering data from a little book whose yellowed, stained pages bespeak its origins in a government office. Tara’s hair is knotted messily on top of her head, her glasses are slightly askew, and Mrs. Srinivasan is assailed, once again, by worry.

  “We should be ready by seven-fifteen,” she says. “The guests have been invited for seven-thirty, and some of the older people, like Mr. Rao and the general, will be exactly on time. You will be ready, won’t you?”

  Tara puts down the book and turns to face her mother.

  For twenty-four hours she has rehearsed the excuse that will free her from this party.

  Around them, the house darkens with the night.

  The bathroom mirror captures a Tara of rare elegance.

  She is wearing a well-tailored jacket and pant ensemble, with a silk blouse that echoes the cappuccino color of her skin. She looks remarkably chic. She looks uneasy and awkward.

  She looks furious with herself for failing, at the end, to say no to her mother.

  Her long curly hair has been combed away from her face, which is newly revealed by the absence of glasses. Her contact lenses make her blink. Perhaps it is time to get them replaced.

  “Birdie num-num,” she says to her reflection, trying to catch Peter Sellers’ movie imitation of an absurd little Indian gentleman at a Hollywood party. Bir Die—she feels her lips meet and part, her tongue curve backwards and slap against the back of her teeth, the final horizontal stretch of her lips. Num Num. “Birdie num-num.”

  The party outside is in full force, the chatter penetrating her little hideaway.

  Birdie num-num.

  The social fossils who have infested the house can look at her with only one thought in their smelly old minds.

  The men, balding, paunchy, and old-spiced, leer at her and ask: So, when’s a pretty girl like you going to get married?

  The women, besilked and hair-sprayed, shake their heads at her: Aren’t you getting a little too old to not be settled?

  I am “settled,” thinks Tara. Unsettling to you, perhaps, but perfectly settled, thank-you-very-much.

  She suggested to her father that she hang around for a while, meet everybody, then quietly exit to join her friends at the Blue Cigar Pub. Good idea, is what he should have said, sympathetically winking at her and shaking his head towards her mother.

  Nonsense, Tara, was what he said. These are your guests as well. They have come to see you. You must stay and look after them. Go and help your mother.

  Birdie num-num.

  Back into the fray.

  Her mother is everywhere, comporting herself with her usual elegance in an earth-toned saree that is as quiet as it is delicate, with solitaire diamonds twinkling discreetly from ears and finger. She is in terrifyingly full-blown form, laughing, hostessing, charming, feeding. Tara tries to keep away from her, but her mother’s voice follows her around. She is talking with a resplendent blue saree that is draped around a blouse a tad too small for the body it contains.

  “Yes,” she says. “We have received so many offers for Tara. But you know what girls are like nowadays. So independent. Must make up their own minds about everything.” A small laugh. “Have a samosa?”

  “Thank you,” and stuffing another samosa into that too-tight blouse. “No, thankfully, I have not faced that problem. My daughter, who is now expecting her second child, by the way, is only too happy to listen to me. She always says that my choice is best. She is not like Tara.”

  “No, indeed. She is not like Tara. Few youngsters, I think, could do as well as Tara has in her PhD. Her professors in America are very impressed with her,
you know.”

  Touché.

  And later, elsewhere in the room:

  “Tara is so skilled, you know . . .”

  And:

  “. . . so many gifts for us from America . . . those Rosenthal plates . . . Even if we say no, she brings us things. . . . Yes, so lucky . . .”

  And:

  “. . . so keen to learn the traditional recipes . . .”

  Oh, mother. Must you?

  Tara’s fury propels her to the bar. A shot of Laphroaig in a glass and it’s back to the bathroom. Her reflection stares placidly back at her, unmoved by her temper. Num-num. She sips her drink, her tongue traveling through the flavors in her glass. Ultimately, she thinks, the great argument between single malt and blended is a mood thing. A good blended whisky is a comfort drink, crooning softly to you as it nurses you in its arms. A fine single malt is a seducer: muscle-bound, sexy, and fiery-eyed, urging you to up and at ’em.

  The whisky is pushing her to misbehave. I think I will go outside and ask them why I need to get married, since I already have a perfectly active sex life. Now, that would give them something to talk about for the next ten parties.

  Now, now. Behave, birdie. Num-num to you.

  Tara once again exits the bathroom.

  First, a word with her mother.

  “Amma, will you please stop marketing me? And please don’t discuss my nonexistent wedding plans with everybody. It really is no one else’s business.”

  “Don’t be silly, Tara. These are our good friends. Of course I will tell them how proud I am of my child.”

  “I tell you, I have no intention of marrying one of their idiotic sons!”

  “What nonsense you talk. You’re arguing about nothing.” Mother and daughter stare each other down. “Go see if your father wants any help.”

  Dismissed like a bloody fourteen-year-old, thinks Tara. But she goes.

  And spends the rest of the party trying to convince Lily not to sample the snacks that she is serving, and ensuring that the office boy doesn’t get too drunk behind the bar.

  At the end of the party, the old general pats her cheek and says that she is a fine hostess, just like her mother.

  Her parents beam with pleasure.

  The next day Tara oversleeps and emerges with a mild whisky hangover and a strong sense of ill-usage. Her father is settled on the living room sofa, surrounded by newspapers and the televised blare of PGA golf, happily snacking on party leftovers. Her mother has the happy, tired air of someone who has been organizing, putting away, getting things back to normal after a very successful party.

  “So many people called,” she says. “Such a lovely evening, they said . . . wonderful snacks . . .”

  Tara refuses to participate in this happy postmortem. She is sulking and aloof.

  Her mother prattles on. Her father is mellowed, relaxed, with the happy unwariness of a man who, having locked away the last whisky bottle the previous night and toted up, in awed tones, the amount of alcohol consumed at the party, knows that nothing further is expected of him.

  Tara is brooding, formal, stiff in her responses. She waits for her mother to slowly approach the topic at hand, to push the conversation into discussions of the people who attended, their families, and the wondrous eligibility of their sons. She waits patiently, for a lifetime of dealing with her mother has given her the patience to rival geological time. She waits to deliver the scathing rebuff that will forever stop her mother from interfering in her life.

  But Mrs. Srinivasan veers away from the subject completely.

  She has vanished into her bedroom, and now reappears.

  “Tara,” she says. “I need assistance in getting some boxes down. Could you help me, please?”

  All of Tara’s latent irritation swells up, but before she can speak, her eyes fall on her mother’s face, which is lined with fatigue and suddenly seems pulled down by the weight of her years.

  “Okay,” she says, and walks into her mother’s bedroom.

  Mrs. Srinivasan directs her daughter as she climbs a stool and pulls down the boxes and old bags that are needed for storage. Then, and only then, does she artfully revert to her real reason for calling Tara into her bedroom.

  “You know, I was sorting through these old sarees of mine the other day . . .” She carelessly indicates the pile lying on the bed.

  Tara’s attention is caught by the pretty colors of the silks. “Oh, I remember these. They’re lovely, Amma. Why don’t you wear them anymore?”

  Mrs. Srinivasan wants to say: I was saving them for you. Do you like them? Would you like to wear them? I hope you do. How lovely it would be to see you enjoying something that belonged to me.

  Instead she says: “One has to be young to wear colors and designs like that. They don’t look good on someone who’s crossed fifty.”

  Tara opens the sarees; her hands play across the fine old silk. Her mother watches her growing absorption with a deep, eager pleasure and then pulls out a package from the recesses of her cupboard.

  “Oh, what’s this?”

  The sun shines through the window and highlights the deep red of the saree, that arakku, the glorious color not quite blood, not quite claret, and gleams off the heavy, intricately patterned gold-work of the zari.

  “This is my wedding saree.” Mrs. Srinivasan inexplicably feels a strange diffidence in front of her daughter. She sits down next to her and strokes the old saree with tentative, gentle hands. “Paati had to go to Kanjeevaram to get it specially made for me.”

  Tara’s grandmother had led a mysterious, antediluvian life in Madras, her wrinkled softness forever clad in a traditional nine-yard saree, her forehead smeared with piousness and holy vibhooti ash.

  Her mother’s wedding saree is also nine yards long, three yards longer than a modern saree, and Tara touches it curiously.

  Would you like to try it on? her mother says.

  Tara pulls off her jeans, and her mother drapes the saree around her and between her legs, finally arranging the thalaippu, the decorative end-piece, in a tuck around her waist. Her long hair is smoothed back and twisted quickly into a knot at the nape of her neck. She walks slowly across to the full-length mirror, reluctance warring with curiosity.

  Seventy years have fallen away, and Tara stares mesmerized.

  She has been transformed into her grandmother.

  Her Paati, young, ripe, and full of life, laughs at her from the mirror.

  And behind her, her mother, her daughter, smiles back.

  APPLE PIE, ONE BY TWO

  There is nothing very offensive about Murthy, even when he is high. He is usually rather quiet, but after two joints he becomes a little more effusive, and rather predictable. There are two things he likes to do, but even those he does more for his own benefit than anyone else’s. The first is to appropriate the music system and play Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” twice over. As it plays, he likes to nod his head and spell out the rhythm: FOUR FIVE, One Two Three FOUR FIVE. His gaze is locked inwards in musical bliss, and everyone else lets him be.

  The second thing he likes to do is to paraphrase a minor character in the Billy Bunter books he loved so much as a child.

  This is, very occasionally, on a night like this. Otherwise, during the day, he displays his skills as a software engineer, joins his friends for a drink and a little conversation after work, and lives quietly with his parents. His mother refers to him affectionately as a good boy. Friends like Swamy, though equally affectionate, refer to him in terms somewhat less complimentary, and Murthy reciprocates in turn.

  The cheap glass that Swamy holds in his hand is almost empty, and Murthy’s face is refracted through it, stretching and wobbling in peculiar ways. It is a face that, like the sky, has accompanied Swamy everywhere, through school, engineering college, work, and life in two countries; usually mirroring his own aspirations and desires. But that, of course, is about to change; and Swamy studies Murthy’s face with a faint puzzlement that refuses to go away.
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  They are not alone, Murthy and Swamy. Other faces shift around them, shadowed and illumined by the night and the bonfire around which they sit. The glow of the fire is offset by a lone electrical bulb that swings from the rafters of the dhaba that lies to one side of the clearing: a meager shed insulated from the night chill by the heat of the wood-burning stove, and by the evanescent, spicy odors that rise from the food bubbling on top—succulent roasting chicken coated with chili and lime, glistening in the heat; hot wheat rotis on the tava pan; spicy vegetable subzis; lentils. The proprietor-and-cook stands over the stove, bare-chested, a dirty dhoti wrapped sarong-style around his waist, his forehead marked with a frown of concentration and beaded with perspiration. It is his customers who wait outside by the bonfire, stretched out on the charpoys that are scattered around the clearing, self-consciously absorbing themselves in the cool beauty of the night. The charpoys themselves, beds of rope woven around a light wooden frame, seem as old as the earth they rest on, and creak and rock with every movement.

  This was supposed to be a much smaller group of people, but it hadn’t quite worked out that way. The party they had attended earlier in the evening had been a mistake. Swamy had felt restless; this was not how he wanted to spend his last evening in Bangalore. It was Murthy who suggested an alternative: to leave the party, drive out of the city, find a dhaba on the highway and dine alfresco. A meal, in short, that would take them back to their undergraduate days, when dhabas had been steady sources of cheap nourishment; dhaba proprietors usually, with great financial empathy, allowed them to share food and conserve money by dividing the item ordered into separate servings as per the request: one-by-two (single dish, between two people) or two-by-three or, on really impecunious days, one-by-three. Coffee one-by-two, and Murthy and Swamy could sit there for the rest of the day, clinging to their half-filled cups.