Recap: The surprise entry of Aparna’s nephew Saahil releases the tension between Azaan and the Pandits at dinner and changes their plans of moving out of Maahir’s bungalow immediately.
Raahi hadn’t meant to pry. Decorum dictated that she should have remained within the grey walls of the guest room and amused herself with a book, a new Netflix show or a Sunday crossword, till it was lunch time again and appropriate for the mistress to emerge from the minimalist little bedsit the first wife had accommodated her in.
She shouldn’t be floating through the marble corridors of the bungalow like she owned the place. She certainly shouldn’t be floating in the general direction of Aparna Kumar’s room, who had seemed oddly on edge at breakfast. No, she should have been minding her own business and letting the lady of the manor mind hers. And she would have, if it hadn’t been for the goddamn tabloids.
Normally Raahi refused to read the gossipy Bombay papers on social media but that morning, curiosity and cabin fever had gotten the better of her. After having showered and pulled on a smart shift dress for the day, she had looked in the mirror with satisfaction, only to realise that she had nowhere to go. In a lonely moment of searching for her own relevance, Raahi had clicked on the feed of a particularly mean (and proportionately popular) paparazzi account. And as anyone who goes searching for validation on the Internet, she was rewarded in kind.
The very latest post on the Insta-grid was of her and the girls at the airport, sans makeup and dressed in comfortable grey joggers, clambering into a slightly dented airport taxi.
Hmmm.
Perhaps Raahi should have insisted that they dress a little more formally, but the girls had pleaded and then, it had been a ten-hour flight in economy...
Raahi’s eyes flitted down to the caption and her reasoning came to an abrupt stop.
Pandits turn Paupers!
Mercedes to Meru Cabs... Riches to total Rags!!
Raahi was so shocked, she nearly dropped her second cup of Earl Grey. She didn’t dare click the link below the article. Apparently 500 words had also been dedicated by some cackling journalist, to parsing out their simple style and their economical mode of travel.
With a growl, she unfollowed the account, threw open her suitcase and vowed not to waste another thought on the maggots, busying herself with unpacking her many, very expensive clothes, instead.
She succeeded for about five minutes, until she found the stupid grey joggers staring at her from the second layer of her LV trunk. She should never have allowed Zaara to talk her into buying streetwear. It may cost as much as a car, but it still made one appear homeless in the papers.
Not that she cared a fig about what the papers said about her.
But she did care about what they said about her daughters.
Raahi shoved the grey joggers into a laundry bag, sat down in a slump and let the image of her girls and all its implications sting her.
She felt like a complete failure.
Raahi had spent two decades working under the harsh lights and harsher scrutiny of show business, putting up with lecherous producers and bitchy actresses, accepting every advertisement and well-paid social appearance, all so that her daughters could lead a charmed life. Having worked since the age of 16, Raahi knew how hard it was for girls. She knew the options available to them were either tireless work or marriage. Both usually, at the mercy of a man. She wanted to give her daughters entirely new options.
So she had spent a decade and all her private wealth, carefully culturing, educating and grooming her daughters into independent beauties in London. Into prized gems who shone with a unique intelligence and charm, for no other purpose than to please themselves.
And she had accomplished it. Seher and Zaara were thought by everyone who was admitted to their circle to be exquisite. Their rare sightings only made them all the more so. They were unique. Precious. Limited edition.
Now one snippy little statement in a common tabloid had smashed it all to dust. It is a myth that damsels in distress are attractive to anyone.
So, although the girls were good about never ever speaking of the luxuries they had left behind, Raahi had decided, on the second morning of living with Aparna, that vulnerable though they might be, her daughters would not appear weak.
Which is why she swallowed her pride that morning and knocked on Aparna’s door. Not to pry. Nor to beg.
But to ask for the number of her best local beautician. Their wealth may have been drained, but there was no need for their sheen and self-esteem to be destroyed.
Now that they weren’t dealing with lawyers or house buyers, it was time to enhance their advantages. To shine their nails and oil their hair. She expected her girls to feel like princesses again, by the end of the day.
What she didn’t expect, however, was to find Aparna, still in bed at noon and chugging a bottle of gin like it was her life-source.
A cry of shock escaped Raahi. Aparna dropped the bottle on her duvet, equally astonished.
“Aparna, I’m so sorry...”
“No, don’t be, please, come, come...”
But Aparna tripped over the edge of her bathrobe and nearly hit her head on the windowsill. Raahi had to rush to steady her.
“How can I help you?” Aparna said with a brittle smile.
Raahi hesitated. She could have ignored the circles under Aparna’s eyes and the drunken droop of her neck. It would have been the “correct” thing to do. The easier thing to do.
“Aparna... may I?”
Raahi pointed at the bottle of gin that was left leaking under the bed covers, it’s green glass neck popping out from under the duvet like a hidden lover. Aparna’s eyes flitted to it guiltily. Her lower lip trembled and Raahi was suddenly afraid that Aparna would cry. But then pulling herself together, Aparna nodded, once.
Raahi went to the bed and straightened the bottle, tightening it’s cap and putting it safely in the bedside cabinet. The sheets under, however, were now damp. Like a child had wet them.
“Damodar will take care of all that, ” Aparna whispered, almost in plea. Raahi nodded, but then gently pulled the liquor-soaked bedspread off, folded it and neatly deposited it on the arm chaise by her coffee table.
This is what wives do, Raahi thought with a sigh. We clean up the messes our husbands made.
She turned to Aparna with an expression of tenderness usually reserved for her girls. “Why don’t I get the maid to run you a bath?” Raahi said, her usually husky voice now soft with sympathy. “You’ll feel better once you’re fresh and ready for the day.”
“Ready for what?” Aparna sank down onto the bed. “Lunch at my dining table? And then dinner at my dining table? And then another day of eating at my dining table? I’m stale Raahi. Whether I bathe or not.”
Raahi’s eyes widened in concern. Their hostess had done a very good job of remaining upbeat and gracious since they had arrived. But perhaps that was a performance carried on outside this room. Here, Aparna stopped pretending.
Raahi didn’t pity her. She empathised. Having spent her life performing glamour, strength and invincibility for others, she knew what a relief it was to drop the act, herself. To slip into a pair of joggers for a change.
“Actually, I was hoping you would spend the day with the girls and I at the parlour,” Raahi lied.
Aparna’s face lit up in surprised delight. But then it fell equally quickly and she shook her head.
“Trust me. You’ll feel much better after an oil massage and blow dry. And a hot cup of coffee.”
Aparna laughed in disbelief. “I haven’t had a blow dry since I was 32.” Her eyes filled with tired tears. “Who’s looking at me?” She shook her head again. “What’s the point of it?”
“Think of it as shining your armour,” Raahi said gently. “That’s the point of it.”
Aparna looked at Raahi, in surprise. Then straightening her back, she disappeared into her bathroom.
As the sound of water gushing began, Raahi hesitated then resolutely started typing a message to her daughters.
‘Girls Day at the salon with Aparna. Meet in the foyer in 30 minutes. No arguments please.’
Cleverly, she switched her phone to airplane mode. Perhaps this day would restore sheen to all of Maahir’s girls.
(To be continued)
This is the eighth episode of Riva Razdan’s serialised novel Nonsense and Respectability, published every Sunday
Riva Razdan is a New York University graduate and currently working as a screenwriter and author based in Mumbai. Her debut novel Arzu was published by Hachette India in 2021