Recap: Raahi reads the letter that Maahir had left her and for the first time since his death she feels a prick of irritation for her husband.

If Maahir had meant his letter as one of comfort, it had the opposite effect on Raahi. She started to brood about her daughters, about their futures. Suddenly in her view, their present, up till now comfortable situation, had a dowdy varnish. Her girls had been raised as princesses and now they had both been turned into work-horses. This wasn’t what she had slogged on movie sets throughout the ’70s for. Nor was she keen to have either of them married to wealthy men who’d treat them as glass dolls, to decorate their drawing rooms and do as they’re told. That never ended well. Just look at Aparna.

Gosh, Raahi couldn’t think about Aparna now. Guilt would rip her to pieces. It was this room. This tiny house was closing in upon her, exacerbating her neuroses and swallowing her spirit. She needed a distraction or she’d end up like Aparna — searching for salvation at the bottom of a bottle of gin.

“Mum?”

Raahi quickly wiped her tears to see Zaara, at the door.

“Yes sweetheart?”

“The shoot’s done. Cameron said he’ll be over with the drive later tonight for you to okay the pictures.”

“Wonderful,” Raahi said, putting on a bright smile. “Why don’t you break out that bottle of champagne Nectar sent us? The three of us can make an evening of it.”

“I thought I wasn’t allowed to drink anymore?”

“One little glass won’t ruin your skin,” Raahi said with a shrug. “In fact it’ll bring more colour to your cheeks!”

“In that case….” Zaara hesitated.

“Yes sweetie?”

“Can I go out?” she asked in a rush. “Get a drink at a bar? See people?”

Raahi looked at her daughter and felt for her. She had been so disciplined and responsible for the last month that Raahi had forgotten that she was only 22. And a spirited child at heart. Of course she wanted to go out and have fun.

“Alone?”

“I asked Seher but she’s not interested,” Zaara said. “It would just be to one of the local bars mum. Not too far.”

“I don’t know about letting you go out alone, my love.”

Zaara sighed and slunk into the room with her shoulders slumped, then she lay down and sprawled out on her mother’s duvet like a raggedy ann doll. Raahi looked at her defeated little drama queen and smiled, moved nonetheless.

“I’d rather you go to a house party than a bar,” Raahi said, relenting. “Neelu was saying something about Mamta Jha’s daughter’s birthday? All the industry kids are going. Jaffer’s son and the Bhatt girls too.”

Zaara wrinkled her nose and shook her head once.

“I’m not invited.”

“Oh pooh,” Raahi said, whipping out her phone. “Neelu will take care of that.”

Zaara sat up suddenly and snatched the phone out of her mother’s hand. Raahi looked at her daughter, puzzled.

“I don’t want to go,” she said softly.

“Why ever not?”

“They don’t like me,” Zaara shrugged, apparently unperturbed. But Raahi could detect the note of hurt in her voice.

“Why do you say that?”

Zaara cast her eyes down, drawing circles with her finger in the bedspread as she spoke.

“I tried to talk to them at the Soho gym last week and three of them turned their backs to me.” She looked up at her mother, blushing. “And they whispered something about the Uber I came in too.”

“What?”

“And then the boys they were drinking smoothies with, laughed.”

Raahi sat up, most annoyed now. What was wrong with this city, she wondered. Wasn’t Bombay supposed to be the democratic one?

“These boys sound like they’re not worth your time,” Raahi said, fiercely, hugging her daughter to her. “If they’re so lacking in self-confidence that they measure everyone’s worth by the car they arrive in.”

“It’s not them that’s the problem. Diva Jha doesn’t like me and they all follow her lead, I guess,” Zaara shook her head, trying to make sense of it all. “Guess offered me her campaign so...”

“That’s no excuse for being a bitch to you,” Raahi cut her off with an irritated shake of the head. “Sounds like Mamta’s daughter has inherited all of Mamta’s issues.” Then she tilted her chin up, drawing strength. “It’s alright, that disgusting attitude will keep her B-grade just like her mother was.”

Zaara looked up, surprised. Raahi didn’t usually indulge in cattiness. She said it gave one fine lines in the soul and a sneer on the face that no amount of dermatology could repair.

“You go out, my pet,” Raahi said. “Here.” She reached into her wallet and took out a bunch of notes. “Get dressed and go out and have a glass of wine like you’re in Paris.” Then she got up and took out a pair of dazzling diamond earrings. “Look fabulous, take pictures, and then come home, okay?”

Zaara looked at the pair of diamond hoops, a little surprised. Then she looked at her mother’s other hand, in which a piece of paper with her father’s handwriting was crushed.

“Would you like to come with me?”

Raahi laughed at her young daughter who simply refused to believe that they were in Bombay, not London, where women past a certain age weren’t meant to be seen at bars, enjoying themselves. “It’s past my bedtime sweetie.” She threw the crumpled ball of paper in the drawer of her nightstand. “But you go. And share your Uber details with me, okay?”

“Okay,” Zaara nodded. “I’ll keep my WhatsApp location on too and I promise I’ll be back by 11pm. At the most.”

Thirty minutes later when Zaara left, looking every bit the model off duty in skinny jeans, a shimmery top and diamond hoops, Raahi sat down and opened her laptop. It was time to start planning how to take both her daughters back to the top, without the help of a man. Nobody, she vowed, would ever laugh at them again.

(To be continued)

This is the 28th 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