Recap: The possible significance of the call from Mr Bhatia, Maahir Kumar’s lawyer, was not lost on Seher even as her mother and sister were basking in the success of the evening.

Zaara loved everything about the evening that had passed. There couldn’t have been a more perfect farewell for her father than the Noor-Jehan-esque mehfil designed to bid him goodbye. Maahir had loved the refined graces of the Mughal world as much as he loved his daughters and Raahi. And the way ma had told their story! Of the day they met! Of that instant connection between two passionate people. Of a romance immortalised in 13 movies that Zaara had watched over and over. Of nothing being able to keep them apart — not their vast difference in ages, not the opinions of strangers, not her conservative parents, and not even his being already married.

To Zaara it wasn’t a disappointment that her father had never married her mother. If anything, it was all the more romantic. He didn’t need a court of law to tell him to be committed to her and their children. He was. Zaara couldn’t recall a single day that he wasn’t at home when she returned from boarding school or a single dramatic performance at which he wasn’t there in the first row cheering her on. Maahir took her to buy her prom dress and her graduation dress. He had dinner with every boyfriend of hers since she was 15 and veto’d them all as Not Good Enough for his princess. He was the first person she texted every morning and she was the only person he texted ‘Good night sweetheart’ at 11pm UK time, no matter which country he was in.

As she realised that she would receive no text that night, a new batch of tears sprung to her eyes and spilled over. Zaara wasn’t one to wipe them away. She liked the feeling of the water trickling down her cheeks, totally aware of what a perfectly pretty picture she made, sniffling in her golden anarkali with her mother’s diamond drops dangling at her delicate ears. Her pleasure in her appearance was independent of her emotions. Even now, when faced with the greatest despair she had ever felt, she was proud of being the most beautiful girl she had ever seen and took comfort in the fact that her father, who took great pride in her beauty, would want her to remain proud.

Zaara did look unbelievably beautiful, Seher thought as she saw her sister leaning back against the upholstered chair of the lobby, lost in thought, and she swelled with pride a little. But then she caught the manager of the hotel, with whom Seher had been settling the bill, goggling at her, his tongue practically hanging out of his mouth and she frowned and stepped in front of him, blocking her blue-eyed, pink-cheeked baby sister from view.

Under the force of Seher’s stern gaze, he coloured and redirected his attention to the printer, now spitting out their bill for the evening.

Seher glanced over it and did a tally of the numbers in her head. The total was a little more than she had expected it to be, but not an unheard of sum for the price of one of her mother’s parties. The hotel’s event planner had charged a considerable fee even though Raahi had done all the desigining and sourcing work for the party. Seher made a mental note not to use their concierge service again. They could easily have saved 30 per cent.

“Oh you girls aren’t done yet?”

Seher looked up from her phone’s calculator to see her mother sashay in and stop at Zaara’s chair.

“You know what Seher is like with bills,” Zaara pouted. “She always takes an age. Even if we’re at M&S just picking up skinny popcorn or something.”

“That was a quick call with the lawyer,” Seher said to her mother, paying no mind to Zaara’s whining.

“It was no call at all,” Raahi sighed. “He cut my call and then texted me that he’s in a meeting and will call back in 30 minutes. I replied ‘Ok’ with a smiley face, not that he deserves it. Supercilious clerk.”

Seher raised her eyebrows and looked at the hotel manager, who immediately colored and fell silent. He was obviously listening to every word they exchanged. “Anyway, finish off with the bill so we can go home. My feet are killing me in these heels.”

Seher turned and handed the manager the platinum card they used for expenses exceeding 10,000 pounds.

The manager swiped it.

And then he frowned at the machine.

“What’s wrong?” Seher said. But she already knew. Just like Raahi had known the instant she met Maahir, Seher instinctively knew what he was going to say. She had been carrying it in her heart as a throbbing concern since the day her father died, refusing to admit it, hoping against hope that she would be wrong. But she very rarely was.

“It’s declined ma’am.”

The manager looked embarrassed for them.

Raahi was furious. “Declined? What do you mean it’s declined? That’s a company card from Kumar Studios. Have you heard of us? Do you watch Netflix at night? That little MK that appears before most of your favorite Hindi movies? That’s us.”

“I know who you are ma’am. I am a fan myself...”

“Then you’ll stop this nonsense and bring another card machine.” Raahi’s voice was rising to the point of hysterics. Seher realised that her mother may have shared the same worry as her, since Maahir’s death too.

He had left them without a penny and without the legal protection of his name.

The manager coolly pulled out another machine from under his desk. Clearly this was not the first time he was encountering a hysterical card-machine-doubting guest. He swiped the card again and then turned the monitor for the women to observe.

The message was clear. ‘Card Declined.’

“What’s going on Ma?” Zaara had finally noticed the commotion and sauntered over to the manager’s desk.

“Call them,” Raahi said sternly. “Call the bank and ask them.”

“Ma, why don’t I just pay with my card and we can resolve this at home,” Seher urged. But Raahi was adamant.

“No, I want to get to the bottom of this. Please call the bank. I’m sure they will rectify the error immediately and wire the funds to you.”

Seher fought the urge to close her eyes as the manager connected to the bank, introduced himself, his clients and their particular problem. Hearing it all spelt out again, from a third person’s perspective, in his disbelieving tone only increased her fear for the future. Finally, after being connected to the relevant personnel, the manager turned to them.

“He wants to speak with you ma’am,” he held out the phone to Raahi. She took it, her fair hand shivering slightly.

The girls waited, their bodies tense as they watched the colour disappear from their mother’s face, so that her pink lipstick contrasted garishly with her now sickly pale face. She lowered the phone and whispered to Seher. “Pay with your card dear.”

Seher nodded and immediately took out her wallet. Thank God she had carried it. She took out two cards and presented them to the manager.

“Max this one out,” she said, presenting a gold to the manager, “And put the rest on this.”

He nodded, clinically and swiped. They held their breath till a satisfying TING sounded and the relieving whirr of a bill-printing began.

Seher thanked the manager profusely for being patient with them but Raahi only grew more curt. “Please call for a car to take us home,” she pronounced, in a prouder tone than was natural to her. To the manager’s credit, he simply nodded politely and went off to do his duty.

On the way home, Zaara had to ask. “Ma, what the hell did the bank say?”

“I’m not authorised to use the company card anymore,” Raahi said, shaking her head, still in shock.

Seher winced in the front of the car, aware of what was coming. She wished she could somehow cover the chauffeur’s ears. Or stop Zaara from asking questions till they got home. But now, curiosity got the better of her too.

“Not... authorised?” Zaara asked, confused. “But it’s Baba’s company! You’re the COO!”

“It’s not Baba’s company anymore Zaara,” Seher whispered.

“And I’m not COO anymore,” Raahi added.

The Pandits drove the rest of the way in shocked silence, refusing to confront their new reality, till they were safely home again..

(To be continued)

This is the third episode of Riva Razdan’s serialised novel Nonsense and Respectability. It will be 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