THE HOUSE THAT BJ BUILT, page 36
And then the words die on her lips because the man in the driver’s seat is not cheerful, wizened and one-eyed.
The man in the front seat is scruffy, sleep-deprived and two-eyed. And both these eyes hold an expression of grim exasperation.
‘Oh!’ Bonu says faintly.
‘Good morning,’ Samar says lightly. ‘And where are you going, looking so busy and important?’
Bonu has an insane desire to say, ‘I’m going to London to see the queen’. She also has an insane desire to throw her arms around his neck and burst into tears. She does neither.
‘To Thimpu,’ she says airily.
She puts on her dark glasses (spiffy fake-Ralph Laurens bought from the Tibetan market two days ago), straps on her seat belt, folds her arms across her chest and looks straight ahead with her nose in the air.
‘Balls you’re going to bloody Blimpu,’ Samar grates out in reply.
Bonu raises her vivid brows. ‘There’s no need to be rude,’ she says. ‘I have an important meeting regarding a business venture I want to set up—’
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ he replies categorically. ‘Now take off those fake sunglasses and look at me.’
‘How did you know they were fake?’ she asks curiously, momentarily diverted. ‘They’re really good quality fakes! I couldn’t tell.’
‘I know they’re fakes because you’re wearing them.’
‘And I have a tendency to gravitate toward fakes,’ she replies, her voice shaking a little, glasses still firmly in place. ‘I realize that now. ’
Samar swears under his breath, reaches forward and pulls her glasses off.
‘I am not a fake.’
‘The evidence would suggest otherwise,’ she mutters, looking away.
His mouth sets in a straight line.
‘Susan and me are over,’ he tells her. ‘You may have read about it, you may not have. She made it sound like I’m madly in love with her and that she did the dumping, but that’s not true.’
‘Too much information,’ Bonu shrugs. ‘Not my problem.’
‘And the aunts always meant to give you your hissa.’
She stiffens. ‘I don’t want anybody’s pity-payout. I pay my debts. And my parents’ debts too.’
‘This isn’t about you,’ Samar says harshly. ‘Bauji put me in charge of the division of the property—he wanted you to have your hissa so I insist you take it. Give it away to charity for all I care!’
‘Maybe I will.’
He gives a short, disbelieving laugh.
‘Fat chance of that happening.’
She turns to look at him.
‘You think I can’t do charity?’
She’s looking right at him now, which is a big mistake. His eyes are exasperated, of course, but they are also intense, and very, very ardent. She hastily looks away.
‘God knows what I think,’ he says ruefully. ‘I’ve lost the capacity to think. What are my chances if I close in for a kiss, now, d’you think?’
‘Bad,’ she says, her cheeks hot. ‘Very bad.’
‘Really?’ he smiles lazily. ‘Are you sure? ’Coz I sort of sense my chances are pretty damn good, actually.’
The moment he says it, he knows he’s gone too far. Her eyes swivel to look at him scornfully for a moment, and then she unpops her seatbelt, gets the hell out of the car, stalks back to the little cottage and slams the door shut.
Frustrated, Samar leans on the horn. Hard.
Inevitably, the roosters start to crow.
Inside the cottage, Bonu looks at herself in the mirror, her arms wrapped tightly across her chest, her eyes wavering between hope and doubt. Why would he come seeking her out unless he really cares for her? There can be no other reason, surely? Unless… he’s come to shove her hissa down her throat because of his promise to BJ.
Fuck. That’s it. It’s his inflated sense of eldest grandchild responsibility at play. Nothing else.
Outside, Samar’s honking has attracted quite a crowd.
Heads are peeking out from the neighbouring cottages. Sweet-faced ladies with many silver piercings. Small children picking their noses. Bold-eyed young men. Gap-toothed old people. Slowly they walk out onto the road and look with frank, silent interest from Samar to the shuttered house.
He gets out of the car and looks at the gathered group.
They look back at him expectantly.
‘Here goes everything.’ He mutters, then turns on his heel and heads for the front door. Flanked by the curious, suddenly silent roosters, he knocks as loud and hard as he can.
Bonu opens the door.
‘I don’t want any money that isn’t rightfully mine,’ she says loftily. ‘So buzz off.’
‘You opened the door.’ Samar’s smile is goofy.
‘To explain something to you. Did you understand?’
‘I did.’ He steps in smartly and shuts the door behind him. ‘But the price of the property just doubled. So even if you clear your papa’s debts, which nobody wants you to do, by the way, you’ll still have forty crores left over.’
She gasps. ‘What! When did that happen?’
He tells her. She listens, wide-eyed.
‘So Steesh and Eshu mausi are getting married!’
‘Uh… yes,’ Samar replies. ‘That’s not the main point of this story at all, but then again, maybe it is. Yes, they are.’
A long silence follows. Bonu seems to be working things out in her head. He lets her get there, content to just watch, to be there, in the same space as her.
‘How do I know Susan’s version isn’t true?’ she demands finally. ‘And that this isn’t just a rebound thing for you?’
He leans down and cups her face, his eyes alight, his voice husky.
‘Bonita, my love, I haven’t had sex with her—hell, with anybody—since the night you kissed me by the fire.’
Her eyes soften.
‘Really?’
He nods.
‘Really.’
Silence. He scans her face, trying to read her expression, uneasily noting that it seems to have grown decidedly smug.
‘Why?’
He shrugs. ‘Women look like furniture to me now. Or trees. Or men. Other women that is—except you.’
She absorbs this.
‘Maybe you need to see one of those, what-d’you-call-’em, sex doctors,’ she says finally.
‘Excuse me?’ Samar is startled.
‘Yeah.’ She nods, face serious, eyes dancing. ‘You could have, like a defect or something.’
‘Is that a challenge?’ His voice is light, but he gives her a little shake as he speaks, which makes Bonu decide to drop this line of conversation.
Instead she says, ‘Well, I haven’t had sex with anybody since that night either.’
‘So this is a competition?’ he inquires, his hands sliding smoothly down her arms and sides to grip her butt. ‘What does the winner get?’
She pushes him away a little.
‘My dad,’ she says forcefully, waggling a finger under his nose, ‘was just ahead of his time. He was a genius. All his business ideas—blue popcorn, Cat-bury chocolates, Dex Jelly—were brilliant.’
Samar’s expression grows decidedly peculiar, as though he is going through some sort of internal struggle. Finally, he manages to say, his voice strangled, ‘Okay.’
She looks at him suspiciously.
‘Are you laughing at my dad?’
‘No no,’ he shakes his head. ‘How could I possibly?’
‘Good,’ she says, satisfied. ‘Where are we going?’
This, because he has scooped her off her feet and is now carrying her in his arms.
‘To the bedroom,’ he replies. ‘Where we can discuss everything, er, more comfortably.’
‘There’s lots to discuss,’ she agrees as her arms go around his neck. ‘It’s through there.’
‘Thank you.’ Samar steps through the doorway and drops her onto a bedspread embroidered with rampant mountain lions. Her hair comes loose as she lands.
As he stares down at her she sits up and says, her voice unsteady, ‘Look, I don’t know what your understanding with Susan was, but I’m not interested in a purely physical relationship.’
Samar nods seriously, his intense eyes gazing into hers. ‘Okay. So you’re into what, exactly? Because I’m already in a double bed with you, and I’m happy to drink tea and eat mathri-achaar too—but I’m not sure I’ll be able to make French plaits with your hair.’
‘That’s not what I mean,’ she says crossly. ‘I mean, there’s got to be more.’
‘More,’ he agrees. He sinks to his knees before her, places a large warm hand around her ankle, right over the single silver chain that encircles it, and starts to stroke it idly.
Bonu swallows hard.
‘Uh-huh.’
Samar tilts his head to one side.
‘You were saying?’ he asks as his hand slides up her smooth golden calf.
‘Not interested in anything physical,’ she manages to get out.
‘I got that,’ he nods as his hand rises even higher, past her knee, vanishing below her long black dress. ‘It’s quite clear.’
She wriggles upright. ‘I want to have my own business! I want a committed relationship!’
‘You aren’t making any sense, you know,’ he whispers, his lips now against her throat. ‘Those two things aren’t connected at all.’
She frowns and pushes him away hard.
‘Damn it, Samar, let me think!’
He sits backs on his heels against the sun-dappled wall, and laughs—the sure, contented laugh of a man who knows he is exactly where he wants to be.
‘Take your time,’ he says. ‘Think it out. I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.’
EPILOGUE
The massive hall is packed with beautiful people. The air is a potent bouquet of adrenalin and expensive perfume. Industrial strength air-conditioners run full blast, but still much of the audience is perspiring. Massive camera jibs swoop and rise smoothly over their faces, beaming the image to homes all over India. All eyes—some glad, some wistful, some envious, some lusty—are on a lean, tall young man in faded jeans and dark jacket, who is embracing a glowing young woman in a tiny black cocktail dress.
‘Who’s she?’ Preetali Shah’s mother, always watchful for competition that may affect her daughter’s incredible career graph, prods her. ‘In the black frock? Why is she kissing him?’
‘Oh God, Ma, that’s Pasta, his little cousin,’ Pree replies. ‘She’s only like fifteen or something!’
‘Cousin, eh? I don’t see any family resemblance,’ her mother says sceptically. ‘And the one he’s bending down to kiss now? Sitting cross-legged like she’s come to some maata-ki-chowki? Another cousin?’
Pree peers across the row of seats and her face brightens. ‘That’s his fiancée. She’s lovely.’
Mrs Shah gasps in dismay. ‘Engaged! But when I told you he was a nice, steady boy, you said he was dating that bhaingi Susan! You have too many scruples, Preetali. Clearly this busty girl has none!’
‘He got me a Sparkler, Ma,’ Preetali replies distractedly, her eyes on the stage. ‘That’s enough for me. Shush now!’
Because Samar Vir Singh has reached the stage. He strides up to the presenter, kisses her on both cheeks, and accepts the trophy. Then he walks to the podium, and his deep, pleasant voice, informal and relaxed, rings out across the hall and halts the applause.
‘First, I’d like to thank everybody at Sparkler for letting Zeeshan and me into this auditorium again. It’s extremely gracious and large-hearted of you, and it has quite turned the tables on us and shown us up for the petty, thankless little whiners we are. So kudos to your PR team for that.’
A ripple of laughter runs through the crowd. Several people cup their hands around their mouths and shout affectionate profanities. Samar grins and digs his hands deeper into the pockets of his jeans.
‘Some people would suggest that you did this to shut our mouths up with trophies, so to speak, but that is a motive you cannot be accused of, because this year, the newly introduced judging procedure at the Sparklers has been so transparent.’ He looks up, his eyes sincere. ‘So thanks again. Really. I’m deeply honoured.’
There are whoops and claps from the crowd, especially from the entire Thakur Saab crew, who are sitting together, clutching a large number of Sparklers, looking teary-eyed and rather stunned.
Samar looks around the hall, searching for faces, finding them and acknowledging them as he speaks.
‘I’ve already thanked my brilliant crew and fabulous cast and lovely producers when we accepted the earlier awards, so with this final, most coveted Sparkler in hand, I’d like to get a little personal. This may be a long speech so—’
Several people boo and groan.
Samar grins. ‘Listen, I made a crisp hundred-and-forty minute film, not a three-hour snore-fest like you guys, so shut it and let me speak, okay?’
More laughter. More applause. Clearly Samar can do no wrong tonight.
‘So, I made this movie for somebody. It was supposed to be a surprise. A big, birthday surprise. But the person in question surprised me before I could surprise him.’
He pauses. Everybody waits for him to continue, upbeat, smiling.
‘He died.’
Slightly overdone gasps and murmurs of sympathy rise from the audience. AK, who’s got a fixed, ear-to-ear grin on his face, quickly assumes a sombre expression.
Samar’s gaze grows sardonic. ‘Yeah—but as he was eighty-six years old, that was, you know, no biggie. Besides, he left me something that made the parting easier to bear.’
‘Very big house on Hailey Road,’ Zeeshan’s father Zaffar Khan whispers knowledgeably to his wife. ‘Worth hundreds of crores.’
Behind them, Susan Adams flushes an unattractive shade of red, raises her chin and hugs her trophy for best costume design (Thakur Saab) a little harder.
On stage, Samar laughs and gestures to the front row. ‘He left me…well, basically, he left me that.’
And as the live action crew zooms in on his beaming, impossible, incorrigible family, magnifying their images on the giant screens, Samar feels such a fierce surge of pride and affection for them that his chest tightens and he can’t speak.
Into the breach leaps AK, wielding a mic of his own.
‘Arrey, enough of your blathering, young Samar!’ he shouts with exaggerated bonhomie. ‘I played your great-grandfather, so now I order you to shut up!’
Samar’s eyebrows rise, but he does good-naturedly shut up.
AK swashbuckles creakily down the aisle to the Thakur family.
‘Look at that old goat go,’ Zaffar Khan mutters to his son. ‘Anything to grab the limelight.’
‘You must be so proud of your son, mataji,’ AK says, radiating his usual, slightly suspect sincerity. ‘You say something!’
And then, because Anjini is looking so impossibly young and beautiful tonight, and because Chachiji is so very distinguished in her soft baby-blue and silver Dhakai sari, personally selected by Pasta, he hands Chachiji the mic.
Bonu looks up at Samar, her big black eyes widening in comic alarm. On stage, Samar facepalms, grins resignedly, and hopes for the best.
Chachiji bounces up to her feet, her bulldoggy face wreathed in smiles.
‘Thanks AK!’ she says chummily. ‘And hullo everybody! Yes, we are very proud of Samar, because he’s very talented boy, and he’s going to marry Bonu Singh, which is a very good thing, because she’s an orphan and all! And we’re happy ki whole family is together again with no hard feelings, even Chandu, who has got sense now and returned to her husband, and whose hair is looking so cute, like Anushka in PK! Aur haan, if you girls want to marry a nice Thakur boy, just like Samar, let me use this apourtunity to show you my son Gulab! Stand up, Gulgul, let everybody see you!’
And as she extols Gulgul’s many virtues, while he sinks lower and lower in his seat, and the camera crew hastily turn off their recording button, and the audience watches gob-smacked, the curtain falls, for now, on the house that BJ built.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This was a tough book for me to write. So much change, so much upheaval, so many traumatized children to transplant! We made the big shift from Gurgaon to ‘Bangalore Rural’, leaving my eldest behind in Delhi, and pulling the younger two out of a school they loved…
Every day, there would be a different crisis. Plumbing leaks, electricity glitches, dead phone lines, people speaking Kannada. But all is finally well with The House that Choku Built. The kids love the new school, and we’re sitting pretty in the Halli, enjoying our garden and ‘such a lovely weather!’
Choku (aka Niret), thank you for this home, for your love, and for your unflinching support in all that I do.
Moving on to first readers, many thanks to my gorgeous daughter Nayantara, who rocks this cover just as hard as her sister rocks the cover of ‘Pricey’. And whose cryptic, ‘Naah, not enough happy gas’, as she tossed my laptop back to me, kept me rewriting the romantic scenes time and again.
To my gorgeous daughter Niharika, that eater-of-two-two-Snickers and prolific reader who casually devours Dostoyevsky, Fisk and Tart as she rattles about on the Delhi Metro, and whose feedback is usually, ‘Um, don’t make too many insane things happen, Anju.’
To my hottie son Daivik John, who took printouts of all my JWT invoices, occasionally asked, ‘How many pages today, mamma?’, and very importantly, taught me some ‘insane’ exercises for my lower abs. And who also graced the cover, along with my darling chatterbox Zoya. Thank you both.
To my friend Shalini Beri, my mum Pushpa Raman, and my Ruhi didi, who read early drafts and kept me going.
To my-about-to-be-married editor Neelini Sarkar, who knows the Hailey Road characters as well as I do. Much love and joy to you in the times ahead!
To my two main ‘Bolly sources’ who cannot be named here J
To V.K. Karthika, whose feedback is always so spot-on and who told me exactly what to do with Steesh.
To my agent Anuj Bahri, for being so worldly and so wise both at the same time. And for being nice about the fact that I don’t always return phone calls.
