Part 5 (1/2)

She grabbed a drink from one of the trays pa.s.sing by, took a long swig, and walked over to Dolly.

*I don't think we've met. I am Mrs Shroff,' Nadia said, extending her hand towards Dolly.

Dolly spun around with a smile that disappeared when she saw that it was Nadia. She pursed her thin lips firmly and said, *I know,' turning back to a nervous servant, treating Nadia the way Danesh did: as invisible.

Nadia pictured their legs wrapped together, Dolly's legs bent with the muscular grit of a tree's boughs, her interest severe, something he'd desire. She imagined him setting down his gla.s.s of sour, which he enjoyed after s.e.x, the tip of his little finger m.u.f.fling the impact of the gla.s.s.

*Are you sure you know me?' Nadia said.

Dolly's eyes hovered over the room, indirect but measuring looks, probably seeking Danesh. He must have been talking to someone, for Dolly returned her confused eyes to Nadia. A shroud of unspoken thoughts hung between them. Nadia didn't yield.

*Of course I'm sure who you are, Nadia,' Dolly replied, arching her rather hostile black eyebrows.

*Not Nadia, I am Mrs Shroff.'

*Is this some kind of a joke?'

Nadia sensed Dolly's stony energy, full of contempt.

*Is it? Tell me, who are you?'

*You, my dear, have clearly had too much to drink.'

Her *my dear' was cold and patronizing.

*Who. Are. You?' Nadia repeated.

*I am Dolly. This is my house. We are having a party. And you are a guest here.'

*You are not Dolly. You are Mrs Makhija. And I am Mrs Shroff. Do you understand me, Mrs Makhija?'

For the first time there was comprehension in Dolly's eyes. Her powdered face turned pale. Anxiety made her eyes blink.

*So, Mrs Makhija, how well do you know my husband, Mr Shroff?'

To her credit Dolly didn't flinch. The only outward sign she showed of any distress was an endless guzzle she took from her wine gla.s.s.

Nadia imitated her, but couldn't be as controlled. Her hand jerked and she spilled her drink onto the marble floor. She watched Dolly's pet.i.te feet step back and by the time she looked up Dolly was gone, hidden in one of the many rooms.

*So the hand has found a glove, eh?' she heard Baman's voice behind her.

Nadia winced. If she turned around, she could spend her night with Baman, a stranger who'd bring his life story to her like a gift she could gracefully unwrap. They would laugh, more than necessary, ask questions no one else had in a long time, and do what had been done to them.

Or she could confront Danesh; tell him that she knew. She could begin to exact his attention under the pretences of hurt and betrayal, claim lat.i.tude, some indulgence, in return for what she had undergone, and lost, love that could never be repaired. And he would come back to her, burdened by his guilt, her sadness, their emptiness. He'd promise never to talk to Dolly again or attend her parties.

But either recourse seemed like a huge effort, when all Nadia wanted to do was return to her house, her room, her bed and her pillow, where the hollow she'd created was at least her own. She was too tired to care that Danesh and she stayed in a marriage that had run its course, become a habit more than a necessity, and had taken so much out of her that she felt nothing but numbness for any other emotion, any other activity, any other man.

So she walked away from the loss of her actions, without another thought.

In the weeks after her mother died, Nadia had treated Danesh in the same way that he treated her now. But he was not deterred. Every night he scrambled into the cold cleft of mattress between them, lying perfectly still, holding her, till she rolled over and went to sleep. If she opened her eyes during the night, he was there, looking at her through the darkness that was never really black but diluted by the stubborn light of the city. Knowing she was safe, she'd drift back into another wretched sleep, his presence a gentle rope that kept her from falling too far.

Nadia looked at Danesh, who turned to face her for the first time that night. It seemed as if he was suddenly standing a long distance away. She considered the gap and whether it was wise to cross it.

Then he was by her side, smelling of cigarettes, of other people.

He leaned over and whispered, *Happy birthday, my love.'

THE GECKO ON THE WALL.

I stare in confusion at Dipti and Choti standing outside my front door until Dipti says, *Hi Papa,' carrying me into the centrefolds of our relations.h.i.+p.

*h.e.l.lo beta,' I reply, straightening my back like a superintendent on duty.

I smile to let it be known that I'm happy to see them.

*How've you been?' Dipti continues in a tired tone, wafting in with the smell of the neighbour's curry that, for the first time, curls my nose. She crosses the threshold with her leather suitcases, her clothes b.u.t.tered by fabric softener and a beefiness that visits, as she does, every second year from America. Immediately, my living room-a luxury in Mumbai-becomes smaller.

*Hi Nanu!' says Choti, the little one. She flings her arms around my waist with such force that I stumble backward, almost slipping on my dead wife's rug. In my old house with the grainy floors the rug was a solid thing, but this s.h.i.+ny new house with its slick flooring has made it dangerous, an accident waiting to happen. I catch my balance at the same moment that my eyes fall on my granddaughter's face, and I'm falling again. Choti looks so much like Sheila-her features that of a child, but the same triangular face, the black-bean eyes held close together, hair sprouting from the rim of the face as if her scalp is not large enough.

*As.h.i.+rwad, Choti,' I say, patting Choti's head and inching away at the same time, so that my intimacies remain prudent and una.s.sertive, causing no one harm. *Your hands go round my waist now, eh?'

*Dad,' Dipti interrupts, abandoning the sweet softness of Papa. She is scanning the apartment and I wait for her verdict. *This new place is sw.a.n.ky. Look at the cream pillars, the false ceiling and-wow-French windows!' She walks to the balcony, *And the view! We can see the pool. No more looking into the Guptas' toilet.'

I don't mention that paying for that pool's maintenance shaves off a third of my pension money.

Choti and I follow Dipti as she strolls around the house, picking up things, casually dropping them back.

*Looks like our family is finally moving up, huh Dad?' she says, and then adds softly, *Maa would have loved this.'

She wouldn't have, I silently say to myself. Unlike Dipti, Sheila hated the cosmetic, the ornamental. We had that in common.

The sound of Dipti's stilettos ricocheting off the floor stops as she turns to me and says, *Three bedrooms? What do you do with so many?'

*Enjoy them,' I lie. For before this I've only ever lived in my father's home, which belonged to his grandfather, our treasured legacy from Mumbai's disappearing s.p.a.ces. In the body of a hundred-year-old, the flat was-as Dipti never failed to mention-dowdy. Yet, I saw myself in it as though it was a mirror; my ident.i.ty bound to its lime mortar walls from which paint constantly dripped, the rusting iron-framed windows and the c.o.c.kroaches that scurried around each morning as the house came to life.

I continue to live there though it no longer exists, its body destroyed by that builder with the toothy smile who offered me two choices over a cup of adrak chai. A bigger, sw.a.n.kier flat in lieu of vacating, like the other residents-so he could build a 33-storey high-rise-or the streets. I've desperately searched for my old flat's soul here, in this new flat whose ceiling I can touch, but all I find is my hollow reflection.

*Yuck, Mommy, look! A gecko,' Choti yelps, pointing to the freshly painted living room wall. I turn around sternly, no idea what a gecko is, and fix my eyes on a light pink lizard. The pest control I'd done a week earlier has obviously had no impact.

*Choti, this is our friend Chameli. She has come to say h.e.l.lo,' I say, my voice mock-childish, like one adopts when talking to a seven-year-old. Choti looks at me with her eyebrows raised, and I recoil in surprise. When has she learned to think for herself?

I clear my throat to say that I'll take their suitcases to the guest room. I can't find my voice. I cough.