Socialite Evenings

Shobhaa Dé

Description

A divorce and a succession of sordid affairs have left prominent Bombay socialite Karuna feeling battered, empty and melancholic. She looks back upon her life and the friends and enemies who surround her neurotic, man-hungry Anjali; gorgeous, vivacious Ritu; high-profile editor Varun, with a penchant for young boys; Krish, the pretentious adman, whose wife actively helps him in his extramarital affairs. Scandalous, astute and utterly riveting, Shobhaa D s first novel, Socialite Evenings, laid bare the world of high-society India and changed the face of the Indian novel forever.

Informations

• Publié par: Penguin Books Ltd
• Date de parution: 15 octobre 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9788184754216
• Langue: English

Extrait

SHOBHA D
Socialite Evenings
Contents
About the Author
By the Same Author
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Follow Penguin
Copyright Page
PENGUIN BOOKS
SOCIALITE EVENINGS
Shobhaa Dé’s eighteen books include the bestsellers Socialite Evenings, Starry Nights, Spouse and Superstar India . Her latest book is Sethji . A widely read columnist in leading publications, she is known for her outspoken views, making her one of India’s most respected opinion shapers. Dé lives in Mumbai with her family.
Also by the Same Author
Fiction
Sisters
Socialite Evenings
Starry Nights
Strange Obsession
Sultry Days
Snapshots
Non-Fiction
Speedpost
Surviving Men
Selective Memory
Spouse
Superstar India
For my family
Chapter 1
I was born in a dusty clinic in Satara, a remote village in Maharashtra Even as I type these opening words I find them unexciting. But where else do I start? It is difficult this, trying to tell the story of a life even if it s my own. But do I really want to write about my early childhood, all my memories of which are indistinguishable from the cliched village and small-town reminiscences one always reads about? No, I don t think I want to do that. Bombay-it is Bombay which has shaped me into what I am now and it s the story of Bombay I want to tell. And when I think about Bombay the person who comes to mind is Anjali and so I shall begin my narrative with her.
My initial memory of Anjali is not unlike those first impressions celebrities are constantly dredging up on request: it is so clear in my head that it unnerves me. I can see the clothes she wore that day, the way she spoke, the way she carried herself-but the thing that transfixed my attention were her nails.
My precious talons, as she would describe them every now and again. They were truly beautiful. They were, in fact, a little too perfect, or maybe I was just a little bit jealous. I would stare wide-eyed at those elegantly shaped and buffed points as she waved her small-wristed arms around to illustrate some point or the other when words failed her. She did this quite often for she wasn t much of a conversationalist. But then, I realize now, she wasn t much of anything. Perhaps that was her problem but it s difficult to be sure. Anjali didn t have to be anything or anyone. She just had to be. Or so I thought then, all my disillusionment coming later. Anyway, the first time I met her she seemed invulnerable. She was still stunning to look at in her mid-forties. Not classically beautiful, not flashy like a movie star but straight of back and firm of shoulder. Although her nose was too prominent and the eyes far from special she carried herself well and the nails added to the memsaaby image. I should be forgiven for returning to her nails time and again for they were truly spectacular. I never saw them with the polish chipped (until she married her second husband much later and she filed her nails straight across) and I know of at least one of her lovers who was attracted to and could never get over her nails.
She was a prominent socialite and the wife of a wealthy playboy. Like most women in her circle, she had started dabbling in fashion designing and advertising. I had just finished school and started my first term in college. And unlike many of my rich and sophisticated classmates at the time I was terribly self-conscious and awkward and resented with all my being my middle class origins and the shabbiness of my life as the daughter of a middle-rung government official. No matter that my parents cared for me and my sisters, but subconsciously, and in the previous few years consciously, I yearned to be part of the smart and beautiful set that so many of the girls in school belonged to so effortlessly. Anjali was the portal to that world which is why I remember her so well. I d been told that she was looking for models for a fashion show and with what I suppose was an act of tremendous daring for the girl I was then (for though I was a rebel I was far from sophisticated. I decided to try out for one of the places. The meeting took place in Anjali s tiny office near Metro cinema.
As she put me through my paces (yes, I did feel like a nervous racehorse trying out for the big race) I remembered that she d modelled herself-the ads for Tata Textiles and Khatau Voiles rose before my eyes as in a cold voice she asked me to walk. My nervousness threatened to overwhelm me. I even remember what I was wearing that day-awful bell-bottom pants in white, with a funny printed shirt over them. My heels were worn out and scruffy, and my hair teased into a messy bouffant hairdo. She watched me silently as I stumbled about. I was feeling stupider by the minute. This was not at all like the small modelling jobs I d done earlier for a lark and that Father had got so angry about. She said something to the small intense man beside her in Gujarati and he shook his head. She turned to me and asked, Are you free to do this show? We start rehearsals next week. Suddenly she didn t appear very fierce. She actually smiled as she gave me her address and telephone number.
It was closing time by the time the interview was over. We left the small office together and walked down the crowded street in search of her chauffeur. Can I drop you somewhere? she asked in a preoccupied sort of way. I was dying to say Yes, back to my college, which is right down the street but I didn t dare. I just gaped at her satiny nails. Her fragrance washed over me, and it was then that I realized that the rich even smelt different! Her perfume was at once flowery, light and mysterious (L Air Du Temps I discovered later). I told her I d wait with her till her car arrived. Then suddenly there it was, an enormous, finned Impala in silver grey. It glided up like a gigantic swan negotiating its way past handcart-pullers, pedestrians, taxis and local buses. It was the perfect vehicle for her. In those days, the only other people in our already flashy city who ran around in these monsters were the movie stars. There was little contradiction in this for, in her own way, Anjali was a star.
I watched her glide into the Impala with the mean-faced man, who I discovered later, was her brother Arjun. He worked for her husband in some vague capacity. City gossip had it that this meant he was basically Abe s boozing partner and pimp, the one who drained the Chivas, switched on the stereo and rounded up the pretty Hindu virgins whom Abe was partial to whenever he threw one of his wild parties. Anjali rolled down the window, looked at me and said sweetly. OK, see you soon. I felt terrific walking to college. Anjali was someone out of all those silly novellas we d read in school come alive. I wanted to be her. But I was also afraid for she seemed to represent everything I had been brought up to believe was wrong and evil. Perhaps that was what made her so irresistible.
When I got home that evening, I told my two older sisters about Anjali. I met a real big memsaab today, she s really quite a thing, I said.
I told my sisters everything. Ours was that kind of family. When they asked me to describe Anjali, in my slightly infatuated state I exaggerated everything, She s very tall and statuesque, I said. (She wasn t.) She s very sophisticated, I added. (Again, now when I think of it, Anjali could hardly have been described as sophisticated.) She dresses beautifully, I went on. (She didn t really.) And she speaks divinely, I gushed. (Well, her voice was sort of throaty and sexy, but she gobbled up all her words, and those that emerged were not exactly dazzling.) Details, details. My sisters had begun to look bored but I prattled on. Anjali had married Abbas Abe Tyabjee when she was just nineteen. It had been little before my time, but I d heard vaguely about the furore it had caused within her community, the conservative Jains. Anjali and Abe had met on a flight. She d joined Air India as an air hostess like other attractive girls of her generation. She later explained, Basically, I wanted to get out of the closed, boring, middle class environment of my family. I wasn t interested in studies. I wanted to be on my own, independent. To see the world, meet people, buy lovely clothes and perfumes. What else does a pretty girl at that age want anyway?
Abe had been years older. An experienced rake with a wild reputation. Something about Anjali s almost frigid demeanor had attracted him. Initially, he had imagined she would be just another quick pick-up. But, by the time they landed in London, Anjali had managed to hook Abe. Or he her. She told me that part of her life after we became friends many months later.
I remember telling Mother about her one day. We were sitting in the kitchen drinking tea. Mother was preoccupied with what to cook for Father s dinner. It never mattered what the children s preferences were. It was always him. We were left out of their little world. If not left out entirely, then certainly kept carefully on the fringes. Mother gave Father priority, whether it was at mealtimes or anytime else. Whatever little time was left over from looking after his needs was then almost absent-mindedly distributed among the three of us. Father rarely spoke directly to us. Anything that he wanted to be said was always routed through Mother except when our transgressions required chastizing. Then punishment was swift and direct. In retrospect, I would say he wasn t an unkind or cruel man. Whatever he did to us was done in the belief that he was bringing us up right. Interestingly, we didn t even resent this. It was just the way things were. And even though the anger and hostility surfaced in time, thinking of it I wonder if I wouldn t have been happi