Priya

Namita Gokhale

Description

India is shining, and Suresh Kaushal, the stout lawyer -of sober habits', has propelled himself up the political ladder to become Minister of State for Food Processing, Animal Husbandry, Fisheries and Canneries. His wife Priya can't believe their luck and, determined to ensure it doesn't run out, struggles valiantly with -social vertigo', infidelity and menopause. Along the way she also learns vital lessons on survival, as she watches her glamorous new friend Pooonam chase status, sex and Jimmy Choo shoes, and her radical old friend Lenin ride a donkey and lose his bearings. In this wickedly funny, occasionally tender, book, Namita Gokhale resurrects some unforgettable characters from her 1984 cult bestseller Paro, and plunges them neck-deep into Delhi's toxic waste of power, money and greed.

Informations

• Publié par: Penguin Books Ltd
• Date de parution: 15 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9788184758740
• Langue: English

Extrait

Namita Gokhale
Priya
In Incredible Indyaa
Contents
About the Author
Dedication
Praise For the Book
Acknowledgements
Copyright Page
PENGUIN BOOKS
PRIYA
Namita Gokhale is a writer, publisher and co-director of the Jaipur Literature Festival. Her books include the novels Paro: Dreams of Passion , A Himalayan Love Story , Gods, Graves and Grandmother , The Book of Shadows and Shakuntala: The Play of Memory ; a short story collection The Habit of Love ; and the non-fiction works The Book of Shiva and Mountain Echoes: Reminiscences of Kumaoni Women . She has also retold the Mahabharata for young readers and co-edited In Search of Sita: Revisiting Mythology .
To JE for challenging me to return to the territory of my first novel.
And to Paro, for remaining so triumphantly alive after all these years.
PRAISE FOR THE BOOK
A gripping tale of status, sex and power - DNA

A rare occurrence in fiction - Tehelka

The author s observations of the p3ps who colour Priya s life are acutely felt and painfully familiar to everyone who has tried to feel the pulse of Delhi - Outlook

A satire that takes potshots at today s politicians and well-heeled society - Indian Express

The hidden story is that of two Indias that are at odds with each other one which is thriving and one which isn t - The Hindu

The Oberoi Hotel, New Delhi, 1982
So there we were, the five of us, quite companionable again, at the Caf Chinois one evening, Suresh sipping his coffee like a bellows, Bucky and Paro devouring large cognacs, and Lenin spooning in mouthfuls of cassata ice-cream in between large gulps of whisky. Lenin had been baiting Bucky all evening, but Bucky had consistently refused to respond to any provocation.
Lenin was being elegantly withering, in a very erudite fashion, about the re-emergence of the feudal classes in modern India. The trouble with India, as I am sure you will agree, he stammered condescendingly, is that as a breed you are all half-Anglicized, and half-denationalized. And completely irrelevant, if not treacherous, to any advanced society we may dream about or plan for. In fact, I think all of you should be shot dead!
I say, old boy, isn t that carrying it a little too far? Bucky Bhandpur replied abstractedly, as one might to a pesky schoolboy. This infuriated Lenin even more, and he began addressing Bucky as Your Excellency , or Your Royal Highness , or Maharajkumar Sahib . On his way to the toilet he even executed a low curtsy to Bhandpur, and reserved an even more elaborate Farshi Salaam for Paro. She seemed tickled as a teenager at the idea of playing them off against each other, and tried subtly to push Bhandpur into a more aggressive stance. But he was far too seasoned a player to rise to such obvious bait.

THE PARTY HAD SPILLED ON TO THE TERRACE OF THE OBEROI HOTEL . Outside, a plump yellow moon roosted on the hump of an old tomb lining the greens of the Delhi Golf Club. I remembered how we used to come here, to the Caf Chinois, with Paro and her posh friends, all those years ago.
Today s do was in the Mountbatten suite. It was to not celebrate but austerely announce a new SEZ, a Special Economic Zone, for Food Processing and Allied Industries in Haryana. Three thousand acres of subsidized farmland sounds a bit excessive to set up a few canneries and French fries factories, but apparently it s just what Indian agriculture needs. Senior bureaucrats, junior politicians, assorted businessmen, flashy networkers, all got their power fix for the day as they gorged on kebabs and canap s and busily bowed and scraped and snubbed each other.
Everybody in Delhi knows everybody-everybody who matters, that is. As a jumped-up middle-class girl from Mumbai I still can t figure out these equations. Seek out the current lot of useful people, scorn the hangers-on and despise those who might need you. That s the formula for Delhi social networking. It s in the air, this greed to be somebody , along with the benzene and the diesel fumes and the suspended particulate matter, and the dust from Rajasthan.
An attractive man wearing an insincere smile and a badly constructed toupee strutted across the terrace towards me. He sported a red tie, and a red silk handkerchief fanned out from the pocket of his double-breasted jacket. His flushed forehead was beaded with sweat. Hello, he said, I m Jimmy Batata, the Tomato Ketchup King of India.
Why not the Tomato Ketchup Emperor of India? I enquired, my eyebrows arching up in amusement.
He found that funny. Well said, well said! he exclaimed enthusiastically. Beauty and brains indeed you are the mistress of both, Madame! Saccharin or aspartame? Artificially sweetened chamchagiri, I thought to myself. But I would have been a little offended if he hadn t bowed and scraped in some manner. And I would have shown it, with a little disdain.
I m somebody now. My husband Suresh Kaushal is the Minister of State for Food Processing, Animal Husbandry, Fisheries and Canneries. Maybe it s not an ATM ministry, like telecom or power, but agriculture is important to modern India, and Food Processing is crucial to agriculture. That s what Suresh says.
I began life as B.R. s secretary. It s hard for a middle-class girl to suddenly find herself top of the heap. But I m coping. Like the rest.
Suresh appeared and put his arm around me. Mr Batata s company plans to introduce genetically modified tomatoes to India, he explained. They will have built-in multivitamins. It will change the life of India s farmers.
For better or for worse, I wondered cynically, but not aloud. I am a politician s wife-I must act the part, and be supportive. Carefully readjusting the folds of my sari pallav, I bestowed upon Jimmy Batata a haughty smile. It s a curve of upper lip I practise sometimes, in the morning when I brush my teeth. A minister s-wife smile, modulated to establish who I am, where I stand. There is a trick to it-an easy trick. The smile must never reach your eyes, just hold itself in a tilt of lip.
Batata persisted with his conversation. Did you realize, he said messianically- do you know, Madame, that only Batata Red Sun tomato sauce is used in Hindi films instead of blood? It is a Bollywood special-effects tradition. Hero is dying, or villain or policeman or terrorist, farmer, moneylender-it is our ketchup only! He clutched his red handkerchief in convincing demonstration.
Blood ketchup. The thought made me sick.
Mrs Jimmy Batata joined us. She was very large, her skin shone as brightly as the gold-dust fabric of her sari, and she was carrying a cheerful cherry coloured Dior bag. Did you know, she said, tomato ketchup makes an excellent hair conditioner?
I looked up at the dark sky and the jaundiced moon. A mischievous monsoon breeze was ruffling the potted bougainvillea. Snatches of conversation floated around me. A mobile trilled out a Bollywood tune. Distant fireworks announced a wedding procession.
Let s face it-cricket is the new cash crop. Of course he denies being part of the IPL bidding consortium
The EU Free Trade agreement
Yes, tariff figures can be misleading, and commodity nomenclature is plain problematic
In five years time, by 2010, India will be the largest arms importer in the world. And there are people who say this isn t progress!
Did you figure the Chief Minister of Karnataka has had an official makeover? He s moved from safari suits to Italian designer gear! Wants to change his son-of-the-soil image
My son is graduating this summer from Wharton
Our son is with Goldman Sachs in NY.
I must say, you can never know the meaning of hunger until you ve been on a macrobiotic diet.
My new handbag
I told him- You must remember, India is the paradox of paradoxes
A waiter rushed to light a heavyweight s cigar. A paper napkin rose with the breeze, and sailed into a bimbette s face, making her scream.
A pretty woman with a lined forehead was standing by the railing, looking out at the dimly-lit golf course below her. Suddenly she burst into quiet sobs. I saw her wipe her tears with the pallav of her cotton ganga-jamuna sari. I wanted to console her but didn t know what to say.
The waiters began circulating the soup-almond, not tomato-and the buffet dinner was laid out punctually by ten.
Very classy, Suresh commented approvingly as we left. The future is in SEZs.

I had a flashback moment. I was twelve years old, in that other India of the late sixties, of socialist austerity and a ration economy. My mother was cooking dinner. The pressure cooker was hissing on the kerosene stove. (We had applied for a gas connection, but it took the intervention of a well-connected uncle and two years of waiting to finally get it.) One of our neighbours, whose balcony adjoined ours, had bought a new transistor radio. Mukesh drowned out the hiss of the cooker. Mera joota hai Japaani, yeh patloon Inglistani
I was day-dreaming, imagining Raj Kapoor s blue eyes looking into mine, when my mother s sister waddled in, importantly, swinging her imported handbag. Her son, who worked in the navy, had sent a bottle of Kraft cheese for us. I had never eaten processed cheese before. Paneer yes, but never cheese. Mother thought it a waste of money.
I knew of children in school who ate chips and cheese and drank Campa-Cola, but they were out of my league. My friends ate parathas or vada-pao and knew their place in life.
We have brought for you imported cheese, my aunt announced. We, not I, even though she had come alone. Didi, I want some bread. We will show you how to eat imported cheese.
No bread-shead in this house, my mother declared unabashedly. The sisters warmed some stale chapatis and smeared them with Kraft cheese. One each for me, my mother, my aunt. Two for my brother, when he returned; he was a boy, the man of the house.
This is how they eat in phoren countries, my aunt explained knowingly.
And also beef my mother added spitefully. That navy son of you