The Benefit Season (21 page)

She is wearing a Hermes scarf and oversize
glasses and is slightly turned away from me so I cannot see her
clearly. But what I can see; it is good. Her coffee colored slender
arms and overripe melons remind me of something. Now wait a minute,
where have I seen these? They can’t be Aarti’s because hers are
athletically poised, tiny, no-nonsense chesticles with nipples as
hard as diamonds that do not get in the way when swinging a javelin
over 50 meters. They serve milk but are closed for maintenance
right now. These ones here; now one could nuzzle with the cheeks
all day and yet not discover every delight on offer. These ones
probably wiggle at touch, and for long afterwards. Though not much
of a bust-man myself, I do not carry a prejudice towards a fair and
well-weighted pair, as long as it’s not hairy; for sucking at a
hairy breast is like licking the milk off a cat’s whiskers. Not my
thang. But over time, even the fairest of breasts will sprout hair.
It is a society woman’s nightmare. It is god’s will. More likely,
it is a beautician’s vengeance against a poor paymaster. They are
likely to leave a deliberate blemish on an otherwise perfectly
constructed, textured, scented, powdered, and creamed boob. In
their keen enterprise to rid the body of all unwanted hair, ladies
are often apt to overlook an odd hair lurking in the shade of the
nipples. A tongue interrupted is a tongue that does not return to
such bundles of joy, and next time one is more careful. It’s like
finding hair in one’s soup. And suddenly I know whom the soup
belongs to.

Polite gentlemen do not stare. But a tear
that lingered at the edge of the lady’s glasses, and sloshed into
her gin and tonic, brought the furtive glance back to her. The lady
in the scarf is none other than Monal, hiding herself in a dark
corner with her back to the admiring world, crying quietly. Monal,
the iron lady who chews rusty buckshots for jaw exercise, is
crying? I should have minded my own business, after her husband had
accused me rightly of violating her, after having decided to leave
the company, after having promised my mother to behave myself,
after having sworn to not cause hurt to my beloved Aarti. But true
gentlemen, though the guilty party, do not always mind their own
business; they dump caution in the winds and rush to the aid of the
damsel in distress, especially when they feel they are the cause.
And rush I did, the seven or so steps that I took before I bounded
on the empty barstool next to her- I would live to regret.

She looks over at me and bursts into tears.
Her scarf slips and I see her lips are swollen and cut. There are
blue-black marks on her cheeks too, and as I gently slip off her
glasses, I see a black eye.

‘
Who did this to you…the
coward!’

‘
Drop it’.

‘
Is this because
of…?’

She nods, hastily covering herself with the
scarf and glasses again. I slip my arm gently around hers. She
pulls her arm away- ‘go away! Please.’

I should have. But I didn’t. Stubbornly I
linger, feeling sorry for her, wondering what to do.

‘
If he sees you here with
me- I had it’.

‘
I’ll leave, just tell me
you’ll be safe’.

She nods and shakes her head. ‘I don’t
know’.

‘
I’m flying out Monday-
for good- I’m not coming back’.

She doesn’t say anything but just sits
sobbing quietly, caressing her drink.

‘
Are you hurt bad? You
want that thing looked at?’

‘
Please don’t go. Don’t
leave me alone’.

‘
Let me take a look at
that’, I softly grip her elbow. ‘We can talk things over. Let’s go
to my room-it’s towards the back’. She holds for a while and then
climbs down and follows me out of the bar, leaving the Gujaratis
gaping.

I carefully lock the door behind me, and we
cross the lounge to my bedroom in the large suite. I dig out my
first aid kit from my suitcase and return to her. She’s standing
exactly at the same place where I had left her- unmoving,
disoriented and lost. I gently take off her scarf and glasses. I
can see that she has bruises even on her neck and shoulders, when
her off-shoulder blouse shifts slightly. I gently sit her on the
edge of the bed. She turns away and lies down on her side, an arm
stretched out under her head. I unzip her blouse from the back and
drop its sides beside her slim back. There are red and blue loop
shaped marks on her back, from a belt. She has bite marks on her
arms, her buttocks are lacerated and there are rope burns on her
ankles and wrists. Someone has done a thorough job of punishing
her. She winces and shudders when I softly run my fingers down her
back, trying to reassure her.

‘
I am so sorry.’ I lie
down beside her, wrapping an arm gently over her back, careful not
to hurt her, and nestle my face in her long locks.

‘
Should I send for a
doctor now?’

‘
Later’, she whispers. It
must have been just under a couple of minutes when the door is
kicked open and some men rush in. As I heave myself up and turn
around a tall man head-butts me in the face, cracking my nose and
lips up, sending a gush of blood that covers the front of my shirt.
In a blur of motion I can see the man tearing out his belt and
whipping Monal who runs away screaming. The other men manage to
restrain the man who is screaming and head butting and raining
blows around as if he’s gone crazy.

It’s Vishal. The others are hotel staff and
the floor manager standing with a duplicate key in his hand, with
which I guess they must have opened the door while we were
inside.

‘
Call the police…I need a
lawyer… she is a bitch screwing around right under my nose…fuck
her…I’ll kill her!!’ He has gone berserk and is probably trippin’
on some substance.

‘
Sir please behave
yourself, or we’ll hit you back’, the thickset bell boy- minus the
hook, the eye patch, and the wooden leg, but with plenty of
attitude of the buccaneering ancestors warns him, which finally
seems to settle the man.

‘
You are dead meat’,
Vishal points menacingly at me.

‘
You better become
vegetarian then punk; hitting people when they aren’t looking! Come
on let’s settle this like men. Used to hitting women aren’t
you’?

Wiping the blood off with the front of my
shirt, I charge into the complete lot, pirate or no pirate, taking
all of us crashing out the window into the pool, two stories below.
In the pool I’m first off the mark, and gripping Vishal, who is
trying to swim away, I bury my fists into his face. It takes the
complete hotel staff on duty and the three bodyguards to pull me
away from the now crying and blubbering Vishal, and by then the
pool is red.

After the intervention of the shocked
company management, who are trying to hush things up, the hotel
agrees not to call the police.

‘
I caught them red handed
in his room’, Vishal is screaming to the company seniors, ‘ ask the
staff here’.

‘
He’s lying! He’s a
monster- he needs to be put away! He has bashed her up so badly-
any lady can check her out! She was crying in the bar when I took
her out to get help. I was going to call the front desk for a
doctor.’

‘
You are fired!’ he
screams at me.

‘
I already quit- check
with Tom. I don’t want to work with you sickos’!

‘
No one is doing anything
rash here again. It’s a very bad show- a sorry blot on our company.
I won’t have personal troubles hijacking the company agenda. Now
everyone get back to your rooms. We’ll talk this over when people
are calmer’; a distinguished looking gentleman, probably a senior
partner, speaking in an authoritative tone, shoos everyone
out.

‘
Now Vishal, and Monal, I
would like to have a word with you in private, as soon as both of
you get looked at by a good doctor. And you, Mr. Arjun, you are to
see me whenever you are sent for’.

‘
I already quit- I’m
flying out Monday’, I tell the old man with the white fudge on his
chin, which even in that bad situation, I couldn’t help absurdly
observing looked like a peppered vanilla scoop.

‘
You fly when I tell you
to’, he barks sharply.

‘
I’m flying for my
engagement! I have already been granted leave!’

‘
In that case then,’ he
says, sensing my hostility,’ we can wait’, wisely deciding not to
have a showdown in my state. Then he turns and leaves.

The hotel changes my room since my window is
smashed.

Other than the morning swim in the ocean, I
remain indoors and on Monday, after writing an apology note to
everyone I can think of, including Tom and Vishal and Monal, I
check out and fly out to Delhi: guilt-ridden, worried for Monal,
worried for Aarti, worried for mom and Khosla, nearly penniless,
with no job, no car, and no flat. But with my freedom, and hope in
Aarti’s unconditional love and support to make a fresh start.

Or at least so I think.

ϖ

Part 2

January 2014

(In the Writer’s Voice)

Chapter
9

The Vanishings

03 January 2014

The venue for the ring
ceremony chosen by the elders was the
Chameli Mahal
at
ITC Maurya
- a frightfully expensive
place. A plate cost 4000 bucks!

Being of a progressive and middle-class
bent, both families agreed that they would split the complete
wedding costs, every event included. Luckily Khosla had pruned down
the invite list to only close family and few friends. Otherwise ma
had wanted to invite the entire neighborhood and her kitty party
crowd to show off what a success her son had become.

Arjun operated a joint account with his mom.
She’d with a gay abandon already spent most of his salary on the
flower décor, and the jewelry and clothes for Aarti.

‘
I’ll be roaming the
streets in striped pajamas after this’, Arjun claimed with dismay
to his mom, after checking the passbook that showed a near zero
balance.

‘
You only get married once
in a lifetime, silly. When will I get a chance to spend money
again?’ She scolded him.

Arjun sighed at all the beauty surrounding
him. Beauty that had been purchased so extravagantly, and so ill
afforded at this juncture. A man, who scorned at the word “budget”
a week ago, now saw how important every penny was. The hall had
been converted into a virtual rainforest, but lit up like a grand
stadium. The flower décor in the vast hall had been done up in a
pink and saffron basket theme. Lit arches with long, drapes of
green Plumosa and shimmera cloths formed the engagement dais
backdrop. Tall palm plants in largish urns covered doorways and
screens. Floral cages with large muslin bows were tied to pillars
to create virtual wreaths of greenery. Soft background music played
in sync with magical mood lights. The tables were embellished with
premium tulle and the chairs had large silky bows draped on their
backs. Crystal glassware and silvery cutlery laid out on the tables
sparkled in the brilliant glow cast by the ornate chandeliers
above. Flowing wedding gazebos with cream arches dotted the lawns
outside, where the drinks had been laid out. Valet parking for the
guests, luckily, was on the house.

Arjun walked into the
large annexe where the womenfolk were getting primed with
last-minute
touchups-
since the past
several
hours
. A couple of
Mehendi
artists were still adding the
finishing strokes on the henna tattoos of ladies who just wouldn’t
be satisfied.
A female was never really
done in front of the mirror
,
he mused
.

Aarti, sitting in a corner
in front of a massive mirror looked angelic in an orange and
silver
ghagra choli
. She was surrounded by a bevy of girls and aunts who were
fussing over her, correcting blemishes where there were none, and
dabbing with powder at imaginary spots on her flawless
skin.

She saw him in the mirror walking up behind
her and smiled shyly- it was so unlike her to put on paint and
powder, and dress in anything that was not lassos, jeans and body
hugging tops.

The girls around her squealed on seeing him,
‘this is strictly a no-man’s room! Can’t you wait?’ They tried to
playfully jostle him out of the room.

‘
I just want to have a
last word with her’, he joked, without budging.’ Before I get to
hold forever my peace’.

‘
It’s all right. He comes
in peace. Let the man speak’, Aarti said.

The girls made a show of protest but left
giggling.

‘
You look ethereal
darling; pure, unadulterated bliss’, he told her, looking into her
eyes in the mirror, softly kneading her shoulders.

She squeezed his hand and smiled
happily.

‘
I have got something to
tell you’, he said.

‘
Now?’ her grip on his
hand tightened.

‘
Now or never’.

‘
Okay’.

‘
I quit the job,’ he sent
as gently as he could. ‘Sent off the mail to Tom’.

‘
But why?’ She looked up
at him aghast.

‘
Harassment… mostly, and
that guy, Vishal, he seems to be a trippin’ junkie mixed up in some
kind of betting. He keeps throwing hints asking me to swing my
clients for fixing matches and bringing him inside
info’.