French Lover Read Free Page B

work.
    Nila counted on her fingers and raised her brow, ‘Three hundred rupees? In Calcutta the people who work in the house day and night don’t get that kind of money.’
    Both Sunil and Kishan reminded Nila that this was Paris, not Calcutta.
    ‘So I’ll have to do everything myself?’ Nila sat on the edge of the sofa.
    Kishan was pouring alcohol into Chaitali’s glass and he said, ‘Are you scared?’
    Nila glanced around the room and said, ‘No, not really. The house seems quite well organized.’
    ‘There’s nothing much to do, except to keep the house the way it is.’ Kishan laughed.
    Nila gobbled down two slices of bread and then two glasses of water to appease her hunger and rushed into the bathroom to have a hot shower. The sindoor on her forehead and the dark circles around her eyes were washed away. Clean and fresh with her hair wound in a towel, she stood by the window to take in the sky and the heaven beneath it. Kishan scolded her, ‘What’s this. You’re a bride, you can’t dress this way. Wear a sari and jewellery—people will come to see you later this evening.’
    Nila took off her jeans and draped a silk sari on her body. She donned gold bangles on her wrists, heavy gold earrings on her ears and a gold necklace around her throat. She brushed some powder on her face, drew a line of kohl around her eyes, wore a sindoor bindi on her forehead and drew the sindoor in the parting of her hair, applied some dark lipstick and then looked at herself in the mirror. Thissindoor was supposed to be for Sushanta. A bitter smile played on Nila’s lips—where was Sushanta now! He must be enjoying life. For a whole year he went around with Nila, everyone thought they’d be married soon. But finally he ditched her because they weren’t from the same caste. Sushanta was a high-caste Brahmin: he could make love to Nilanjana Mandal of the scheduled caste, but marriage—never! Perhaps it wasn’t Sushanta who had the problems but his parents. But he seemed to give up his choice quite easily and settle for the girl his parents chose for him. After that Nila had felt she had to leave Calcutta, the sharp talons of memory were ripping her to shreds every day. She got married to Kishan instead and then wondered if she had done so in order to live or was this a different kind of death, or did she do it because one
had
to get married; otherwise people would frown upon her. Perhaps she did it to defend herself against nasty conjectures about why she didn’t marry until so late and also to prove to everyone that she wasn’t deaf or lame and could still get a good match.
    In the evening seven guests came to the house. Of them, six were non-Bengali Indians and one was French: Odil. Tariq Ismail’s wife was Gujarati, two others came with their wives: Babu Gogini and Rajesh Sharma. Sanal Edamaruku wasn’t married. Nila accepted the gifts they had brought—the colourful bouquet from Minakshi, the sari from Sahana Gogini and the one, solitary red rose and two noisy kisses on either cheek from Odil. They all pulled up some chairs and sat down. Nila was the only newcomer in that house—she was the stranger.
    Kishan was shaking the bottle of Moët and Chandon as he said, ‘I have just this one wife, everyone—so I think today I can drown myself in champagne.’ He pressed the cork of the bottle lightly with his thumb and the cork flew open with a deafening sound. Nila was drenched in champagne. Kishan poured out the remainder into glasses.
    Babu Gogini raised his glass and said, ‘Welcome to France.’ The rest of the people immediately raised their glasses and clinked them with each other’s and said the same thing, ‘Welcome.’ For a whilethere were great exclamations over Nila, ‘Oh, what lovely eyes—they literally talk.’ Sahana leaned to the left, looked at Nila and poked Babu, ‘Doesn’t she look a little like the film actress Rekha?’ Nila sat stiffly before the razor sharp gazes of the Goginis. Babu