The Red Carpet Read Free Page A

mornings.”
    For a brief, tempting instant Ramu debated the wisdom of sharing his marital plans with his friends—of speaking breezily on the trials of enlisting his mother as a Connubial Pimp intent on trading his economics for the unlimited use of a vagina, a womb, and a free lifetime supply of conversation at cross-purposes—but something held him back. Better perhaps to wait until all the details were in place: the who, the when, the where.
    Luckily, their attention was immediately diverted.
    “There he is. . . . You know, KK, you’re crazy. It’s never going to work.”
    “What?” KK: big, genial, sweating mildly in the late evening sun, chuckling imperviously at Swamy.
    “You’re wasting your time dating that kid. Cradle-snatching
behenchuth.
She can’t be a day older than, what, twenty-two? . . . Beer? Or something else?”
    But Ramu could vaguely recognize KK’s action for what it was: a fallback position. When you have failed with your generation, you wait for the next one to ripen. Ramu had seen KK’s new girlfriend, and she was lovely. If KK dumped her, as he usually did, and he wasn’t a married man by then, Ramu wouldn’t mind dating her himself—if it weren’t for that golden, unarticulated rule: a woman once involved with any of them remained off-limits to his friends.
    This kept life simple.
    KK refused to respond to Swamy’s needling. He just grinned and contented himself with taking a big gulp of beer. Through the desultory conversation that followed, Ramu studied KK’s unusual reticence, and was struck by a sudden realization.
    KK, perennial dater of women, was serious about this girl.
    Serious enough to propose? And be accepted?
    And Ramu was enthralled by a startling vision of the future: he and his friends, gentlemen used to wrapping themselves around the nearest beer and saying it with burps—doing so with an assortment of wives about them. A Mrs. KK, a Mrs. Ramu, a Mrs. Murthy, and, god forbid, a Mrs. Swamy.
    Mrs. Ramu.
    Ramu’s mind worried ceaselessly at the elusive cipher those words conjured up, like a dog with a difficult-to-grasp bone. It seemed to him unfair that there should be such a gap between decision and execution—after having resisted matrimony for a decade, surely his very eagerness should now suffice to guarantee an array of suitable women for his selection?
    Mrs. Ramu.
    Who was going to fill that lacuna in his life?
    “There’s Ashwini,” said Murthy, as though reading his thoughts.
    Indeed, there she was. Walking over the lawns towards them.
    Ramu felt himself retreating into a watchful, speculative quiet. He focused his attention on Ashwini, observing her manner as she interacted with his friends: a pert reply to Swamy, a wink for KK, her smiling conversation with Murthy. She refused a beer but lit a cigarette, after first checking carefully to see if any of her parents’ friends might be about.
    She listened with amused delight to the story of KK’s nickname: his real name was Prasad Rao, a name rejected by his friends early in his career in favor of something more colorful. They had finally (over his protests) settled unceremoniously on “Karadi Kundi.” Bear-Bottom. Because, said Swamy, his arse, like the rest of him, was big, black, and hairy. Karadi Kundi, KK for short.
    Ashwini laughed in all the right places.
    She
was
vivacious, attractive, really. Ramu did a quick inventory: she was dressed in a smart jacket and pant ensemble, with—surprise, surprise—thin wire-rimmed glasses on her nose. They gave her an unexpected, agreeably intellectual air. That was good, adding a sobriety to her image that Ramu found pleasing. Her manner with him was easy—he guessed that she still hadn’t been told about the discussions between their mothers. She smiled in his direction—and for the first time Ramu wondered: was she attracted to him?
    Ramu toyed with that notion for a little while, and found himself disturbingly pleased with it.
    Later that night, the