Chapter 4

“Ae Sandy! Suno, idhar aao”

Sandy, who had had a very long day at work, stopped with a small sigh. 

Ritu Aunty had called from her throne behind the billing counter of the beauty salon. The place was buzzing and as Sandy stepped inside, she waved to the many familiar worker bees in Ritu Aunty’s employ.

“Ae Shilpa” Ritu Aunty screeched, “Come here and do Sandy’s eyebrows”.

Sandy tried to protest that it wasn’t urgent and that she would come back another day, but it fell on deaf ears, and she found herself shepherded to the nearest chair by Shilpa, who seemed to have appeared at her elbow. 

Admitting defeat, she put her handbag down and settled into position for eyebrows threading.

While Shilpa worked, Ritu Aunty kept up her usual stream of questions ranging from mildly inappropriate to downright offensive. But Sandy didn’t mind, Ritu Aunty had known her from when she had been a little girl. 

“Your mother told me you’re trying for an MBA again,” she said, “Dekhna, this time you’ll definitely get it!”

Sandy mumbled her thanks but was grateful that Ritu Aunty couldn’t see the grimace on her face. 

She had applied for an MBA at NYU three years ago; Adi sir had been most supportive and had put her up for RK’s in-house scholarship. But that dream had crashed and burned. 

Sandy had not been able to bring herself to apply again until now when circumstances had forced her hand. She had to get out of the office, but this time she had applied to a more realistic, less ambitious University in-country. 

“Fatafat karo, Shilpa” Ritu Aunty instructed, “And just adjust her hair also…no, there’s no time for a wash. Just fluff the front part so it doesn’t stick to her head like a wet mop.”

Sandy, who had been inspecting her now shapely eyebrows in a handheld mirror, looked up in alarm. 

A slow dread crept through her as Shilpa applied some products and ran a hairbrush through her fringe. 

Not today, she thought miserably. Adi sir’s paternity leave had coincided with Shubham’s recent return from the States and RK had, in what Sandy could only deem an ill-advised move, put him in charge in the interim. 

In one week, he had managed to undo her past years’ worth of work in the luxury resorts division.

The Nawabs, who had agreed to sell one of their ancestral properties due to a lack of funds to maintain it, preferred to hold on to their pride and pretend that they were reluctantly parting with it so that its beauty and grandeur may be enjoyed by the common people. 

Assuaging their pride, however, was something Shubham couldn’t or wouldn’t do. After just one virtual meeting with him, the Nawabs had backed out of the deal, preferring to go with another buyer. 

Sandy had been devasted; she had carefully built a relationship with them over the year that included several in-person visits at the haveli. She had a vision of marrying its old-world charm with the luxury of the RK brand to create a magical place. 

She was now dealing with the fallout of the deal falling through. Her demotivated team had taken to calling him Lazybum Kapoor. But Sandy knew Shubham wasn’t lazy, he was listless. 

He had raw, untapped potential and a chip on his shoulder. 

Her thoughts came to an abrupt halt as she climbed up the stairs and spotted five extra pairs of slippers lining the corridor to her home.

Sara di opened the door with a sympathetic smile. 

“I’ve brought chocolate cake” she whispered, letting Sandy pass. 

In the living room, her mother sat on the sofa with two elderly ladies, the single-seater close to her was occupied by an elderly gentleman and the farther one by a young man with an even younger girl perched on the armrest. 

She let her mother make the introductions, remembering them only as the groom, his younger sister, his parents and his aunt.  

With polite hellos, she excused herself to freshen up.

Sara di followed her into her bedroom.

“He’s an investment banker,” she said, handing Sandy the salwar suit she had picked out for the occasion. “They seem like a very nice family; father is a retired railways official and mother is a homemaker. Two kids, the boy Rohan and his younger sister who is in Class 12.”

“I thought we were past this” Sandy whined, wriggling out of her work clothes. ”Ma had promised no more rishtas.”

Sara di clucked in sympathy. “They arrived unexpectedly; the boy’s aunt is Mami’s distant cousin.”

Sandy sat on the bed, pulling on the uncomfortable churidar. The kurta too was a tad tight for her, the embroidery at the neck and wrist itchy.

“I know it's all weird and old-fashioned, but you do want to get married and settle down, no?” Sara Di said, touching her chin and blowing a kiss. “Such a pretty face.”

Sandy rolled her eyes, her sister’s love for her was truly blind. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the way out, she decided that she looked as best as she could. The fact that that wasn’t very much, she decided, was not her problem.

In the living room, she pondered Sara Di’s words. Growing up, she had been raised by a feminist mother and sisters and even though they had never implied that the purpose of her life was to get married and have children, she had always imagined that someday she would. 

Adult life had taught her that not having conventional good looks decreased her chances, whether it was of finding someone herself or finding success in the arranged marriage market. 

To be honest, it had never really bothered her. She had been too preoccupied with studying, her career and looking after her family.

Except for the one time it had mattered. 

But she chose not to think of that as she led Rohan, per the family’s instructions, to the balcony for a chat. 

He was a decent man; she could tell straight away. Several heads taller than her, he stooped and cocked his ear every time she spoke.

He was pleasant looking and soft-spoken. He asked about her career and admitted to being more than a little awkward with the Rishta setup.

“Do you think we could go out for a cup of coffee this weekend?” he asked, “It will be easier to chat in a more informal setting.”

Sandy glanced back at the living room. Her mother was pretending to listen to her guests, but her eyes darted back and forth from the balcony. And Sara di had a tense smile on her face as she tried to engage everyone in conversation.

She could go for coffee with this kind man, that much she could very well do for them. For one afternoon, she could forget the other man with kind eyes. 

She agreed and tried her best to take solace in everyone’s delight at her decision.

Later at night, she lay in bed, uncomfortably full after having eaten most of Sara Di’s chocolate cake for dinner and dessert. 

Her mind had a habit of running, nightly, a court of justice in which Shubham was on trial for the many offences levelled against him. 

The list began eight years ago when he had run her off the road by his reckless driving, perhaps under the influence. She had fallen in a ditch and having used her left hand to break the fall, found that one fragile forearm bone had cracked under her weight. She’d had had to wear a cast for months and despite being a right-handed person, came to realise the value of her left hand in daily life. 

The subsequent year, he had spent, under his mother’s tutelage, sabotaging the married lives of Akshay bhai and Shivi Bhabhi and Priya Di and Ram Jiju. This had culminated in the tragic, untimely death of Shivi Bhabhi and Priya Di’s subsequent incarceration. This period was so traumatic that even today, Sandy shuddered and drew her blanket close thinking of it. 

In the five years after, Sandy had had the misfortune of working in the same department as him. He had had the familiar listlessness about him- he had refused to take anything seriously, cited the loss of his sister for stealing credit from her and created the familiar brand of chaos that accompanied him. 

And then two years ago, he had stolen the MBA scholarship from right under her nose. 

She knew that despite the wealth and glamour, his life hadn’t been easy. He had lost his father and his twin; his mother was a nightmare, and he had a brother that he couldn’t possibly live up to. But none of these were good enough excuses. She had had a tough life too but hadn’t resorted to taking out her frustrations on others. 

As ever, there were only two arguments in his favour- and Sandy was sensible enough to acknowledge that they were less tangible and more likely to have resulted from her own wishful thinking. 

The first was the inexplicable kindness of his eyes, they always spoke a different language than his words. 

She rubbed her right hand. The second reason was even more flimsy than the former. As she closed her eyes, she was as sure as she had ever been that two years ago, when she had fallen off the stage and injured her right hand, she hadn’t actually fallen but that he had pushed her. Out of the way.