Glitter and Gloss Read online

  I bang my head against the main door thrice. I do not want to wake up Sammy. My roommate. Oh, not out of consideration. Not because it’s the third time this month that I’ll be waking him up in the dead of the night. And certainly not because he’ll bite my head off. It’s because I want to be more independent. I don’t want to go crying to my roommate every time something goes wrong.

  But it’s past two in the morning and I have an eleven a.m. shift. I’ve got to crash, like now. I squeeze my eyes shut, place two fingers on my temples, and ape Professor X. And just like that, the door swings open. I’m thrilled, but unfortunately, it’s not telepathy. It’s Sammy, looking all prickly.

  ‘Not again,’ he says sourly, shooting me a disapproving look. He steps back and lets me in.

  ‘You were awake?’ I ask, dropping my voice a couple of notches.

  ‘Why are you doing that?’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Whispering, walking on tip toes?’ Sammy asks irritably. ‘Is it because, let’s see, you don’t want to wake me up?’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ I say indignantly. I let out a sigh. ‘I’m so sorry, Sammy. I prom—’

  ‘Promise it won’t happen again? Yeah, I know.’

  ‘You don’t believe me,’ I say arranging my face into what I hope is a contrite expression.

  ‘Sure I do. I know it won’t happen again…’

  I brighten up.

  ‘… Not until the next time you’re out late, at least,’ he finishes.

  My face falls. ‘I don’t know what to do, Sammy! I really don’t. Do you think I like doing this? Getting locked out? Waking you up? Getting lectured?’

  ‘I don’t know. You aren’t trying hard enough. What you going to do if I’m no longer around?’

  My eyes widen. ‘You are planning to move out!’ I gasp. ‘Because of this?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No! Not because of this…’

  ‘Wait, is it because of what happened in the bathroom?’

  So, last month, we had a little incident. Our building’s overhead tank was getting cleaned. We were supposed to fill buckets first thing in the morning, because, you know, there would be no water supply till six in the evening. And I kind of left the tap on.

  Because, you know, I forgot to fill the buckets. And I didn’t want Sammy to know. So I left the tap on when I went for work. I was going to be back before Sammy. But Poulomi was treating us to pina coladas in The Barking Deer. And you can’t say no to free pina coladas, can you? Long story short, Sammy got home before me. But after the apartment was flooded. So, simultaneously, he got to know that:

  (a) I’d forgotten to fill the buckets in the first place.

  (b) And I’d tried to cover my ass by leaving the tap on.

  It was the first time I’d seen Sammy so angry.

  I scan Sammy’s face. He doesn’t look angry now. He just looks tired and sleep deprived. And instantly, I feel a rush of sympathy for him. He works so hard. His clients are so demanding. They push him so hard, call him over at odd hours and keep him up night and day.

  Sounds dodgy, I know, but it’s all above board. Sammy’s a fitness instructor and a very much in demand personal trainer at Gold Gym. Some of his biggest clients are morning people, so he kind of Needs. His. Sleep.

  I feel so guilty and I guess it shows.

  ‘I’m not moving out,’ he says kindly.

  I nearly slump against the wall in relief. My last roommate used to walk and talk in her sleep. Why do you think I started latching my room door? And the girl before her, god, she was worse. She was a pathological liar. Say, she was in a ‘Pink Top’ and I asked her what she was wearing, she’d reply, ‘Blue Pants’. I mean, she was that bad.

  She would lie about everything. And I mean, everything. For instance, when it was her turn to clean the apartment, she’d claim I’d ‘volunteered’ to do it the night before. And she did it so convincingly, that I felt guilty about having a bad memory and pointing fingers at her. I was so relieved when she got married and moved out.

  And then Sammy showed up. I was a little hesitant. Who wouldn’t be? I mean, a guy roommate? That’s a little unconventional even for the most chilled-out liberal folk. But then, I was in a new job, running short on cash (like always), and kind of desperate (Mumbai rents, goodness!).

  But what a blessing he turned out to be. Cleanliness freak. Super cook. Truthful. Sweet. And best of all, non-lechy. Aren’t you sick of guys who talk to your boobs all the time? I mean, helloooo, the chest is so not the window to a girl’s soul.

  I look at him gratefully now. He rubs his eyes sleepily and lets out a yawn. ‘Try that visualisation technique, hmm? It helps, trust me.’

  So when I finally wash off every bit of the make-up, pull on my night suit, and crawl under the covers, I try it. The visualisation technique. Sammy read that in Man’s Health or one of those fitness glossies he keeps devouring all the time.

  So here’s how it goes. If you’re missing something, all you have to do is close your eyes, meditate upon it and boom! It’ll pop up in your mind’s-eyes. There were three testimonials in the article. All three absent-minded guys claimed, ‘It worked like a charm.’

  I take a deep breath, I squeeze my eyes shut, and think. But instead of my house key, Akshay Agarwal’s face looms up. Smooth and soft and supple. He winks at me conspiratorially. My eyes fly open. This is ridiculous. I try it again, one more time. Whoa! Akshay Agarwal again. He looks lost, too, but he’s so NOT my house keys. I turn over to my side, pull the duvet up to my chin, and hum a couple of lullabies. But no matter how hard I try, sleep remains elusive.

  ‘You look like shit,’ Poulomi tch tches peering at my face.

  I’m dressed in the all-black attire—the store’s unwritten dress code. I know I don’t exactly look lily fresh, but still. So, I used to harbor all these weird notions about friendship. You know, that friends are supposed to spare your feelings. Treat you with kid gloves when the chips are down. Humour you when you are down and out. And then I met Poulomi.

  She’s a great girl, she is. I mean, she’s my best friend. And I’ve known her, like, forever. Okay, for the last five years. Which is practically one fifth of my life. Even back at the Tres Chic Academy, we were inseparable. Precisely why we were called the Siamese Senoritas.

  We did everything together. I mean, everything. We trained together, we ate together, we partied together. We fell in love within weeks of each other. We got dumped around the same time. Even our menstrual cycles were coordinated, for god’s sake.

  ‘Thanks, Poul,’ I mutter.

  My head is throbbing, my eye lids feel heavy, and I’m all woozy. It’s like a bloody hangover, minus the drinking bit. I amble across to the counter and start sanitising the lipstick testers.

  ‘So, how was it?’

  ‘How was what?’ I’m instantly suspicious that Martin has told her something. They aren’t exactly the thickest of friends. But for the last couple of years, they have worked on tons of shows together. And Martin has a big mouth.

  ‘The fashion show, babe, what else?’

  I expel a breath. ‘Yeah, it was okay,’ I say matter-of-factly.

  Poulomi raises an eyebrow. ‘Just okay, Mish?

  And that’s it, the dam bursts. ‘I … I don’t know, it was fine, I guess. But there was so much drama! All those tempers flying, shouting matches, tiffs, nervous breakdowns. And for what? I mean, come on, people, it’s a fashion show, you aren’t exactly saving lives.’

  She studies my face. ‘I thought you were just dying to do an event, just dying to get your hands on the chance to…’

  ‘I know, Poul, I know. But, I’m not sure it’s my cuppa of tea and coffee.’

  Poulomi shrugs and walks up to the mirror and starts painting her mouth in the hottest colour of the season: Relentlessly Red. Poulomi is stunning. I’m not just saying this because she’s my best friend. She thinks she’s fat, but really, if she’s fat, so are the sculptures at Ajanta-Ellora. And she has an alabas
ter complexion. One look at her scarlet pout and the sales of the red lipper will go hurtling through the roof, I’m sure.

  ‘You know what I want to do,’ I sigh.

  ‘Brides,’ Poulomi tells me, a long suffering expression on her face.

  I beam at her. ‘Right! There’s something so pure about doing up a bride. Making a woman look beautiful on her biggest day.’

  ‘My ass, biggest day,’ she grates. ‘Says who?’

  Uh oh. Now I’ve really gone and done it. I brace myself for a full blown Patriarchy Ke Side-Effects speech. Poulomi doesn’t disappoint.

  ‘Could you please, for the love of god, stop parroting the crap you’ve been told over centuries? This is the twenty first frickin’ century, for crying out loud! Marriage is not the only thing we do these days. We do guys—’

  Candice, our other colleague, breezes into the store then. She’s right out of college and the youngest make-up artist in the store. She’s come all the way from Meghalaya to follow her dream. That’s what Poulomi likes to believe. Actually, she followed a guy. A loser who kept her on the hook till Miss Right came along. She’s so sweet, naïve, and innocent that I just want to take her under my big, mother-bird wing and never push her off the nest.

  ‘Vrushali’s not here yet?’ Candice asks, looking around.

  ‘Surprise surprise,’ Poulomi says, glancing at her watch.

  Vrushali’s the store manager. Apart from her weight, the only other thing she cannot manage is her love life. It’s always spilling over into her work life. Needless to add, Vrushali’s not exactly Miss Popularity around here.

  ‘When do you think Her Highness will make an appearance?’

  ‘Twelve,’ Candice grins.

  ‘Twelve thirty,’ I wager.

  ‘Not a second before lunch time,’ Poulomi declares. ‘Just you see!’

  We’re about to launch into an all-out Vrushali bitch fest, but then Rekha, one of our regular customers, sweeps into the store. No, not the actor Rekha, but someone as gorgeous and elegant and quirky.

  Like her Bollywood counterpart (and cool chicas like Cher and Madonna before her) she doesn’t have a surname. She doesn’t need to. She’s one of the most recognisable faces on Mumbai’s social scene. Her late husband used to be a hotshot in the power circles. Rumour has it, she’s currently doing, er, dating a big time politician.

  She’s always dressed matching-matching, and today, she’s in blinding red. ‘Mia, my dear,’ she exclaims. Her heels clatter on the floor as she sashays towards me.

  I complete two months at the store next week, two whole months. But she’s never got my name right, not once. But hey, she’s nice enough and I always make a good commission attending to her.

  ‘Good morning, Ma’am,’ I say, putting on my Rocket-Singh-Salesman-of-the-Year smile.

  She pushes the oversized Prada sunglasses up her head and peers at me.

  ‘Hai, ye teri face ko kya hua? You look so ajeeb!’

  Poulomi hides a grin. I let out a long, weary sigh and proceed to show her the Spring Summer Collection.

  The rest of the day passes in a blur. By closing time, my feet are killing me. I’ve been on my feet for nine hours straight. It’s just one of those days. The store’s in a mall and weekends are crazy hectic.

  ‘I can’t believe Vrushali’s done a no-show. AGAIN!’ Poulomi mutters.

  It’s her third unscheduled day off, this month.

  ‘I wonder how she’s getting away with it,’ I say, shaking my head.

  ‘Oh, she gets by on the kindness of co-workers,’ Poulomi says bitterly. We’ve talked about calling the Head Office in Delhi, but something stops us each time. I mean, we can gossip and bitch all we want, but we aren’t exactly vamps, you know. No matter how much we hate Vrushali’s guts, we don’t want to be the reason for her unemployment.

  ‘I need a drink, so bad,’ Poulomi groans. ‘Social, anyone?’

  That’s the watering hole that doesn’t blow a hole in pockets. I mean, it makes financial sense to drown our sorrows there.

  ‘I’m in,’ Candice pipes up.

  ‘My treat,’ Poulomi says kindly.

  It’s the end of the month, I’m not exactly flushed with funds. Poul may live with her parents, she may not have to pay rent or buy groceries or spend on anything except her cell phone bills, but I can’t keep mooching off her. As Sheldon Cooper put it so eloquently, I’m starting to feel like Penny the Plover in the ecosystem.

  ‘Oh, come on, Mish. Don’t be such a party pooper,’ Poulomi coaxes me.

  ‘But I am pooped,’ I insist. ‘And like everyone keeps telling me, I look like shit,’ I say, with an exaggerated shake of my head.

  ‘Come on, one drink won’t hurt.’

  It’s what she tells me even after I’m four drinks down at the pub. So, by the time I cab it back home, it’s well past midnight. I dip my hand in my bag, rootle around for the house keys, and draw a blank.

  ‘SHIIIITTTTTTTT!’

  I say a silent prayer, ring the doorbell, and slump against the door, waiting for the inevitable.

  ‘OH, FOR GOD’S SAKE!’ Sammy explodes on the other side of the door.

  3

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about your little run-in with Akshay?’ Poulomi pouts, her eyes shooting daggers at me.

  How the hell! Then it strikes me. Martin, who else. He’s such a snitch! It’s been one week.

  One week since that ‘little run-in’ and people just won’t let me forget it. Why can’t I ever have a secret? For once, I’d like to have an embarrassing moment all to myself. Instead of having my nose rubbed in it. In full public view.

  ‘I asked you something, Mish,’ Poulomi says faux patiently.

  ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ I tell her stiffly. I’m biting into a good lunch, tuna sandwich with lots of mayo, and this conversation is totally ruining it.

  I stifle an imaginary yawn and swat at make-believe flies. Where are those customers when you need them?

  ‘Nothing to tell!’ Poulomi gasps. ‘From what I hear, you forced the title sponsor to wear make-up!’

  ‘I did not! I mean, that’s not exactly how it happened.’

  ‘So what exactly happened?’

  She leans forward and I see her eyes shining. I have seen similar looks of anticipation on the faces of bull dogs who are about to be offered juicy bones.

  I shift my weight from one foot to the other, summoning my reserves of patience.

  ‘Well, he … Akki—’

  ‘Oh,’ Poulomi say, crossing her arms over her chest. ‘So it’s “Akki” now?’

  I pull a face. ‘Please! That’s what they kept calling him.’

  ‘Right,’ Poulomi said, not buying it. Not for a minute.

  ‘Look,’ I say crossly. ‘Do you want to hear the story or not?’

  ‘Oh, more than anything else in the world.’

  ‘Fine. So Akshay was being chased after by a marauding model.’

  ‘Marauding model? As in she was carrying a pitchfork?’

  ‘What?’ I blink in confusion.

  ‘She went after him with a bayonet, then?’ Poul sneers.

  ‘Of course not! I mean, she was coming on too strong.’ I say defensively.

  ‘For whose liking, I wonder,’ Poulomi mutters under her breath.

  I pretend not to hear that. ‘Way too strong,’ I repeat for effect.

  ‘And you could tell this how?’ Poulomi asks.

  Hellooo, I’ve got eyes.

  ‘The poor guy,’ I continue, not minding the exasperated looks she is shooting me. ‘He was too polite to tell her off…’ I begin half-heartedly.

  ‘So naturally, you had to step in,’ Poulomi puts in.

  I nod. ‘Naturally.’

  ‘So let me guess, you pulled your compassion sword out of the scabbard like a nymph in shining amore and went galloping to his rescue,’ Poulomi finishes triumphantly.

  When she puts it like that.

  ‘You never learn, do you?’ She
clucks, her voice rising in reprimand.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I squirm.

  ‘It’s Rahul all over again,’ Poulomi bridles.

  ‘It’s so not!’ I blubber.

  Rahul was a mistake. He was also my ex-boyfriend. From hell. I don’t know what I was thinking, really. I’ve had many lapses of judgement, but Rahul? By far the worst.

  ‘You went bounding into the hot mess that was his relationship…’

  He had a psycho girlfriend, for god’s sake. I mean, she used to beat him. I just lent him a shoulder to whine on. That’s what friends do, right? Soon, I was lending him a lot more than my shoulder. And before I knew it, we were seeing each other.

  Things got kind of complicated when I discovered he’d never stopped seeing his GF. Hey, I was the one who issued an ultimatum. So imagine my shock when he chose the pyscho. I was like a zinda laash for weeks.

  Anyway, that’s old hat. Water under the bridge. Ancient history. I’m so over Rahul. But Poulomi, she’s like SRK in Don. Once she gets started, getting her to stop is not only mushkil, it’s namumkin.

  ‘Why can’t you let people be? Why must you act like you’re the Protector of the Realm? Why, Misha, why?’

  It’s something I’ve asked myself. I guess, it’s because I love superheroes, always have. Nitin, my younger brother used to be a huge Marvel/DC buff. And despite my best intentions, some of his comic craziness rubbed off on me.

  When he donned a red undie over his shorts, so did I. When he tied a floral printed sheet behind his back like a cape, I followed suit. In a nutshell, I’ve always wanted to be a superhero. My only superpower, however, is to get into all kinds of shit.

  ‘You know what’s most shady about this whole Akki thingie?’ Poulomi says, giving me a look. ‘That you didn’t breathe a word about it, not a peep. And that makes me wonder.’

  ‘Everything makes you wonder, Poul!’ I grumble, turning away from the counter.

  I have the mind of a frickin’ sieve. Hers, on the other hand, is like a black hole. Nothing escapes it, nothing.

  ‘So why didn’t you tell me about Akshay?’ She says, peering into the computer screen.

  ‘Akki!’ I exclaim, going stiff with shock.