Chapter 24
CHAPTER 24
SUNAINA
H onestly, you could take a girl out of Borivali, but you could never take Borivali out of a girl!
Why on earth had I said that thing about pav bhaji and falooda to a man like Viren Chaudhry?
But I hadn’t grown up around all these fancy restaurants. All my Baba could afford was a beach outing followed by pav bhaji from a stall, and those were some of the happiest memories from my childhood. Naturally, when I grew up, I thought the most romantic thing was for a couple to split a falooda with two straws in the same glass. How was I supposed to know that one day I would marry a billionaire whose idea of a date was so different from mine?
But none of that mattered right now. All that mattered was that Viren had asked me out on a date.
I almost walked into the door when it hit me that he had taken the first step towards turning our fake relationship into a real one. Ohmigod! Was he sick? He didn’t look feverish, but what did I know? I wasn’t a doctor.
I saw Sufi arguing with the movers about where to place the jhoola, and I caught him by the arm.
“Sufi Singh! I think Viren is sick,” I cried.
“What? I’ll call the doctor right away,” he said in alarm. “What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know, but he wants to take me out on a date tonight,” I whispered. “Why else would he do something so alien to his nature?”
“Umm…because he’s finally come to his senses?”
“I don’t know about that, but when I get back, you need to help me pick out an outfit for tonight,” I said, heading towards the car waiting for me.
“Hold it, gorgeous. The only place you’re going now is to a salon. Look at the state of you,” he shrieked, but I made my escape when one of the movers called him over to sign for the delivery.
Primping could wait. I had more important things to do.
I picked Tarana up again and took her to Bandra. She looked much happier since her reel went viral.
“Did Tanvir tell you if he found a studio to record your song?” I asked.
“He said he found something, but he wouldn’t give me any details. Said it’s a surprise,” she replied.
To our surprise, the band was waiting for us outside Gino’s house, next to a lime green and yellow Tempo van with the name of the band painted all over it.
“Hope in,” said Atharva from the back of the van. “And hold on to the sides because Perpetua drives like a maniac.”
Tarana and I piled into the vehicle excitedly, and we set off for the super-secret location that turned out to be a very familiar studio in Khar. And the reason I knew the place was because Viren owned it.
“Umm, guys…this place costs a lot of money,” I said, knowing Tarana couldn’t afford to spend so much.
“The owner is letting us use it for free,” he told me with a wink before he led Tarana into the building.
I followed more slowly, wondering why Viren was giving us this space when he disapproved of the whole affair. Because that was the kind of man he was, I realised. There was no limit to his generosity.
By rights, Tarana should have had access to her husband’s studio, but Viren knew Ria Ghosh reigned supreme over there, and getting her to vacate even for an afternoon, especially to accommodate Sarang’s new wife, was going to be very difficult. So he circumvented the problem by offering us his own studio even when he didn’t have to.
Viren didn’t agree with the direction the band was moving in because he didn’t think our audiences were ready for progressive rock with such a heavy classical influence. But he still gave them what they needed because they were his people. Because Tarana and I were his people, too.
I was about to enter the building when someone called my name. I turned around instinctively and recoiled in horror when I realised it was my stepmother, getting out of an autorickshaw.
I turned to go without acknowledging her because this woman had destroyed my childhood and almost destroyed my whole life. I didn’t owe her anything after she tried to sell me to a man twice my age.
“Sunaina! Wait for me,” she cried, throwing some change at the auto driver.
“Are you following me?” I asked, and she tossed her head angrily.
“Not everyone is made of money like your husband. I’m here to meet a client who lives in that building,” she replied, nodding to a posh high-rise next to the studio.
So she was still conning people with her fake astro-vaastu tricks.
“Good for you,” I said and tried to walk away again.
“Arre! What’s your hurry, beta? Don’t you have any time for your poor mother?”
I shook my index finger in her face, and she flinched at the movement.
“Do not call yourself my mother. You were my father’s wife, and then, you tried to be my pimp. That is all you will ever be to me,” I said coldly. “And no, I don’t have any time for you.”
Her face twisted with anger and hatred.
“You think you’re so much better than me just because you have your man supporting you. But wait till he tires of you, beta. Then you’ll come running back to me,” she said viciously.
I shook my head in reply, but she went on.
“Your own father got sick of you and died to get away from the burden that you were. Do you really think you can keep a man like Viren Chaudhry? I don’t know what vashikaran you’ve done on the poor man, but it won’t last forever. The day it wears off, he will recognise you for the trash that you are, and he’ll throw you out with the rest of his garbage,” she hissed.
I knew she was lying. I knew she was lashing out at me because I had refused to be her meal ticket in life. But some inner wounds refused to heal, no matter how irrational they were.
My father had done his best to protect me from my stepmother, and I had always felt that’s why his heart gave out so early. It was because he couldn’t deal with the constant fighting and yelling at home anymore. I had blamed myself for not being dutiful enough, even though Daya Bua had maintained that my father was proud of me until the day he died.
She and Sufi could say what they liked, but I knew there was something completely unloveable about me. That’s why I had nobody in the world to love me. Not in the way that really counted. Even Daya Bua, Sufi and Aisha could vanish if my relationship with Viren ended badly.
As I stared at the ugliness hiding behind my stepmother’s guileless eyes, I wondered why she hated me so much. I had only ever tried to please her. But I never could. I was never enough for her. Well, that hadn’t changed, apparently. I wasn’t even good enough for my husband, which was why he couldn’t wait to divorce me.
And then I remembered that he was taking me out on a date tonight. That had to count for something. It had to mean something good.
I gave my stepmother a thin smile and walked past her without reacting to the venom she had just spouted. The security guard gave me a quick salute and held the door open for me. I felt a strange safety and warmth when I walked into that building. And I knew it was because I was under Viren’s protection in every way. He might not love me, but he cared for me. A lot. And for now, I was content with just that.
It was quite late when we finished the recording. Again, I managed to shoot a lot of content and posted a teaser with the promise of the full video to come soon. The band had booked Tarana for a gig at Hard Rock that weekend, and I promised to take her shopping for clothes.
“A ripped and faded pair of jeans paired with a brocade waistcoat,” suggested Perpetua.
I thought about it for a while and then shook my head.
“Let’s do a brocade crop top with a short black pleated skirt paired with black combat boots with contrasting sequins. I’ll get Sufi to help us glue sequins on a pair of combat boots once he helps us source the clothes,” I said. “And if we can get a darzi to stitch a pair of matching brocade elbow-length fingerless gloves, that would be the perfect touch of madness. If we can’t get the gloves, we’ll find you a big stack of brocade-covered bangles for each hand.”
“Ooh…girly and punk at the same time! I love it,” exclaimed Perpetua, who was the most punk woman I had ever seen.
“But where can we find such clothes and accessories?” asked Tarana, looking completely out of her depth.
“Sufi has sources ,” I proclaimed happily. “He has some mad-talented friends, trust me. And he has some of the country’s best designers and stylists on speed dial. They’ll be falling over themselves to dress you, babe.”
When I got home, Sufi and Aisha were waiting for me, almost hopping with excitement.
“It’s our first date,” they yelled in unison as soon as I walked in the front door.
“Umm…it’s my first date. So please take a chill pill, people,” I said, with a hard eye roll.
“Babe, we’re all so invested in this relationship that we will need extensive therapy with dolls to resolve all that trauma,” said my favourite drama queen.
“Yeah, I don’t need any more therapy, Aunty Sue. So please make this date work,” begged Aisha.
Oy, so much pressure already! And I wasn’t even dressed for my date.
Sufi had set out a high-neck, pleated dress in a dark purple with three-fourth-length sleeves. It didn’t look like much on the hanger, but when I wore it, it looked like a million bucks, especially when I turned around and saw that the back dipped almost to the waist. I paired it with a pair of gold-flecked purple bondage heels just because.
Viren’s eyes darkened with desire when he saw those heels, and I was worried he was going to cancel the date and carry me off to bed. Luckily, Aisha came downstairs just then to say goodnight, and the moment passed.
I slid into the car, being very careful not to flash anyone before I turned to him.
“Where are we going?” I asked, and Viren grinned in reply.
“That’s a surprise,” he said, refusing to reveal anything else.
Thirty minutes later, we arrived at a sea-facing bungalow in Juhu. But we skipped the front door and took the narrow path that led around the house and down to the beach.
“Whose house is this?” I asked.
“A friend’s house. He lives in the US, and very kindly allowed me to borrow it tonight.”
“But why?”
“You’ll see,” he said with a laugh. “You might have to take your shoes off, though.”
He led me down to a private stretch of Juhu beach, cut off from the crowds by a large fence on both sides. There was a romantic table for two set up in the sand, with flowers and citronella candles to keep the mosquitoes away, and rose petals scattered all around it.
There was a host waiting to welcome us, and he poured us some champagne before he left us alone to enjoy the sea, the sand, and the company.
“Here’s to recreating your dream date. Minus the food poisoning, of course,” said Viren, raising his champagne flute in a toast, and I squealed with joy.
“It looks amazing,” I whispered.
We made comfortable small talk for a while, and I felt a slow buzz enveloping me, thanks to the champagne.
“And here’s our dinner, just as Madam ordered. Pav bhaji from a stall,” he announced.
I turned around in surprise to see the chef setting up a pav bhaji stand in one corner, with a falooda counter in the other.
“Are you serious?” I gasped.
“Dead serious. I sent the chef to the thela on the beach to beg for the stall owner’s special recipe. He’s been slaving over it all evening,” said Viren.
I laughed at the absurdity of it, but I was also aware that I was falling even more head-over-heels in love with my fake husband.