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Authors: Meghna Pant
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shards of glass all around her. She had to realize that Danesh and her life together was a misstep, not a car crash. Something could change.
She grabbed a drink from one of the trays passing by, took a long swig, and walked over to Dolly.
âI donât think weâve met. I am Mrs Shroff,â Nadia said, extending her hand towards Dolly.
Dolly spun around with a smile that disappeared when she saw that it was Nadia. She pursed her thin lips firmly and said, âI know,â turning back to a nervous servant, treating Nadia the way Danesh did: as invisible.
Nadia pictured their legs wrapped together, Dollyâs legs bent with the muscular grit of a treeâs boughs, her interest severe, something heâd desire. She imagined him setting down his glass of sour, which he enjoyed after sex, the tip of his little finger muffling the impact of the glass.
âAre you sure you know me?â Nadia said.
Dollyâs eyes hovered over the room, indirect but measuring looks, probably seeking Danesh. He must have been talking to someone, for Dolly returned her confused eyes to Nadia. A shroud of unspoken thoughts hung between them. Nadia didnât yield.
âOf course Iâm sure who you are, Nadia,â Dolly replied, arching her rather hostile black eyebrows.
âNot Nadia, I am Mrs Shroff.â
âIs this some kind of a joke?â
Nadia sensed Dollyâs stony energy, full of contempt.
âIs it? Tell me, who are you?â
âYou, my dear, have clearly had too much to drink.â
Her âmy dearâ was cold and patronizing.
âWho. Are. You?â Nadia repeated.
âI am Dolly. This is my house. We are having a party. And you are a guest here.â
âYou are not Dolly. You are Mrs Makhija . And I am Mrs Shroff . Do you understand me, Mrs Makhija?â
For the first time there was comprehension in Dollyâs eyes. Her powdered face turned pale. Anxiety made her eyes blink.
âSo, Mrs Makhija, how well do you know my husband, Mr Shroff?â
To her credit Dolly didnât flinch. The only outward sign she showed of any distress was an endless guzzle she took from her wine glass.
Nadia imitated her, but couldnât be as controlled. Her hand jerked and she spilled her drink onto the marble floor. She watched Dollyâs petite feet step back and by the time she looked up Dolly was gone, hidden in one of the many rooms.
âSo the hand has found a glove, eh?â she heard Bamanâs voice behind her.
Nadia winced. If she turned around, she could spend her night with Baman, a stranger whoâd bring his life story to her like a gift she could gracefully unwrap. They would laugh, more than necessary, ask questions no one else had in a long time, and do what had been done to them.
Or she could confront Danesh; tell him that she knew. She could begin to exact his attention under the pretences of hurt and betrayal, claim latitude, some indulgence, in return for what she had undergone, and lost, love that could never be repaired. And he would come back to her, burdened by his guilt, her sadness, their emptiness. Heâd promise never to talk to Dolly again or attend her parties.
But either recourse seemed like a huge effort, when all Nadia wanted to do was return to her house, her room, her bed and her pillow, where the hollow sheâd created was at least her own. She was too tired to care that Danesh and she stayed in a marriage that had run its course, become a habit more than a necessity, and had taken so much out of her that she felt nothing but numbness for any other emotion, any other activity, any other man.
So she walked away from the loss of her actions, without another thought.
~
In the weeks after her mother died, Nadia had treated Danesh in the same way that he treated her now. But he was not deterred. Every night he scrambled into the cold cleft of mattress between them, lying perfectly still, holding her, till she rolled
She grabbed a drink from one of the trays passing by, took a long swig, and walked over to Dolly.
âI donât think weâve met. I am Mrs Shroff,â Nadia said, extending her hand towards Dolly.
Dolly spun around with a smile that disappeared when she saw that it was Nadia. She pursed her thin lips firmly and said, âI know,â turning back to a nervous servant, treating Nadia the way Danesh did: as invisible.
Nadia pictured their legs wrapped together, Dollyâs legs bent with the muscular grit of a treeâs boughs, her interest severe, something heâd desire. She imagined him setting down his glass of sour, which he enjoyed after sex, the tip of his little finger muffling the impact of the glass.
âAre you sure you know me?â Nadia said.
Dollyâs eyes hovered over the room, indirect but measuring looks, probably seeking Danesh. He must have been talking to someone, for Dolly returned her confused eyes to Nadia. A shroud of unspoken thoughts hung between them. Nadia didnât yield.
âOf course Iâm sure who you are, Nadia,â Dolly replied, arching her rather hostile black eyebrows.
âNot Nadia, I am Mrs Shroff.â
âIs this some kind of a joke?â
Nadia sensed Dollyâs stony energy, full of contempt.
âIs it? Tell me, who are you?â
âYou, my dear, have clearly had too much to drink.â
Her âmy dearâ was cold and patronizing.
âWho. Are. You?â Nadia repeated.
âI am Dolly. This is my house. We are having a party. And you are a guest here.â
âYou are not Dolly. You are Mrs Makhija . And I am Mrs Shroff . Do you understand me, Mrs Makhija?â
For the first time there was comprehension in Dollyâs eyes. Her powdered face turned pale. Anxiety made her eyes blink.
âSo, Mrs Makhija, how well do you know my husband, Mr Shroff?â
To her credit Dolly didnât flinch. The only outward sign she showed of any distress was an endless guzzle she took from her wine glass.
Nadia imitated her, but couldnât be as controlled. Her hand jerked and she spilled her drink onto the marble floor. She watched Dollyâs petite feet step back and by the time she looked up Dolly was gone, hidden in one of the many rooms.
âSo the hand has found a glove, eh?â she heard Bamanâs voice behind her.
Nadia winced. If she turned around, she could spend her night with Baman, a stranger whoâd bring his life story to her like a gift she could gracefully unwrap. They would laugh, more than necessary, ask questions no one else had in a long time, and do what had been done to them.
Or she could confront Danesh; tell him that she knew. She could begin to exact his attention under the pretences of hurt and betrayal, claim latitude, some indulgence, in return for what she had undergone, and lost, love that could never be repaired. And he would come back to her, burdened by his guilt, her sadness, their emptiness. Heâd promise never to talk to Dolly again or attend her parties.
But either recourse seemed like a huge effort, when all Nadia wanted to do was return to her house, her room, her bed and her pillow, where the hollow sheâd created was at least her own. She was too tired to care that Danesh and she stayed in a marriage that had run its course, become a habit more than a necessity, and had taken so much out of her that she felt nothing but numbness for any other emotion, any other activity, any other man.
So she walked away from the loss of her actions, without another thought.
~
In the weeks after her mother died, Nadia had treated Danesh in the same way that he treated her now. But he was not deterred. Every night he scrambled into the cold cleft of mattress between them, lying perfectly still, holding her, till she rolled
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