Arzu

by Riva Razdan

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

It became the summer that Arzu gained and lost everything that girlhood had set her up for.

It is 1991, and India's economy is opening up to foreign investment for the very first time. For wealthy business families across the country, however, it is a move fraught with uncertainty. In Bombay, Arzu, the pampered daughter of a newspaper mogul, finds the situation particularly tense. Her one concern is to score a proposal from her millionaire boyfriend before the country's celebrated liberalization sours his mood any further.

Then, an innocent gesture on her part causes all her plans to go awry, and Arzu escapes to New York City with her snobby aunt Parul on the pretext of attending finishing school. While Parul Bua's one-point agenda is to find her a suitable match, Arzu, revelling in the heady independence that New York offers, finds herself poised on the brink of an idea that could change the nature of an entire industry back home.

Now, even as Arzu negotiates catty debutante-ball drama and evades the charms of her father's smug protégé, she must prove her worth to investors so as to silence her critics. The question remains, can someone who has always played second fiddle to the men in her life discover how to become the heroine of her own story?

Release date: January 25, 2022

Publisher: Hachette India

Print pages: 288

Sample

A Party and a Perhaps

1 June 1991

THE DELICATE LEAVES OF the gulmohar tree fluttered against the large window of the Agarwal house. A mosaic of morning light pooled on the table where Arzu Agarwal was arranging a forest of white carnations in preparation for her twenty-first birthday party that afternoon.

Maids and waiters in their ‘guest’ uniforms flitted about the main hall folding table napkins, hanging garlands of freshly cut jasmine and dusting imaginary specks of dust from the extravagant rangoli of a peacock at the entrance of their home, which had taken Arzu all morning to create. Their frenetic movement slowed to a less conspicuous pace as Arzu entered the room in a pale-pink dress that was cinched to flaunt her slim waist. She hadn’t eaten a morsel of food since yesterday, but it would all be worth it when Aditya Prabhu saw her in the silky slip. Still, she couldn’t help but salivate as she caught sight of the platters of finger sandwiches and little cupcakes arranged on the table. She distracted herself from the hunger that erupted in her gut by examining the room. It was perfect; just as it should be. She couldn’t wait for Mrs Prabhu to see her handiwork – to gauge how beautifully Arzu could manage a home.

The doorbell rang and Arzu nodded to the maids. A quick exchange of glances occurred, and one of them disappeared upstairs. Arzu gave herself a quick once-over in her reflection on a silver vase before the door opened and Parul Bua entered, her plump figure swathed in a gold sari and her mouth already curved in admonishment.

‘Meera, sweetheart, don’t tell me you’re wearing that,’ she said in a slight British accent.

Arzu never understood where her aunt’s accent had come from. She claimed it was a remnant from her Anglo-French finishing school in England, but Arzu suspected it was intended to make all her well-meant advice sound bitingly sarcastic.

‘We got it made by your tailor,’ Arzu pointed out.

‘Yes, but for a more youthful summer party. It’s obviously not appropriate today,’ she said.

Arzu never opposed her aunt, but her expression betrayed that she didn’t see what was so obviously inappropriate about her outfit. It was knee-length for god’s sake.

‘Meera, darling,’ Parul Bua began, ‘what was the point of breaking your back over that peacock rangoli if you are going to wear this dress and ruin everything?’

Arzu rolled her eyes. Nevertheless, she turned around and let her aunt frogmarch her into her room to be changed.



The party was under way by the time they returned; Arzu with her hair in a braid and wearing a traditional pink kurta over white cotton tights. Parul Bua had loaned her large rose gold hoops as a concession, and Arzu thought she looked quite nice, although she would never admit it to her aunt. She only listened to her because she knew that Parul Bua had her best interests at heart. The truth was that Aditya’s mother would probably not have been impressed by Arzu flaunting her chest and her bare, slender arms all afternoon.

‘Chin up, Meera. You look lovely,’ Parul Bua whispered as they walked through the hall which was now filled with guests holding glasses of Coca-Cola.

Arzu smiled. Her spirit naturally rebelled against her aunt’s bullying but she was the only person Arzu could rely on for guidance in getting Aditya to propose to her. After all, Parul Bua herself was married to one of the wealthiest pharmaceutical barons in the country. She knew a thing or two about navigating the virtue traps of illustrious Hindu families. Having been raised by her father, Arzu knew nothing. But she was eager to learn if it meant getting the conservative Prabhus to accept her as their daughter-in-law.

Ajit Agarwal grinned as Arzu approached him and his group of businessmen. He hugged his daughter fondly.

‘Can you believe it?’ he said, turning to his peers. ‘My little girl is twenty-one, and with a BA in economics to boot!’

‘It seems like just yesterday she was stealing the felt markers from the newsroom,’ Mr Bhatia said.

‘Gosh, I remember that. And that time she pulled out the keys from Sandra’s typewriter.’ Mr Fernandez laughed.

‘Only because I thought she was making a pass at Daddy,’ Arzu shot back.

The men laughed.

‘Which she was, Daddy. Her V-necks went right down to her belly button for a reason.’

‘Meera!’ Parul Bua exclaimed, frowning, but Ajit Agarwal laughed.

‘Call her what you want, Parul,’ he said, chuckling, ‘but she’s been raised by a newspaperman!’

‘She’s got your wit that’s for sure,’ Mr Bhatia said.

Arzu immediately bit her lip, hoping the Prabhus were not within earshot.

Ajit Agarwal noticed the consternation on Arzu’s face. ‘Is everything okay, sweetheart?’

She nodded, smiling. Just then, there was a tap on Ajit’s shoulder and he turned to see Ajinkya Prabhu, dressed in his characteristic white shirt-white pant combination, grinning at him.

‘Ajinkya, so good of you to come!’ Ajit Agarwal said, shaking Mr Prabhu’s hand.

‘How could I miss such a lovely young girl’s birthday?’ Mr Prabhu exclaimed. ‘Please, please accept a gift from our family.’

Mr Prabhu’s driver emerged from his employer’s shadow, buckling under the weight of 5 kilos of Haldiram’s sweets.

‘Thank you so much, Ajinkya Uncle,’ Arzu said, smiling.

Arzu nodded to one of the passing waiters. A moment later, a maid appeared, took half the boxes from Mr Prabhu’s driver and disappeared with him into the kitchen without any fuss. Well-oiled machine, Arzu thought, smiling to herself. And with Aditya’s father here to witness it too! She caught Parul Bua’s eye, who nodded approvingly at Arzu.

Just then, Mrs Prabhu arrived, dressed in an orange sari. She wished Arzu a happy birthday and smiled at her from where she stood a step behind her husband. She made no attempt to come any closer so Arzu didn’t try to hug her.

‘What would you like to drink, Ajinkya Uncle?’ she asked. ‘We have actual Coca-Cola. None of that Thums Up, Limca nonsense!’

Ajinkya turned his broad shoulders towards her and frowned. ‘Where did you get Coca-Cola from?’

‘We imported it specially,’ Arzu said, smiling, but she noticed the expressions of the men before her had become wary, as though they were preparing for a fight.

‘No, thank you,’ Ajinkya said to the waiter who stood by them, proffering a tray of glasses. Mrs Prabhu refused too. Arzu noticed her father bristle as he took a sip from his glass. ‘It’s not against the law, you know, Ajinkya,’ he said lightly.

‘It should be,’ Mr Prabhu retorted, his tone sharper than before. ‘It is the reason our country is near bankrupt!’

Arzu’s eyes widened. She repressed the urge to laugh. But a low chuckle did rip through the air. Arzu touched her lips to ensure that the sound hadn’t escaped from her. Fortunately, it had come from elsewhere, from a young man at the bar, one of her father’s employees.

‘It’s not a laughing matter, young man,’ Ajinkya Prabhu challenged.

‘It is if you honestly believe that foreign imports are the reason the nation is almost bankrupt,’ he said. His voice was crisp with humour as he made his way to join the distinguished group of men he was addressing. ‘The question shouldn’t be whether we should import foreign items or not. It should be why we don’t have the dollars to pay for them. Maybe the nation wouldn’t be so beggared if the state would relax the millions of permits and licences needed for a citizen to start a business. A citizen, without the right contacts, that is.’

‘The state permits serve a necessary purpose, young man! They ensure that only people who know how to manage businesses start them. If any Tom, Dick and Harry started a business with his capital, the whole place would be overrun by Bihari babus thinking they have a knack for trade,’ Mr Prabhu’s voice rose to a growl. ‘The Congress’s policies protect people from wasting their time and money!’

‘Not any more,’ the young man shrugged, smiling coolly even though Ajinkya Prabhu, the owner of Minty Toothpastes, the biggest dental cleaning conglomerate in India, was yelling at him. He looked at the men around him in shocked anger, as though urging them to take up arms against this ignorant youngster, but they simply looked down at their drinks, avoiding his gaze.

‘What do you mean “not any more”?’ Ajinkya Prabhu grunted. His wife put an arm on his.

Arzu wished the strange young man would shut up, but he didn’t.

‘I mean that the Congress is dead. Their leader, Rajiv Gandhi, is dead. And the International Monetary Fund has ordered India to either accept foreign direct investment or say bye-bye to their loan of 250 million dollars. I’m afraid you better start enjoying the imports. They’re going to be a fixture pretty soon.’ The young man raised his glass and took a swig of Coke.

Ajinkya Prabhu’s face was so red Arzu thought he was going to pop a blood vessel. She looked to her father for help to shut this young man up or to somehow assuage her future father-in-law’s temper, but Ajit Agarwal was grinning at the insolent man with tender warmth.

‘Don’t mind him, Ajinkya,’ he said. ‘This is my foreign correspondent, Siddhant Marwah. He gets paid to be challenging.’

‘Challenging isn’t the word I’d use for you, young man,’ Parul Bua said, even more annoyed than Arzu that her niece’s perfect moment to impress the Prabhus had been ruined.

‘Really, Parul? Then what word would you use?’ Ajit Agarwal asked, smiling innocently.

Parul glared at her brother. She turned to Mrs Prabhu to salvage the situation.

‘Sunita-ji, why don’t we leave the men to their boring politics and let Meera show you around the house?’ she said, putting one arm around Arzu.

‘Meera?’ Mrs Prabhu asked, her right eyebrow arching slightly.

‘It’s my middle name,’ Arzu explained, smiling.

‘It’s what we call her at home,’ Parul Bua insisted, tittering.

‘It’s what you call her,’ Ajit Agarwal said.

‘She will change it to Meera officially, after marriage,’ Parul Bua continued, ignoring her brother.

Mrs Prabhu smiled, nodding slightly.

Arzu avoided her father’s gaze; she was now experiencing its full weight.

‘Is that so?’ he asked, his tone tinged with annoyance.

Arzu pretended not to hear him as she followed Mrs Prabhu and Parul Bua deeper into the house.



The Agarwal house had never wanted for anything but people. Arzu beamed with pride as she led Mrs Prabhu down the marble corridors filled with guests from the wealthiest business families in Bombay, waving to her as she passed by. In the summer following her graduation from St. Xavier’s College, Arzu had become uncharacteristically outgoing, especially keen to impress the Prabhus with her wide social circle which included the sons and daughters of the most influential people in Bombay. The guest list glittered with industrialists and movie stars, none of whom she knew well, but all of whom were happy to perform rituals of friendship in return for a sophisticated affair at the famously secluded Agarwal bungalow in Pali Hill, a quiet, tree-lined neighbourhood in Bombay.

Arzu had been reclusive during school, preferring to spend her time with her father at his offices, reading while he worked, or at some sport in the evenings, where she could exercise and perfect her skills. But at the age of sixteen, during her first year at college, when her toned, athletic figure was no longer shrouded by the dark grey of her school uniform but accentuated by the little Parisian dresses bought with her father on their trips abroad, Arzu found herself the centre of attention of many young boys, while also discovering a flair for flirting with them. It gave her a rush of power to sit in the college canteen, with her long, fair legs demurely crossed at the ankles, and smile at the gang of male first years who buzzed around her, generously laughing at their inane jokes or teasingly making some of her own. Her eyes dancing all the while, her painted pink lips pouting just enough to give them a glimpse of the possibilities she held in her will.

Aditya Prabhu had seen her there, but hadn’t joined the horde. As one of her admirers got up to fetch Arzu a bottle of Thums Up, Aditya had walked up to her and offered to drive her home, right in the middle of the college day. For all Arzu’s apparent audacity, she was immediately nervous about the handsome, tall boy who stood before her and what he was daring her to do.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. ‘Haven’t you skipped class before?’

‘Of course I have,’ Arzu said automatically, her chin jutting out. ‘But I’d rather take my car.’ She stood up and began walking towards the exit.

Aditya laughed and followed her, walking past the boy who had just returned with her drink.

Even though it was her car, he drove them, and she was glad of it because she had plenty of time to observe him as they sped down Marine Drive. She enjoyed seeing his strong forearm clutch the gear authoritatively as they talked about their schools, families and what they were doing at college. Arzu liked that their conversation had already become so personal. She loved that he knew exactly what he was going to do.

‘A BA in economics,’ he said, grinning. ‘And then I’ll take over my dad’s business.’

‘What does your father do?’

Aditya looked hesitant for a moment. He turned a corner, leaving a lull in their conversation so Arzu decided to intervene.

‘I’m thinking of doing a BA in English, but I’m still undecided,’ she said. ‘My father is in the newspaper business.’

‘Oh, really? Which newspapers?’

‘All the Indian Ink ones,’ she replied, looking at him squarely. She hoped this information would do the trick.

And it did. She watched as realization dawned on Aditya’s face, and he became a little less guarded.

‘Is he a journalist or an editor?’

‘He’s the owner,’ Arzu said.

Aditya Prabhu relaxed into a grin as Arzu had expected him to. Now Aditya could speak freely. She was another child of privilege, as rare as himself in a country with as much poverty as theirs.

‘Minty Toothpastes,’ he said. ‘I’m going to help run it very soon. So I want the degree in econ to make sure I’ve got all the tools and knowledge I need.’

‘Then what are you doing skipping class in the middle of the day?’

‘I don’t usually skip class,’ he said, glancing at her. ‘This was my first time in a few months. But it seemed like a pretty good reason.’

Arzu smiled, and looked out of the window at the Arabian Sea glittering under the afternoon sun. She hadn’t felt so wonderfully satisfied with her place in the world as she was in that moment. She declared her degree at college, as a bachelor of arts in economics the very next day.

Ajit Agarwal was surprised by the change from her initial plan to pursue literature, but he approved of it. Arzu had a sharp mind, and it would do her good to understand the financial workings of the world. But in the three years of her education, he realized that knowledge wasn’t her main pursuit. It was Aditya Prabhu, and it was a successful pursuit to say the least. They took the same classes, and spent their evenings studying at her house or exercising together at his personal gym. On the weekends, she accompanied him to the many parties he was invited to, dressed in something dazzling. She loved watching Aditya’s chest broaden with pride as his friends complimented her on her appearance. She loved the way he held her hand and introduced a crowd full of strangers to his ‘gorgeous girlfriend’, and then how he clutched her waist when he thought nobody was looking to steal a quick kiss. She felt desirable, witty and triumphant. And she planned to remain that way for the rest of their lives.

She knew that his family was conservative, but that was only because they were from a great Maratha family of freedom fighters during the colonial rule, which had retained their distrust of all things foreign. Besides, Aditya was different from his old-fashioned father who still only wore traditional khadi fabrics out of principle. Aditya loved his Oxford shirts, the Bombay discotheques and his Italian cars, and Mr Prabhu didn’t begrudge his son any of that, acknowledging that Aditya belonged to a new, modern generation. It made Arzu believe that once she had won Mr and Mrs Prabhu over by showing them that she could be respectful of traditions when the occasion demanded, then she and Aditya could go on to lead their independent lives as they liked, without any interference from the in-laws.

Which is what they had been doing all these years in college, and the Prabhus had never expressed any discontent. But as Parul Bua had pointed out a few days after her graduation, they had never exactly expressed any approval either. Otherwise, Arzu would already be engaged and picking out designs for her wedding sari instead of planning an extravagant birthday party with famous people she barely knew just to impress the Prabhus.

That was when she had started listening to Parul Bua; letting her dress her in traditional kurtas and addressing her by her Hindu middle name instead of the Muslim one that her mother had chosen for her.

Still, none of this seemed to impress Mrs Prabhu, whose expression had been one of bored disapproval ever since they left the main hall. She seemed perfectly indifferent to the delight of the festivities and to Parul Bua’s constant chatter. She sniffed at the flower garlands Arzu had designed as party favours, shut her ears when the classical sitar players began strumming their instruments, and she never tried a single finger sandwich the waiters offered her. Arzu didn’t understand what her problem was. But her name meant ‘hope’, and she wasn’t giving up any time soon.

If only Aditya would get here sooner, she thought.

‘Aunty,’ she said, shooting Mrs Prabhu her prettiest smile, ‘do you know what time Aditya is getting here?’

‘He’s not,’ Mrs Prabhu said.

Arzu’s smile froze. She saw a light finally come into Sunita Prabhu’s dead eyes, and it gave her expression a quietly vindictive edge. She knew she wasn’t imagining it because Parul Bua saw it too, and stiffened in response.

‘Is he unwell?’ Parul Bua asked, smiling.

‘No. He is perfectly fine,’ said Sunita Prabhu, relishing every word that dropped from her tongue.

‘Well then, where is he?’ Arzu asked, struggling to keep her voice light and only mildly curious.

‘He’s visiting my family in Pune.’ Sunita Prabhu flicked the hair off her shoulder negligently. ‘He seems to be very taken with one of the daughters of their neighbours. We can hardly keep him at home on the weekends these days. But then, we trust her parents. They’re very respectable people. So I’m sure she will be a good influence on him.’

Arzu’s lips went pale and her smile faded. Parul Bua immediately took her hand. She smiled at Sunita Prabhu and said, ‘Please excuse us, I just remembered that I had left the kheer Meera and I had been making on the stove.’

‘No problem,’ Sunita Prabhu said, smiling. She suddenly put her hand on Arzu’s shoulder and said with extreme sweetness, ‘Hope your kheer doesn’t burn, Arzu beta.’

Arzu tilted her chin, nodded, and let Parul Bua guide her to the kitchen.

Drive

‘SANJAY MITTAL’S SON JUST returned from college. Harvard. Then there are the Gargs. You know their son, Rohit. Very handsome, and they own Garg Diamonds. Much more valuable than toothpaste crystals.’

Parul Bua was pacing up and down Arzu’s room as she rattled off a list of boys of marriageable age. The last of their guests had left an hour ago, taking with them Arzu’s final vestige of forced good humour. At first, she was glad that Parul Bua had stayed. She had hoped they could strategize together, pull out some ace that would trump Sunita Prabhu’s devious hand. But Parul Bua seemed uninterested in launching any kind of counter-attack. Her preferred recourse was to get Arzu married to someone richer and more important than the Prabhus. That would show them. But Arzu had never been interested in wealth or importance; all she wanted was Aditya. And right now, all she needed was for Parul Bua to leave, so that she could get some time on her own to think.

‘What’s wrong, Meera?’ Parul Bua asked as Arzu began to massage her temples lightly and undo the braid that suddenly felt like it was strangling her scalp. She shook out her long hair as though willing the waves and tendrils to drop all the anxieties that were clogging up her mind.

‘Rohit Garg is a bit shy, I know. But you can change all that. In any case, he will have to become more confident once he starts working with his father. Best to get him now before all the other girls latch on, and when he has a soft spot for you. His mother told me so, at the parlour last month. Apparently, he saw you at the Lalits’ Holi party? I never brought it up then because…well anyway, I’m bringing it up now. He’s a good fellow, even if he is a bit awkward. But you can change that. You will be good for him and he for you. What do you think?’

‘Bua, I don’t want to marry anyone else,’ Arzu said, rolling her eyes. ‘Can’t we talk about Aditya –’

‘No, we cannot,’ Parul Bua said firmly. She stopped pacing to stand in front of where Arzu was seated on the bed and held her shoulder with one arm, so that her gold bangles scraped a little against Arzu’s bare shoulder. ‘Forget about Aditya. He’s spoken for now.’

Arzu’s eyes widened with shock. Her aunt wasn’t one to give up without a fight. Two years after she had moved to Bombay, she had famously ensnared pharmaceutical tycoon Brij Bajaj even though he had been engaged to another girl.

‘Engagements break every day,’ Arzu pronounced defiantly.

‘Yes, but this one won’t.’ Parul Bua shook her head. ‘Listen. It was different with me, sweetheart. Ajit didn’t own the Indian Ink yet. Nobody of importance knew who I was or which family I belonged to. I was lucky that someone like Brij, from a family like his, looked my way at the poolside of Sun-n-Sand. He was my best offer so I had no choice but to marry him even if his mother hated me. I spent too much of my life winning her over. And till her death, I don’t think I did. But you have choices, Arzu. You’re an heiress and even better looking than I was. And we will get you married to someone rich and dashing before people start cackling about how Prabhu went out with you for five years and married someone else.’

Arzu’s expression froze. She suddenly felt very cold, as though she was seated alone on a damp stone bench of Marine Drive in the monsoons. Parul Bua noticed her shiver and lifted the insistent pressure off her arm. She caressed her niece’s pretty face.

‘Take off the rouge with coconut oil. None of that make-up remover nonsense,’ she said as she kissed Arzu’s cheek goodbye.

Arzu nodded, still terror-struck.

‘Happy birthday, sweetheart,’ Parul Bua whispered, and she strode out the door, her golden pallu swinging behind her.

Arzu waited to hear the sound of the metal elevator door clang shut. When it did, and there was no chance of Parul Bua returning, she got up and scribbled a little list to get her thoughts in order.

Choices

1. Confront Aditya. Call him at Pune farmhouse. Ask him what the hell is going on. No. No. Temper will not do. Calmly ask him what the hell is going on. Be sweet.

2. Wait till Aditya returns, then confront him. But what if he is already engaged by then?

a) Show up at Prabhu house. Sweet talk Sunita. Win her over. Get her to take me to farmhouse. Sure. Then get her to slip on a silk dress and drink a glass of champagne with you at Siddhivinayak Temple.

3. Meet Rohit Garg

While writing, the obvious solution, borne out of something Parul Bua had mentioned, revealed itself to her. Parul Bua had no choice. And so she got Brij Uncle. Arzu had too many choices. That was the problem. She immediately threw away the list.



Ajit Agarwal was still in the living room chatting with the young man from the party, the one who had ruined Ajinkya Prabhu’s mood. They were seated among fallen streamers and deflated balloons, swigging from glasses of brandy when Arzu emerged.

She hadn’t expected her father to have company, and she was suddenly very conscious of her pyjama shorts paired with her father’s oversized T-shirt. It didn’t help that Siddhant Marwah seemed obviously struck by her get-up, his lips curving in an amused smile.

It didn’t matter what he thought, she decided. Only one thing mattered at the moment.

‘Daddy, I’d like to go to the races tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Is it okay if I take the car?’

‘Sure, sweetheart, it’s yours to take,’ he said.

‘I didn’t know the Bombay races had begun,’ Siddhant Marwah said.

Her father paused mid-sip and looked straight at Arzu. ‘Actually, I don’t think they have, have they?’ he asked.

Arzu glared at her father’s nosy companion as she spoke in her most withering tone. ‘They haven’t. But the Pune season has begun. And our family goes every year. People expect to see us there.’

She didn’t mean to sound snobbish, but the journalist’s unnecessary comments were twisting a knot into her carefully laid-out plans. Already Ajit Agarwal was frowning, looking at her curiously, trying to ferret out the secret from his daughter’s doe-eyed countenance.

‘Why are you going all the way to Pune? The proper racing begins in July; there’s nothing to see till then. Nobody to mingle with even.’

‘It’s hardly all the way, Daddy. It’s just a two- to three-hour drive,’ she pointed out, coming forward to perch on the sofa’s arm, so she could give her father’s arm an affectionate squeeze as she spoke. ‘Besides, I’ll be able to do a little riding practice on my own and spend some time reading at the Turf Club library. I’ve had enough of mingling in any case.’

Arzu saw Ajit Agarwal’s eyes light up at this last suggestion. He would much rather have Arzu spend her time on sport and books than flitting from beauty salon to brunch as Parul Bua had planned for her summer h. . .