“Announcing Miss Riddhima Kapoor, the daughter of Mr. Pritam Kapoor and Mrs. Shilpa Kapoor!”
As the heavy doors swung open for the umpteenth time, Riddhima quelled an unseemly desire to pick up her skirts and run. A heavy chandelier twinkled ahead, acting as the spotlight as she stepped near the oak balustrade. Hundreds of eyes looked up at her, visibly assessing her. Her delicate hand trembled as she smoothed over her glittering periwinkle blue gown, an expensive creation by designer Ahana Rodrigues. It was an off-shoulder dress, accentuating her highlighter doused collarbones, even as a diamond necklace rested tantalizingly over the swells of her bosom. Her long dark hair swished gently as she tried not to trip over her silver heels.
As she descended the serpentine stairwell, her eyes met the mischievous ones of her younger brother Aman. He was standing at the bottom of the stairwell, as was customary in the Debutante’s Ball. She wondered if he could read the nervousness in her eyes, the product of being under the scrutiny of every affluent personality in the room. Waiting for ten other girls to have made this same descent had not done much to ease her nerves. She still felt like an awkward teenager despite months of training, instead of the alluring woman her family seemed to expect her to be at 19 years of age. As she finally placed her hand in Aman’s, she took some strength from his reassuring grip.
Polite applause rang out as she walked towards Shilpa Kapoor, the formidable matriarch of the family. Her mother’s tight-lipped smile did little to indicate whether she had found her much rehearsed performance satisfactory. Her father beamed down at her, the red tints on his cheeks hinting at another overindulgence of premium whiskey.
“Let go of your damned skirts, Riddhima,” hissed her mother, while nodding at her acquaintances across the room. “And lose that deer caught in the headlights look on your face. One would think this was a death march instead of a glorious celebration! Smile brighter, darling. Everyone is watching!”
Everyone was watching, but not her. Their eyes were on the next girl. Deepali Dixit, the daughter of an oil baron was walking down the staircase, looking like a vision in a bold mauve outfit. Twelve girls were making their debut in the humongous Ivory Mansion on Arthur’s Street tonight. Her childhood friends. Over time, they had begun to turn into covetous young ladies, competing against each other for gentlemen’s affections. She looked at the gaggle of critical mothers and fathers in the crowd, looking for a prized match for their sons. These were the same people she had grown up with, who had invited her to their children’s birthdays and innumerable sleepovers. Some of them had cooed away the sting of a bruised knee when she fell, praised her minutest accomplishments over their kitty parties. These same people were acting like strangers now.
Her head reeled as she let go of the folds of her dress. Resting one hand demurely over the other like she had been taught in her London finishing school, she adopted a forced smile. Aman cast a sympathetic glance at her, offering her a glass of champagne. “Ignore Mom, Ridzy,” he whispered against her ear. “She is in a bad mood ever since Mrs. Oberoi set her kerchief over Meenakshi Sahai at first sight. I’m afraid that her son is one future pati prospect that’s gone out of your hands.”
“Good,” she muttered, keeping her smile intact. “I never much liked Arjun Oberoi anyway. His pompous mouth is bigger than his jiggling backside.”
Aman sputtered into his drink, trying to hold back his trademark guffaw. Their mother cast a disapproving glance at them both, quelling their shared laughter. As the final girl descended the illustrious staircase, the buzz of conversations picked up. Riddhima quietly joined the line up of debutantes waiting for their first dance of the evening. She made polite conversation with practiced expertise, her thoughts on a romantic drama she was writing in secret.
“May I have this dance?”
A lily-white hand materialized in front of her, making her blink in confusion for a moment. Emerging out of her fantasy land, she looked up into the appraising eyes of Shishir Bhaskar, the scion of a rich steel magnate’s family. Disappointment made her groan internally. Shishir was another childhood acquaintance, given to offhand remarks that often set her on edge. Over his shoulder, she saw his stern-faced mother looking her over blatantly, from the high heels to the top of her hair. Smiling politely as instructed, Riddhima placed her hands in his clammy ones, stepping gracefully onto the dance floor.
“You look good,” he informed her, looking her over like his mother. “You should wear more of these kinds of clothes. I don’t like you in jeans.”
This audacious remark was more than deserving of a sharp retort. Suppressing the impulse, she kept the smile plastered on her face. “Oh, what lovely advice! I will surely wear something like this on your engagement.”
“Ah, it’s a little too soon, Riddhima. I am still evaluating my options,” he informed her solemnly, her sarcasm flying right past his head as usual. “We will get in touch with Kapoor Uncle if Mom approves of our match. She has become quite picky suddenly. But don’t you worry. I will put in a good word for you tonight.”
Staring open mouthed at his presumption, she nearly skipped a step. Thankfully, the music changed right at that moment, allowing her to twirl off the dance floor. Goodness gracious! If this was her marital pool of choice, she was going to pull her hair out by the end of the night.
Before she could recuperate, her parents dragged her for re-introductions. “Working the room”, as they called it. Renewing old acquaintances, jesting good naturedly with friends, prodding possible alliances. The conversation buzzed around her as she drank glass after glass of champagne, passing pleasantries, giving deliberate shy flirtatious glances to men she had known forever. By the end of the hour, she was “working” on auto pilot, charming bearish mamas, disarming proud papas, dodging over eager suitors wanting to take a “stroll outside” or “get some air.” She had been trained to put them down gently, making her status as a lady absolute.
“Men will not respect you if you accept their amorous wishes like a trollop,” her mother had fired at her, not mincing any words. “Playing hard to get, while preserving their gigantic ego is an art. You had better learn that now than regret later.”
As she downed her umpteenth glass of the bubbly fluid, Riddhima considered herself well and truly drunk. This was not an ideal situation, as her mother would remind her if she noticed the slight sway in her gait. A lady merely nursed the drink throughout the evening, keeping her wits about her. She usually played by the rules, but the incessant drone of mundane conversations had begun to grate her, her fingers itching to go home and write the next part of her story. A fact that would cause much gossip if any of the people here knew her to be the secret writer of several steamy romances. Though all the women here boasted of pedigrees from top universities, it was only meant to be a stepping stone into marital bliss. A university degree was treated much like the stamp of quality on a product, necessary to obtain for appearances but useless once it was consumed. A working woman was still unheard of on Arthur’s Street.
The cool air from the terrace beckoned her, the moonlight looking inviting. Darting a glance around for prying eyes, she slipped into the chilly night, grateful for a reprieve from her masquerade. The terrace was enchanting, with all kinds of plants and flowers lending their intoxicating quality to the place. It was designed like a Babylonian garden, with creepers weaving up the walls tastefully. She spotted a row of red roses ahead, bending to capture their captivating scent.
“Goddamn it!”
A deep voice cursed, making her turn abruptly towards the entrance. Spotting no one in the shadows, she stepped forward hesitantly. “Um…Is anyone there?”
“Yes. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”
Brows furrowing, she squinted into the darkness. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim lighting. She could make out the shape of a tall man as he lit a cigar in the darkness. In the short flare of the match, she noticed a piercing pair of eyes looking her over. He was leaning against the shadowy portion of the entrance, a reason she hadn’t noticed him earlier. “Have you had your fill of staring at me, girl?” He drew in a lungful of smoke, sounding bored at her scrutiny.
“Excuse me?”
“Forgive my bluntness, but I get tired of being gawked at and followed tonight. Surely, you have other suitors to flutter those big doe eyes at.”
His tone raised her hackles. “Actually, Sir,” she snapped, her façade of civility falling away. “I can barely see you from over here. It is awfully rude of you to interrupt a lady’s quiet time with such presumptuous remarks and that-that awful smoking!”
“Oh dear, the lady has claws,” he remarked, sounding amused. “Have I offended your tender sensibilities, madame?”
“Hardly. Though I believe my sensibilities aren’t any of your concern.”
He stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight. Perhaps, it was a trick of the moon’s glow or the result of copious amounts of champagne, but Riddhima found him incredibly good looking. With thick brows offsetting an intense pair of dark eyes, he had the sort of face that could seduce even the most forbidding of matrons. His nose was straight and aristocratic, the angular cheekbones hidden partially by a well-groomed beard. She noticed his firm lips, closing sensuously around the cigar; his masculine fingers holding it with such self-assuredness.
As he blew the smoke into the air, his eyes appraised her dismissively. “No offense, but I was here for some privacy. We can continue the staring match later, if that pleases you. I promise to be at my most charming…and attentive.”
“Are you always this odious and ill mannered?!” she sputtered in affront at his gall.
“Sometimes. When accosted by drunken ladies on dark terraces.”
“Mister, I don’t know who you think you are,” she spoke angrily. “But you are the last person I would want to accost. Stay here if you want. Kindly excuse me as I find your presence downright revolting.”
Without waiting for another of his obnoxious retorts, she hitched up the skirt of her gown and made to leave. His hand shot out as she passed by him, pulling her into the shadows with him. He stepped in front of her, eclipsing the sky with his towering frame. A quick finger on her lips silenced her bubbling angry retort at his forwardness. “Sshhh. Wait for them to leave,” he whispered, nodding towards the archway. Her drunken senses belatedly registered the sound of giggling voices in the corridor. Her eyes rounded in horror. If anyone saw her alone here with this man, it would create one heck of a scandal. The thought of her mother’s wrath quickly killed her buzz.
Someone’s head peeked out from the archway, making her stiffen in fear. She stood deathly still, closing her eyes like a child. Oh God, please make them both invisible, she prayed, her heart thudding. Why did she have to come up to the terrace in the first place? And why did this boor of a man have to be present here?
Low music sounded over the babble of voices, calming her riotous senses. Unable to bear the suspense, she slowly opened her eyes. The prying head had disappeared. Footsteps seemed to move away, the laughing voices growing quieter. She heaved a visible sigh of relief, slumping against the wall. Vansh was standing like a statue, looking down at her, his face shroud in shadows. An enticing scent of pine and aftershave hit her nostrils, distracting her momentarily. The smell of smoke lingered in the air from earlier, making a heady perfume.
“I-I had better leave now,” she told him nervously, moving quickly towards the archway. At his continued silence, she stopped at the entrance for a moment. Without looking back, she stated quietly. “And thank you…for hiding me.”
***