Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

“What I wouldn’t do for a beanbag right now,” Mrs. Devi murmured to Rumpi.

Still, as the servants circulated with platters of ‘ready-made’ chai, spicy chiwda, peanut chili salad and veg samo-sas, the room was thick with conversation – not to mention Lily Arora’s heady perfume. On one side of the room, the recent plunge in the Mumbai stock market was being discussed. In the middle, the talk was of the upcoming end-of-year school exams. And a clutch of ladies nearest the mock fireplace were making plans to attend a concert by Anoushka Shankar in Nehru Park.

Soon, though, news spread through the room that Mrs. Bina Bakshi’s daughter-in-law had ‘fled the coop’ – in other words, her in-laws’ house.

Mrs. Nanda, whose husband was a high-powered accountant, had heard that ‘the boy’ drank a lot. “Apparently he reverts tully each and every night,” she reported. “Mrs. Bakshi’s daughter-in-law was under depression.”

Mrs. Devi, the wife of a top bureaucrat, eagerly grasped the gossip baton, passing on that she had been told by an undisclosed source that Mrs. Bakshi and ‘the girl’ had ‘not hit it off from the moment she came home’.

Mrs. Bansal, the only woman present to have attended the fabled Bakshi wedding at the Hyatt, spoke up next.

Mrs. Bakshi’s daughter-in-law, she said disapprovingly, had ‘modern ideas’. Not being a ‘domesticated person’, she was trying to put off having children in order to further her career in marketing ‘or some such nonsense’.

“Her parents must feel so ashamed,” commented another woman. “Personally I can’t imagine.”

“Has she no respect?” another voice chimed in.

It was then that Puri’s gray-haired mother, who at Rum-pi’s invitation had joined the kitty party for the first time, spoke up. “So much change in society is going on, I tell you,” she said. “Relationships are getting all in a twist, na? Boys are mostly to blame. One minute wanting educated girls, next demanding stay-at-home wives. So much confusion is there, actually.”

As she was the eldest in the room by some fifteen years, her words engendered a chorus of approval.

“Very true, Auntie-ji.”

“Quite right.”

“I totally agree.”

But by the end of the discussion, the majority view still held.

“Men are not perfect, that is for sure,” concluded Lily Arora, whose hot pink kurta, churidar and high heels with glittery silver straps were set off by more makeup than all the other women wore put together. “But it’s a wife’s role to manage. Look at what I’ve had to put up with. Sanjeev is a rascal, quite frankly. But running away was unthinkable. It would have brought so much pain to both families, mine and his. In these situations one has to think of others.

“As for husbands,” she continued, “my dog trainer, Arti, always says to reward your pooch when he does what you ask and give appropriate correction when he doesn’t. Same has worked with Sanjeev.”

After the laughter had died down, Mrs. Deepak announced the birth of a fifth grandson. Amar, weight nine pounds, had been born at the Happy Go Lucky Maternity Home.

“By cesarean,” she added, beaming proudly.

Mrs. Azmat then shared her news. Since the ladies had last got together a month ago, she and her husband had gone on a cruise around the Great Lakes.

“They are really great in every sense,” she said, showing the other women some of the dozens of photographs her husband had taken of her obscuring a series of dramatic landscapes.

The conversation drifted on – the events on Rajpath were discussed, the astronomical price of gold and news of a fresh dengue outbreak in the city.

“Even the president’s son got it.”

“Just imagine.”

“No one is safe.”

At around one o’clock, Lily Arora finally brought the group to order and made various announcements. Next month’s get-together was to be held at Chor Bizarre, which offered a kitty party lunch special for 500 rupees per head. Her son and daughter-in-law, who were members of one of the new ‘couples kitties’, had been there and found it ‘quite satisfactory’.

Next, this month’s guest speaker, a physical exercise trainer called Bappi, entered the room. A diminutive but muscular young man with dyed yellow hair, he took Lily Arora’s place in front of the fireplace with the portrait of Sanjeev Arora’s stern-looking grandfather looming behind him. As the ladies continued to munch on deep-fried chiwda, he asked if any of them had diabetes. Eight hands went up.

How many of them exercised properly?

Again there was a strong show of hands.

“Ladies, casual walking does not count,” admonished Bappi.

Most of the hands went down.

Bappi then turned to a flip chart that he had set up on a stand. The first page depicted a dumpy middle-aged Indian woman. Next to her stood an extremely athletic-looking Western lady in a leotard, GO FROM AUNTIE-JI TO MISS WOW! read a message underneath.

“You, too, can look like this with just thirty minutes’ training every day at Counter Contours,” announced Bappi. “Our training program is tailor-made for all ages.”

He spent the next fifteen minutes demonstrating some simple exercises. When he was finished, the ladies gave him a round of applause.

“I’m sure we agree that we can all do more to stay fit and fine and Mr. Bappi has made some wonderful suggestions,” said Lily Arora as the trainer packed up and left.

It was now time for the most eagerly anticipated moment of the party: the kitty draw.

Traditionally, each member of a kitty party brings a fixed sum of cash every month. The total pot is then awarded to the member whose name is drawn from a hat. Each member can only win once, so essentially the kitty is an interest-free loan system.

Lily Arora’s kitty reflected the more modern values of India’s middle classes in that some of the cash was given to charity and some was put aside for group vacations, like the one to Corbett National Park the ladies were planning for later in the year.

This was their fifth draw.

“Ladies, it’s time to get out your cash,” said Mrs. Arora, holding up a plastic bag. “I’m adding my five thousand rupees. Please, ladies, all do the same. Only exception is Mrs. Puri, who is joining us for the first time and is therefore required to add five months’ total amount. Admittedly this is an unusual practice, but we are delighted to have Auntie-ji joining us.”

The ladies all unclasped their handbags and took out wads of notes. These were placed in the bag.

“Today’s kitty is eighty thousand. Of that, ten thousand we are donating to charity. This month Mrs. Azmat has nominated one NGO assisting slum children called Smile Foundation. Twenty goes into the holiday fund. That leaves sixty. All those ladies who have not collected their share in past months are eligible to draw.”

A ripple of anticipation ran through the room as twelve of the ladies, including both Rumpi and Mummy, wrote their names on little pieces of paper. Once folded, these were dropped into a small plastic bucket.

Lily Arora gave it a good shake, stirred the papers and, with closed eyes, picked a name.

“And the winner is,” she said, pausing for dramatic effect like Shahrukh Khan on Kaun Banega Crorepati? “Neeru Deepak! Congratulations!”

Mrs. Deepak, the one with the abundance of grandchildren, let out a squeal of delight and collected her money.

“Tell us. What all are you going to do with it?” asked the hostess as she handed over the winnings.

“I promised my eldest grandson a new Xbox. His birthday is coming up,” she said.

“Very good,” said Lily Arora, smiling. “So as per the rules you will make your contribution next month but not be eligible for the draw. Also at our next meeting you are the one responsible for providing going-away presents.”