‘Very nice, darling,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, and fanned a fly away from Aparna’s sleeping head.
‘What nonsense, Ma, it’s absolutely awful,’ said Meenakshi.
‘It is not at all awful,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra defensively. ‘Pink was your father-in-law’s favourite colour.’
‘Pink?’ Meenakshi started laughing. ‘He liked wearing pink?’
‘On me. When I wore it!’ Mrs Rupa Mehra was angry. Meenakshi had changed from nice to nasty in an instant. ‘If you don’t have any respect for me, at least have respect for my husband. You have no sense of proportion. Going off gallivanting to New Market and leaving Aparna for the servants to take care of.’
‘Now, Ma, I’m sure pink looked lovely on you,’ said Meenakshi in a conciliatory manner. ‘But it’s absolutely the wrong thing for Luts’s complexion. And for Calcutta, and for the evening, and for this kind of society. And cotton just won’t do. I’ll see what Luts has and help her choose something that will make her look her best. We’d better hurry, Arun will be home at any moment, and then we won’t have time for anything. Come on, Luts.’
And Lata was taken in hand. She was finally dressed in one of Meenakshi’s deep blue chiffon saris which happened to go with one of her own blue blouses. (She had to tuck the sari in considerably more than Meenakshi, since she was a few inches shorter.) A peacock brooch of light blue, dark blue and green enamel, also belonging to Meenakshi, pinned her sari to her blouse. Lata had never worn a brooch in her life, and had to be scolded by Meenakshi into it.
Meenakshi next overruled the tight bun into which Lata usually coiled her hair. ‘That style looks simply too prim, Luts,’ said her mentor, ‘It really isn’t flattering to you. You have to leave it open.’
‘No, I can’t do that,’ protested Lata. ‘It just isn’t proper. Ma would have a fit.’
‘Proper!’ exclaimed Meenakshi. ‘Well, let’s at least soften up the front of it so that you don’t look so schoolmarmish.’
Finally, Meenakshi marched Lata off to the dressing-table in her bedroom, and put the final touches to her face with a bit of mascara. ‘This will make your eyelashes look longer,’ she said.
Lata fluttered her eyelashes experimentally. ‘Do you think they’ll fall like flies?’ she asked Meenakshi, laughing.
‘Yes, Luts,’ said Meenakshi. ‘And you must keep smiling. Your eyes really do look appealing now.’ And when she looked at herself in the mirror, Lata had to admit they did.
‘Now what perfume would suit you?’ said Meenakshi aloud to herself. ‘Worth seems about right for you.’
But before she could come to a final decision, the doorbell rang impatiently. Arun was back from Puttigurh. Everyone hopped around and danced attendance on him for the next few minutes.
When he was ready, he became frustrated that Meenakshi was taking so long. When she did finally emerge, Mrs Rupa Mehra stared at her in outrage. She was wearing a sleeveless, low-cut, magenta blouse in open-back choli style, with a bottle-green sari of exquisitely fine chiffon.
‘You can’t wear that!’ gasped Mrs Rupa Mehra, making what in the Mehra family were known as big-big eyes. Her glance veered from Meenakshi’s cleavage to her midriff to her entirely exposed arms. ‘You can’t, you – you can’t. It is even worse than last night at your parents’ house.’
‘Of course I can, Maloos dear, don’t be so old-fashioned.’
‘Well? Are you finally ready?’ asked Arun, looking pointedly at his watch.
‘Not quite, darling. Would you close the clasp on my choker for me?’ And Meenakshi with a slow, sensuous gesture passed her hand across her neck just below her thick gold choker.
Her mother-in-law averted her eyes. ‘Why do you allow her to wear this?’ she asked her son. ‘Can’t she wear a decent blouse like other Indian girls?’
‘Ma, I’m sorry, we’re getting late,’ said Arun.
‘One can’t tango in a dowdy choli,’ said Meenakshi. ‘Come, Luts.’
Lata gave her mother a kiss. ‘Don’t worry, Ma, I’ll be fine.’
‘Tango?’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra in alarm. ‘What is tango?’
‘Bye, Ma,’ said Meenakshi. ‘Tango. A dance. We’re going to the Golden Slipper. Nothing to worry about. There’s just a large crowd and a band and dancing.’
‘Abandoned dancing!’ Mrs Rupa Mehra could hardly believe her ears.
But before she could think of anything to say the little sky-blue Austin had started off on the first leg of the night’s revels.