A Routine

Ten strokes,well-counted beneath her breath. It had been a routine she had grown up with, inculcated with great meticulousness. She performed it now, never wavering from her gaze at her reflection in the mirror, the short bone comb never pausing in its descent. A wince always followed from habit, more than anything else. Hair parted easily enough, hardly anything so momentous, hardly anything so important, and yet there was a certain formality to the occasion. A certain hardness crept into her features then, but she would have argued otherwise.

The first stroke always met the most resistance, she knew. That had been when she had said 'no' to him. The second stroke had been met with defiance, rather than any real anger. It had been a game, and she smiled fleetingly at the memory. The hardness did not exactly melt away, however. The third stroke had been his persistence, and she had flicked up her nose at him. He had been much younger than she, how could he possibly think that she would do what he wanted from her…?! Ridiculous, and yet - there had been longing, yes, there had been longing - On the fourth stroke, she had decided to play his game, and outwit him, so the maneuvers started. The fifth stroke met her stolid glare at him, and his young, irreverent (young!) smirk in response.

There had been others, since then. Five other strokes of their relationship had sounded, like deep, sonorous gongs of a bell, signifying each new beginning and each new climax before she found herself hungry enough for him. It was ridiculous to think of who had won and who had lost. She had extracted whatever he had to offer, and he had been paid in kind. Was there something mercenary about it, she paused to wonder, and her lips, exquisitely pink-and-peach with make-up, quivered slightly. It had been give-and-take. Even marriage was like that, she reassured herself, and finally smiled into the mirror. Her ten strokes were done.

She wondered idly, holding the glittering fabric over her skin, whether she would ever tire of these parties, and then laughed to herself, saying, not bloody likely! She liked the attention much too much, liked the way she flitted across the room, glided even, so that even the most hardened socialite could not suppress a twinge of envy at her consummate ease. There was something beautiful in the way she did her stuff, and even the best of the best had to acknowledge that. Their acknowledgement came like this: in delicate little party invitations that were embossed and laced and gilded and zardozied with tassels, which invited Mr and Mrs… to the annual affair at Mr and Mrs… for dinner and cocktails, promptly at eight. She laughed. Decided the fabric was exactly the correct shade of party brashness to suit the night's needs, and put her watch back down on the derriere after noting it was past ten. The Husband would be waiting downstairs.

The idea, as she told everyone repeatedly, was to be different. You had to stand out in a crowd, but just sufficiently enough. Even if you wanted to wear cotton, you couldn't very well indulge yourself when everyone else was in silks. The trick was to get what you wanted over a period of time, slowly entrench yourself so that every one else soon wants the same kind of things that you do - and then, next party season, to completely reinvent yourself, so that everyone else was left gasping for air and gaping in astonished admiration! She was an expert chameleon. Her success on the circuit was a testimony to that. The bitches could hardly hide their green while she strutted her way over in front of them.

At the party, they all commented on how glossy her hair looked and she smiled her pearly whites at them. Glossy was a euphemism for 'obviously dyed', but then she was not going to waste her time worrying about the jackals. She downed her wine, ran a light hand over her perfect do, and smiled some more. Ten strokes that guaranteed a sheen.

The Husband was by her side, of course - he always was. In some ways, she was glad of that. Now, more than ever before. Now, because she knew the Lover was somewhere about. Perhaps in the anteroom, perhaps in the cellar, inspecting the wine. She knew that he was here, and she was looking forward to seeing him. She had almost not come to this party when the Husband had asked her, and had capitulated only when she had pored over the guest list.

What were the other strokes, she tried to remember now… The fifth had ended in a blatant challenge from either end. In the sixth, he had gone down on bended knee, capitulating before her. That had tempted her, that had tempted her so very much. She had longed to give in to the purity she had seen then, touch his hair, touch his lips, hold him close, fall in love, fall in love, fall in love... But she had recovered in time, and taken what he had to offer. She had loved him, and made sure that he fell in love with her. The seventh stroke signified her victory. She smiled now, tingling with the red wine in her mouth, recalling the fervent worship at the Bandra flat where he would wait for her. The little attentions he would lavish on her, and fuss over her, the passionate love bites she had pretended were mosquito bites when her friends at the pool asked - o, of course, they weren't fooled for a minute (she giggled) but one could never ask outright! One could never say anything outright -

The eighth stroke had set the ball rolling for a jettison, and she had been late for those afternoon trysts, she had called him a silly boy and mulled his hair, she had flung gifts at him like a little boy you take to the fair grounds. Her mind had been made up, the ninth stroke had been the eighth's anti-climax, and she had soothed his worried, shushed his doubts, loved him again, pulled him closer, tortured herself with her own doubts, but emerged stronger, more resilient, more focused in the game. Now it's time to play the dice, my love, she had crooned softly to herself that evening, as she clipped on the shining diamond danglers to her ears. She had inspected herself in the mirror, while the Husband had been waiting downstairs reading a copy of The Economic Times, pouted her lips like she had once seen Angeline Jolie do in a movie, and tip-tapped her way out of the room. Tonight was the tenth stroke when she broke a heart. Tonight would be the bitter-sweet climax. Wince? - no, not really.

In a way, it had been all too ordinary. She was no longer as young as she had once been, no longer as easily satisfied, either. No longer so easily humoured. It wasn't a sudden occurrence, this strange new side of her, but it certainly felt like that on hindsight. Certainly, it felt that she had awoken one day and cried her bleary eyes out. Her life had been a full one, she had told herself, and yet somehow under the light, it seemed so completely uniform - that horrible old mother of all evils. That was the trouble, she surmised: the vague, helpless feeling that there could easily be thousands of replacements for you if you happened to disappear one fine day. Childishly, she had thought about that: what would happen if indeed one fine day she disappeared into thin air, would her husband sit in the front hall, shattered… He still loved her, of course - she knew that, but couldn't imagine why. What had she offered him that no other woman of her age and her beauty and her graces could not? What had been the strange underpinning characteristic that made him still so helplessly in love with her…?

Whatever it was, she had brought him here now, so that the Lover could see the two of them together. She spied him now, at the anteroom, talking to some giddy female in a backless dress the colour of hot chilly and eyes like burgundy. His eyes passed her by dismissively. She would have been angry then, if this had been anytime, anywhere else - but now, she only smiled a secret enigma to herself. He would see soon enough: he would see the Husband's adoration and he would be startled. He would raise his eyebrows and sidle over to her side to whisper sweet nothings in her ear, and she would laugh in a tinkle and flit away from him, hand in hand with the Husband. She would make him beg, and take his calls only the next day, and she would then haughtily deign to meet him at the Bandra flat one last time, out of pity.

First stroke. His eyes caught her again, and this time, they saw her arm in arm with the Husband. Was he thinking now, of the two of them, together? His eyes seemed all smoky, all hazy... She looked away into the ruby liquid of her glass.

Second stroke. He laughed with the girl in the red dress, reached over and whispered something in her ear, but then moved away from her. He strode across the room and wafted over to her.

Third stroke. The fat Punjabi hostess laughed raucously suddenly, and said something about the new gazebo, and insisted on showing it off to her uninterested guests. The Husband nodded placidly, agreeing, and she assented as well. Let the Lover wait his turn.

Fourth stroke. The night air felt delectably cool on her skin, and she pulled the zardozi stole closer around her shoulders. She suddenly thought of the ice-cube in the Lover's mouth the last time they had met at Bandra, his hungry eyes as he crawled over to her on the bed across the expanse of silver satin sheets. A shiver, and he was right there beside her on the lawns.

Fifth stroke. His hands were folded. The corners of his fingers touched her bare fore-arms. He was wearing a ring, she noted, something spiraled, something she had not given him. A part of him wondered if his job was paying well now.

Sixth stroke. She could see the gregarious vultures there on the other side, ogling her. They had seen the Lover next to her, his husky build and his strong fingers that fed their fantasies. Their eyes were glinting with jealousy and she suddenly laughed. No light tinkle: a deep, throaty laugh.

Seventh stroke. The Husband looked flummoxed at her sudden laugh and smiled agreeably to himself. He ran his arm over her back and pulled her in closer to him. He whispered something in her ear. The Lover noted it all.

Eighth stroke. She was ready now. She would turn and face the Lover, put on a look of utter astonishment and pretend to just have noticed him. She would act as if it was a great surprise to see him here, and she could not acknowledge him now, as he was a nobody, he simply did not matter enough - He would turn red then, and he would stutter.

Ninth stroke. Her eyes danced as she turned. Her mouth opened and she said 'Ooo…', her fingers were raised, perhaps a tiny spill of the wine could be good for the drama, a detached part of her brain thought, perhaps a different intonation in the voice, perhaps she should hold onto his arms, perhaps -

Tenth stroke. His eyes smiled, and he said "Darling!" and pushed past her to the burgundy woman in the dress that crinkled and ripened like dry chillies. He bent slightly from his huge frame and kissed her squarely on the lips, with his strong, masculine lips. The Husband was engrossed by the new gazebo.

Wince.