By R N Sharma

She was an under graduate who knew very little English. He was a manager in an MNC. Charu was scared her husband’s colleagues would find her an unworthy spouse.

CHARU HAD reluctantly agreed to accompany Chetan to the party his office was holding on New Year’s Eve. It was to be her first official party providing her with an opportunity to interact with Chetan’s colleagues. Ever since their marriage three months earlier, she had not gotten a chance to mix with his office people.

They had not held a wedding reception and were still in the process of setting up their newly acquired flat before they started socialising and inviting people, including his colleagues, for small get-togethers, an in-thing among executives these days.

It had taken a lot of persuasion by Chetan to make Charu agree to accompany him to the party. In fact, his threat that if she was not coming to the party, he would also skip it, had finally worked with her because she knew that, holding one of the top positions in the company, his absence would not be appreciated by his bosses and juniors alike. The management always expected the top managers to join these parties to establish personal rapport with the staff and their families.

“My presence may embarrass you,” an uncertain and not-so-confident Charu had argued.

“No. You don’t bother about it. After all day, somewhere, you have to make a beginning and so why not today?” And to instil a feeling of confidence in her, he added, “Moreover, these parties are like any wedding reception and birthday parties.”

Charu was not sure what she should wear for the party. Not yet exposed to the city’s life of glamour, glitter and glitz, she had no idea what sort of dresses are usually worn for such functions and had sought Chetan’s advice.

“Wear anything you are comfortable in,” he had said.

Though Chetan, right from the day she had come to Delhi with him as his bride, had been insisting that she should visit a boutique and select for herself some shirts, tops, T-shirts and jeans, she had stuck to sari and salwar-kameez, both as formal and casual wear. Similarly, she had continued to tie her hair either in a pigtail or bun, despite Chetan telling her to visit a ladies’ salon and get her hair set in a style that would suit her. But she had refused. “I am okay with my hairstyle,” she had said.

It had not taken long for Charu to get ready. She decided to wear a mustard-coloured sari with a red woollen blouse and had a black shawl draped across her shoulders and barring a light skin-coloured lipstick, she had no make-up and had only a mangal sutra and small earrings by way of jewellery. The only visible and prominent marks that stood out on her face were the sindoor in the parting of her hair and red bindi between her eyebrows.

She looked very graceful, elegant and charming despite her rugged looks and not-so-fair complexion, a perfect picture of simplicity.

The moment they entered the banquet hall, Charu observed some of his female colleagues, with mischievous smiles, talking in whispering tones. ‘They are perhaps commenting on my dress or comparing me with Chetan, a handsome, charming and debonair man,” she thought.

She also noted that most of the ladies, including the wives of top executives, had heavy make-up with stylish hairdos, wearing skirts with blouses, with no inhibition in revealing their cleavages and navels, kurtis with pyjamas, T-shirts with jeans and long gowns but with very light woollens to shield themselves from the cold.

Some wore saris, perhaps just out of compulsion because anything else would not have suited their bulky bosoms and bottoms or disproportionate bodies. Even those who wore salwar-kameez perhaps didn’t want to invite any derisive comments about their anatomy. Suddenly, Charu developed a feeling of inferiority, though anything on her slim and trim body could have gone well.

As Chetan introduced her to his colleagues and their families, she acknowledged their greetings with folded hands, at times ignoring the extended hands for a handshake, prompting Chetan to tell her to grasp their hands or not to hesitate if some male staff member wanted to hug her or a female staffer wanted to plant a peck on her cheeks.

“She looks like a heroine of black and white movies of the 40s,” Charu heard a lady saying as Chetan introduced Charu to her.

“Thanks for not saying she looks like a vamp of that era,” Chetan made a tongue-in-cheek response to the lady’s whisper. She just looked the other way instead of making eye contact with Chetan or Charu.

But the most out-of-tune comment was made by the tall and beautiful, with perfect vital statistics, the model and ramp walker and aspiring TV and cine-star, Chandni, public and press relations executive in Chetan’s company, who had always eyed Chetan and made many attempts to cultivate his friendship. But Chetan, as a matter of principle, avoided interacting and mingling with female staff at the personal level. Even at the official level his interactions with the female staff were confined to the desired limits. He had an image of a strict disciplinarian and a person who tolerated no nonsense.

“So you are Mrs Charu Pande, the wife of the most handsome director of our company,” Chandni said giving a satirical twist to her tone, as Chetan introduced Charu.

“Yes, she is my loveable wife,” Chetan was quick to react and wrapped his arm around Charu’s shoulders and planted a kiss on her cheek.

Chandni gave a wan smile in response. The crimson-faced Charu looked at Chetan in disbelief. As most of the conversations and exchanges were in English, Charu did feel somewhat handicapped. But Chetan provided her a cover by either talking on her behalf or ensuring that she did not feel embarrassed.

After making the rounds and meeting everybody, Charu and Chetan occupied a table from where they were visible to others and also had good view of the stage from where a cultural programme by a professional group and some staff members was being organised.

They shared the table with the MD, Mehra, and his wife. Charu was a bundle of nerves as Chetan introduced her to Mr and Mrs Mehra.

“How do you find your marital life?” Mrs Mehra, a postgraduate in economics and managing a consultancy firm of her own, asked Charu.

Charu just smiled, not knowing how to describe her three-month-old married life.

“Madam, with a husband like me nothing can go wrong with our marital life,” Chetan was quick to interject.

“Why don’t you take up a job instead of whiling away your time at home?” Mrs Mehra continued.
Charu looked at Chetan, who again was quick to say, “Madam, she has a lot of things to do at home. She hardly has any time.”

Charu knew Chetan was telling a lie. As a matter of fact, with a full-time maidservant around she had plenty of time at her disposal. She wished Chetan told Mrs Mehra that his wife was an undergraduate and was studying as an external student and was not well versed in conversing in English. Taking up a job was still a far cry.

“How come, Chetan, your marriage was a hush-hush affair?” Mr Mehra asked. “At least, you could have invited some of your colleagues and close friends.”

No doubt, his bosses, colleagues and close friends had come to know of his marriage only when he had informed his office about it to avail of some fringe benefits that an employee’s spouse gets under the company’s rules.

“Sir, it was my mother who had settled everything,” Chetan said. “Things happened so fast that I couldn’t inform anybody. It was, as they say, chat mangani, pat vivah.”

And no doubt, it was only like that.

Chetan was on holiday in Dehradun where his parents had settled after retirement, when his mother, who had retired as a teacher and was working for an NGO in a village, had suggested Charu, who assisted his mother in her work.

“The girl is still an undergraduate and has only her mother in the family. Her father, an alcoholic, had died when she was in class 10 and she lost her brother, who was studying medicine in Lucknow, in an accident last year. Both she and her brother were giving tuitions to support their studies and family,” his mother had said.

But thinking that Chetan might be looking for a different type of girl, she had added, “But in no way am I trying to pressurise you or want any commitment from you. If you are already committed or involved with somebody, then forget about her.”

Chetan had had a very unpleasant experience in America when he had fallen in love with an NRI girl, his classmate in university, and had even proposed to her. But she had suddenly broken up with him to marry an American businessman, compelling a depressed Chetan to return to India to give himself a break and start a new chapter in his life.

As suggested by his mother, a broken ­hearted Chetan had found nothing wrong in meeting Charu. He found her a simple and shy girl with no urban touch in her personality. He almost found her dumb when he had tried to strike up a conversation with her. She had just shaken her head in the negative when he had asked her whether she had ever been to Delhi, the place she might have to reside if they decided to marry, or ever used a mobile (she had been dependent on the STD booth when she used to make calls to her brother in Lucknow).

She had occasionally seen movies in a cinema theatre and that too when her brother was alive, but now only on the 14″ colour TV given by Chetan’s mother, dished out by the cablewala. She had blushed, looked coyly at Chetan and said, “no” when he had asked her whether at any point of time she had liked or loved a boy, or somebody had expressed his love for her.

It had taken Chetan a couple of weeks to say yes. His parents, mother in particular, were very happy and so were his sister and her husband, and his nephew, who had flown in from Dubai for the wedding.

Charu’s mother had left everything to Chetan’s mother. “Whatever madam will decide, my daughter and I will accept, though I feel Charu is no match for such a nice, highly educated and so well placed a man.” Chetan had assured her that Charu was in no way inferior to him.

The wedding organised by the village panchayat was a very simple and no-frills affair.

A thunderous applause that followed the announcement that Mrs Charu Pande would render a song, brought Chetan’s train of thought to a sudden halt, though he was not surprised. He had himself suggested her name to the organisers of the cultural show. He had very often heard her singing in low tones, joining her voice with the songs played on the stereo.

‘She certainly has some lilt and melody in her voice and the New Year’s Eve party is the best occasion to bring her out from the shackles she was afraid to shake off,’ he had thought. ‘It would be a good exposure for her and certainly a confidence-building exercise.’

A surprised and nonplussed Charu looked at Chetan, who nodded in the affirmative and whispered, “Please go ahead. Don’t feel shy. I know you have a good voice.”

A somewhat reluctant Charu got up and with her head down, started walking to the dais in measured steps.

Once or twice she lifted her head to glance at Chetan, who in turn raised his hands with his thumbs up.

The moment she came on the stage, she was again greeted with another long applause, in which both Mr and Mrs Mehra also joined.

She cleared her throat to give herself some confidence and talked to the gentleman who was conducting the orchestra about the song she was to render.

She chose to sing Yeh zindagi usiki hai jo kisi ka hogaya, pyar main hi kho gaya, a song from an old movie Anarkali. There was absolute silence while she sang.

Her rendition was beyond Chetan’s expectations. He gave her eight points on the scale of 10. It was also obvious from the applause and shouts of ‘once more’.

As she rejoined Chetan, he gave her a hug and kissed her cheeks. A blushing Charu covered her face with her hands to conceal her embarrassment.

“You have a very good voice, Mrs Pande,” Mrs Mehra said. “Keep it up.”

“Yes, lady, you really have a good voice,” Mr Mehra seconded.

Suddenly, Charu was the cynosure of all eyes. Many rushed to congratulate her and even suggested that she should participate in some singing competitions. She acknowledged the greetings with “thanks”, in a voice that sounded confident. But for Charu, it mattered more that she had not let down Chetan.

As they drove back from the party, Chetan again congratulated her.

“Had I flopped?” Charu asked.

“No, you wouldn’t have,” he said. “After all, you are not a bathroom singer. I had heard you singing in the kitchen, in fact.”

He had a laugh in which Charu also joined, though in a somewhat muffed tone.

Chetan could feel that her attending the party and rendering a song had certainly given measure of confidence to her and helped in some of her inhibitions.

‘Not a bad beginning,’ he thought as he stole a glance at her. Her eyes were fixed on a well-lit hoarding showing a bikini-clad model advertising a bath soap.

Courtesy: New Woman